What have we done? (Fiction)

The local paper - The Preston Press - is running a competition for stories about the shoes on some of the power lines around town. Since their call for entries is quite upbeat, I assume the people at Preston Press haven't heard the story that sneakers on power lines have "traditionally" been used in America to signify gang areas and the homes of drug dealers. The competition is called Sneakers in the Sky and holds writers to fewer than 200 words. 

What have we done? - while too long to enter - was a response to the topic. 

Enjoy.

What have we done?

It was a great day to go barefoot. Our four families – my two brothers, one of my brother’s friends and I, all with our partners and kids – met up at Noongar Park for a picnic. Various other friends and grandparents turned up as well. Children were everywhere.

It grew hotter. Sleeves were rolled up, shoes kicked to one side. The soft drink tasted cool and sweet. The sound of a bottle of soft drink opening still reminds me of picnics from my own childhood: fizzy and exciting.

We played games. Jacinta (a primary school teacher) brought a long skipping rope and knew the songs to sing while we wound it around and around. "Cinderella dressed in yellow went upstairs to kiss a fellow..." and "Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, turn around; Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground..."

James (the competitive sibling) organised egg and spoon, wheelbarrow and three-legged races and a competition to see who could balance a cup of water on their head the longest.

After that my boys and the twins (my older brother’s kids – one boy and one girl) started playing together. We tied pairs of shoes together by the laces. We swung them around and tried to see if we could “catch” one of the sign posts. Aidan was a natural.

I explained how bolas were once used by hunters and demonstrated by wrapping a pair of shoes around Jess' ankles and tickling her. After that they were off, chasing each other around the park attempting to hobble one another. More laughter and excitement. I felt kind of proud, as if their playing now included some trivial but very nearly authentic cultural learning – as if my child would understand the place of hunting in the modern world more richly than he had before.

I didn’t see the moment the decision was made. I just saw Aidan’s arms swing upwards. His whole body was loose and natural as it arched back and flung his weapon skyward.

His shoes looped around and around, silently. The crow sitting on the wire looked down and seemed, for a second, perplexed.

Crows are intelligent birds, but perhaps this one was too thoughtful.

When the shoes were almost at her, she suddenly started, opened her wings and pushed off the wire. The first shoe reached the wire and looped around it, locking in one end. The crow flapped and turned to avoid the first shoe just as the second looped around and caught her across the shoulder.

She twisted and made a sound – a gurgling caw – as the laces, which I had tied securely, using a reef knot, wrapped around her left wing just under the shoulder joint.

Tethered to the wire, she fought the air and the cord: circling, pulling, wrenching, limping and fitting in the air until her wing broke and all she could do was hang and curse and kick against the pain and her misfortune.

I ran over. Aidan hadn’t moved. He simply stood there, his eight-year-old face turned upwards, unable to look away.

I wanted to say, “It’s only a crow. They’re a bloody nuisance.”

My paternal grandmother, otherwise a stately and formal woman, was famous for getting the shotgun and blasting at crows (with her mouth as well as the gun) from the back veranda whenever they collected in the big gum trees behind the house. “Bloody crows! Bastard things!” But I’m not like her. I couldn’t say, “It’s only a crow.”

I put my hand on Aidan’s shoulder and we watched.

There was nothing we could do. The wires were electrified and would kill us if we attempted to free the bird. We knew that. The bird didn’t. She cawed and spat at us until eventually she grew tired and began to quieten.

When it was just the one bird suffering, hanging by her broken wing, caught in the weapon I had made, I hung on to the idea that “it’s only a crow” even though I couldn’t bring myself to say it. When other crows came to sit with their dying friend I found I could no longer hold onto that idea.

First one then another and eventually five large black birds came to sit and attend the death of their friend. They were solemn and gentle, not angry. They cooed softly at the dying bird as if trying to comfort her. I wanted them to leave, to give me back the idea that it was just a crow, an accident, a small hitch that nature would smooth over and which I could pass off as something without consequence. But they wouldn’t. They stayed, gathered in collective mourning, until she died.

Aidan turned to me and asked, desperate for a real answer: “What have we done?”