The Goose Chronicles

Part 1

Bronwyn, unlike others, enjoyed the company of geese. Well, to be fair, the company of geese 10 yards away. She wasn't stupid. She'd sometimes sit for hours on end simply watching a grounded flock of geese walk around and interact. She especially enjoyed that period between fall and winter, when the weather's a tossup. One day it was like a light spring afternoon, and the next a torrent of snow was coming down and the roads were icing over. She lived in Ohio, so this type of meteorological uncertainty was common. The geese were far more lively during that period, if they hadn't already taken off southward.

And so she found herself, wrapped in a jacket with a cap and fingerless gloves clasped around a hot mug of apple cider, watching some particularly interesting geese-on-geese interchange. She always wondered what they were saying.

Bernard, the goose, was a terrible navigator. At least, that's what everybody told him.

"Egg it, Bernie, we were supposed to be gone weeks ago!" Oliver never failed to make his concerns for the flock public. He flapped his wings and stepped to and fro in agitation. Bernie cleaned his feathers, suppressing a violent urge. He knew this time of year was shaky, and it is a commonly held notion that geese should squeeze as much warmth out of a location as they can. It is a crime and an embarrassment to fly Southwards early. However, taking off too late was dangerous. Simon once had some feathers break off because of the icy weather they were flying through one late year. And, every year, this strange cold-warm time always bit him in the tail-feathers. If he led the flock South a little earlier than usual, the weather would warm right up for a few weeks, and he'd be chastised for his cowardly earliness. But if he stayed any later, it would begin snowing and he'd be grumbled at. This year was the flippiest of them all.

"Stop wringing your neck into knots, Oliver. I have things under control." He really didn't. He was still torn about leaving or staying.

"We elected you to get us out of here when the time was right, Bernard. Is the time not right? Even the Wingless One is cold!" He jabbed his beak emphatically at Bronwyn. She was observing them with bright eyes. Bernie glanced at the Wingless One briefly. He had a faint grasp of what They called 'cloethz.' More meant it was cold and less meant it was warm. It was wearing more. He dismissed this and turned back to Oliver. Bernie knew and he knew and Simon knew and the entire flock knew that there was hardly an election. While exceedingly spotty at times, Bernie's inborn sense of direction was keener than the rest.

Now, you're probably wondering what a goose navigator is. You may have inferred what the general idea is, but explanations are owed nonetheless. The flock navigator is selected for life, and it takes several years to officially ordain one. Once a navigator dies, the subsequent years are spent in anarchical chaos (more so than usual) and the flock follows the general path of the migration that they may or may not remember correctly. During these limbo years is when the new navigator distinguishes himself. He is the one with any sense of surety; he is the one that steps up and leads the flock to the South. And, inevitably, he is the one that the other geese look up to, to make decisions, provide direction, et cetera. It is also the only official authority figure in the flockdom. Geese do want a proper chief, and all of the species would benefit highly from one. The problem is that every goose thinks he should be the chief. There are endless squawkings and banters and debates over who is to be chief, all the time, every year. Every goose is a self-campaigner and no goose has ever joined another's following or campaign. Not ever. So you can see the issue.

Let us return to Bernard. By now, the rest of the birds had noticed Oliver's whines and Bernie's evasive defenses. They crowded around the pair, screaming and taking sides, as geese do. But soon enough, they began to ask questions of their own. The common shout was similar to Oliver's: When would they be taking flight? The babbling and the rolling and the screeching of the chaotic sea of black and gray became too much for Bernie. He ruffled his feathers, bent his neck back, and roared to the overcast sky.

"Choke up, you all!"

As one, the crowd went silent. Navigators had authority. Bernie looked around and realized he had nothing to say. Instead, he looked each geese in the eye as he babbled nonsense. But so moving was his tone, and so direct were his cries, that they hearkened with respect and even nodded. He finished with a resounding aaaey! and the crowd went wild. They wobbled their necks and flapped their wings, as is their customary applause. Bernie waddled away, and sat on a particularly snowless spot, watching his flock meander about.