The Birds On The Power Line

September 23^rd, 1990

I remember how dark-gray-feathered birds stared at me bobbing their heads from side to side curiously. The rays of the setting sun reflected from their silvery white eyes, it looked like little candles burning in the night. I was standing in the field, dancing on top of dry barley stalks wearing red wellies. The birds watched me silent in wonder. There were dozens of them sitting in a row on a power line that crossed the field. Light-gray-hatted heads nodded in turns approvingly and in marvel. From time to time the silence was broken by a short and coarse caw typical for a jackdaw.

To think of it now, I was a lonely child, to be honest. That probably explains why I loved animals so much. I did not get in to a dancing school even though I enjoyed dancing a lot. That is why almost every evening, I performed for the birds sitting on the power line, they were my audience. I was five-years-old at the time.

I remember the night of the 23^rd of September well. I had just finished my performance and thanked my feathery audience for showing up. They started cawing loudly as if they were arguing with each other, and some of the birds took flight. I started walking back to the house across the dry field. The red-painted ranch looked old and worn-out in the evening sun, I recall. My parents did not have money to renovate the house and its walls were out-dated and dirty. The old piggery looked shabby, its windows reflected the orange hue of the sunlight and the barley fields. There was a late autumn’s coldness in the air and a stench of frozen ground. The only thing bringing warmth to the scene was the smoke slowly rising from the chimney and mixing into the night sky.

Inside the house I took off my wellies and my jacket. I warmed myself up standing in front of the wood-burning stove in the kitchen. It made me feel drowsy. Mom made me and my twin-brother French toasts for supper. After eating, I watched some soap-opera, meant for adults, from the CRT TV. Then I took a bath and went to sleep. I had my own room with a window pointing to the west. I watched how the fields swallowed the last rays of the sun and the world turned black. I fell asleep fast and only woke up when I heard four gunshots being fired. I remember how the sound came in from the slightly-opened window and bounced around the walls of my room so that I could not tell from which direction it was coming.

I got up and ran in to the hallway where my mom was standing in her white nightgown. She was barefoot.

“Go back to sleep”, she told me and my brother who had woken up as well. She spoke in a calm voice but I could see the fear in her eyes. Of course, we did not listen but followed her outside. She ran straight towards the fields and kept going. I followed her even though the frozen barley stalks pricked my feet through the woolen socks I was wearing. In the distance, I could make out a dark figure lying lifeless in a bed made of dry and cold crop. At that very moment, I realized dad was missing and I knew in my heart the figure was him.

And so it was. Dad had been shot four times. The first bullet alone would have been enough to kill him. I remember how the black blood surrounded dad’s body like a sheet made out of satin. The jackdaws sleeping on the power line had woken up and stared at us with eyes glistening in the darkness. They were the only ones who had witnessed the murder of my father.

December 21^st, 2005

I was angry with my brother. I felt that he had betrayed me by not warning me beforehand or discussing with me about his plans. He simply called me on the 1^st of December and told me that he, together with his wife, had bought our old ranch back in June and spent the whole autumn renovating it. Now he wanted to invite me there for Christmas. I was in shock.

Fifteen years ago, right after our dad died, mom had sold the house and the piggery as well as all the land she had: fields and forests alike. She died of a heart attack two years later. My brother and I did not have any kind of relationship through out our teenage-years, I can not tell why, we were just drifting apart. We were raised by our grandmother from our dad’s side. She enjoyed the company as our grandfather had gone missing years ago, even before I was born. He disappeared in a hunting trip. People used to gossip saying that he had killed himself by walking in to a marsh or shooting himself or hanging himself into a tree and the animals had taken care of the rest of his body. My grandmother told me that grandpa had been a stubborn, depressed and a very controlling man. They had fought a lot especially about how to raise children. Wether he had really killed himself or not, nobody knew.

No one talked a word about our old ranch after mom departed. To be honest, as a kid I always imagined that the ranch was demolished. But now I learned that is was not and it was still there, waiting. The thought of going back there after all these years felt unbearable. I had told that to my brother over the phone and asked a little more time to consider if I could do that.

Dad’s mysterious death was never solved. Why would anyone want to hurt dad? I could not think of a motive, everyone loved dad, he had no enemies. I remember, when we were little, my brother told me that maybe there was a hunter who mistook dad for an animal. But to me, it made no sense at all as hunters had no right to be that close to settlement, and that would not explain why dad was shot four times. In addition to that, I recall the police telling that dad was shot from close range. But that was pretty much all I knew. No one really talked to me about these things when I was little and as I grew up, I did not care to talk about my dad’s murder anymore. I just wanted people to leave me be.

