New Birds

The Problem With Tilly Part 4

A twisted cobblestone path, interlaced with clover and moss, led from the aviary, past the goat barn, to the house. Here the rattling bills of his storks subsided just enough that he could now distinctively pick up the whooping calls of Tilly's few cranes as he neared the bunker's air ducts. Louis was not a fan of her birds and found their ghostly whooping depressing. Unlike his storks, they were fragile things that caused Tilly endless heartache. Even with her best efforts, their population had again dropped to three breeding pairs.

He entered the house through the back door, wiped his feet on the mat, and searched for the teapot under the accumulating mail and collection of monthly New West Newsletters. The new administration was enamoured with their refurbished printing house, which, if they weren't careful, would soon overshadow their commitment to the bamboo projects along Highway 63.

Tilly entered through the front door and removed her yellow rubber boots. Her hair, which was once a fiery auburn, was now more ash than fire, and her bright eyes that had drawn him to her like a moth to a flame all those years ago, now hid behind thick, framed glasses. She had kept her wiry shape for the most part, but habitually hid it beneath her collection of overstretched shirts and sweaters. Today she wore a red shaker knit over black work pants, and walked towards him, stopping once to pull her grey sock up over her heel.

"You're joining me for lunch, I see." She scooted him aside in order to reach inside a cupboard for a jar of her tomato and leek soup.

"Something wrong with that?" he asked, rubbing at his fresh set of rung blisters.

"No, just that those vultures usually keep you longer."

"Vultures, today, are they?" He pointed to the most recent newsletter. "Even with this administration's grand reintroduction incentive of 10,000 species, I doubt we'll ever see another vulture."

She shrugged, opened the mason jar, and shook the contents into the saucepan. "Vultures in all ways but name. And by the look of your overalls, they have been defecating on more than their legs." She removed his teapot and placed her soup on their one working burner.

He looked down at his overalls. If the climb hadn't made him so ravenous, he would have found another chore to get to and avoid this lunch hour all together. Her jibes towards him and his birds he could do without today. "It's mostly from the ladder."

She gave him a quizzical look.

He wanted to share with her Simon's recent stunt, and how close the bird had come to killing him, but now thought it best left for another day.

She hadn't always disliked his storks. After all, it was her great grandfather who had bartered at some length for this mountain's original pair. But lately, all she saw in them was the financial burden of keeping them. She also seemed to dislike them a little more with every jump in their population.

"Is there enough soup in that jar for both of us?" he asked.

"If it keeps you here long enough to hear me out."

He braced as she reached past him again to retrieve a letter from the pile. She handed it to him, but as he was opening it, she jumped ahead and told him what it said. "The administration has increased our land tax by three-thousand dollars. And even with that dodgy water contract Keitin roped me into with Anson Genetics, this will have us scraping at the bottom of my trust fund. I'm afraid we can no longer put off some tough decisions."

"Simon should..."

"Be sold at market as chewy strips of seasoned meat," she interrupted.

Not deterred, he continued. "Take home some major prize money. My newest measurement has him at 170 centimetres. I doubt if there is a taller bird on this entire planet. If you're still planning on providing me with the entry fee, I am sure we can soon solve that land tax."