I wanted to decline my brother’s invitation but at the same time a new feeling inside my awoke. I knew, I never wanted to set a foot in that house again but at the same time I felt something… Curiosity maybe? It was hard to admit.

December 24^th, 2005

There it stood. The old house was completely renovated, the red ochre paint was gone and instead everything was pastel yellow now. Window frames were pure white, freshly painted, and the worn down felt roof had been replaced by bitumen. The piggery was renewed to match the house. The sand road had been paved and there was a thin veil of snow on it. The temperature had dropped below zero and the sky was light purple and clear. The bright white sun hung low over the fields. When I was little, there was barley and rye growing in those fields. I remembered how the long-awn barley cobs bent down when they ripened, and how I used to pick up huge amounts of couch grass from the field in an attempt to help dad. I did not remember anything else about the rye fields other than there were some growing further from the house.

There was warm, red and gray smoke rising from the chimney against the clear sky, and it instantly reminded me of childhood Christmases. I admired the scenery covered by powder snow, it made me feel serene. How anything bad could happen here? Suddenly, my eyes met the power line over the fields and the birds sitting on it. They were dark-gray-feathered jackdaws. I stared at them as if I was bewitched and wondered, could they be the same birds? Could some of the birds be old enough to have witness my dad’s murder? Would it be possible? I started walking towards them and they stared back at me silent. Then I could hear a door open behind me.

“Where are you going? Come inside”, I heard my brother’s voice yell and he walked towards me briskly. I had to turn around and face him. His arms were open ready for a big hug. His face was wrinkly and his long, auburn beard looked wild. I answered to his familiar gesture with reserve and when I was hugging him, I peeked over his shoulder to the door where his wife stood with a big smile on her face, wearing a red apron. The apron curved beautifully over her pregnant tummy. A delicious smell of Christmas food came from inside the house and I realized how hungry I was.

December 25^th, 2005

I woke up in the middle of the night to a familiar sound. Four gunshots were fired. But it could not be? Was I having a nightmare? I slept in the room that had been my room when I was five. The giraffe wallpaper was gone now though, and the walls were creamy white. The wooden floorboards were covered by a clean parquet and all the furniture was brand-new. However, the bed was still in the same place as it had been fifteen years ago, and I was now staring right out of the window that was at the end of the bed. Outside the night was pitch-black. I got up and put on my satin robe and pair of red woolen socks. I instantly remembered how the dry barley stalks had felt through my socks the night my dad was murdered. I hesitated.

I slowly walked to the door. I opened it and stepped into the dark hallway. I could not see anybody. I walked behind the master bedroom door and peeked inside. The rustic, dark-wood king-size bed was untouched. That was odd as I had gotten the impression that my brother and his wife were already in bed. The crib for the baby stood in the corner of the room.

I went back to the hallway and to the front door. The adrenaline had worn out and my eyelids felt heavy again. I was now sure I had had a nightmare. It would not be a surprise taking into consideration that I was in the house first time since my father’s death.

I would have to go outside and check, though, I thought but I did not want to.

“You have to make sure it was only a nightmare”, I said to myself but could not move.

After a while, I gathered up some courage and reached the metal door handle with sweaty fingers. I could feel its coldness on my skin. I pushed it down and the door clicked and opened, it was not locked. I stepped outside but backed right back inside when I realized I was only wearing my woolen socks. It had been snowing and there were big piles of snow in front of the porch. I put on shoes.

Outside silent snowflakes were falling down into the snowy ground. I could see footprints. They led towards the field. The horror inside me grew. I saw how some restless birds on the power line took flight and then sat back on the cord. Here and there echoed whispering caws as if the birds were gossiping. It was hard to see anything in the dark. I walked to the field. Then my eyes met two black lumps on the snow. I knew, I had found my brother and his pregnant wife.

Suddenly, a dark-winged jackdaw yelled behind me loudly. I turned around and raised my hands to cover my face as the bird was flying straight towards me. When I dropped my hands and raised my head I saw the end wall of the house. In the faint, pale moonlight I saw huge, grotesque, painted letters. They read:

I just came to get my family.

Then a painfully loud shot fired behind me and I lost my hearing. I felt as if I was unable to breathe. I looked down and saw that there was black blood coming from my stomach. It dribbled on to the white snow. The birds on the power line started screaming.