Jacob King, creative fiction, 2023
Echoing squawks fill the dark hallway of the old-brick tower. Above a concentrating man fly two cockatoos, screeching, and to those that know, speaking.
“I’m hungry, I’m hungry,” says the first, repeating himself relentlessly. His name is Maximilian.
“So very hungry, So very hungry,” says the second cockatoo, beginning to repeat himself as well. His name is Erasmus.
Each bird continuously shrieks, without pause for air, causing a cascade of words to pour into the man’s ear.
“You must quiet down. I have important work to complete,” says the man, forcing the words out of his vicinity and focusing on the spell before him. He has no name. Erasmus and Maximilian squawk and cackle, although quieter than before.
The man readjusts his focus, pulling his mind away from the birds, who do not leave him alone, and towards the gateway before him. The portal rests upon a bed of spiked roses, its murky-blue essence swirling in the same direction as the bird’s circular flight. With a single word from the man a creature begins to emerge. It does not wish to be there. The beast sways and it flails, moving to escape the force pulling it forward. It is of no use; the process is already in motion. The man simply waits.
Even so, the creature does not stop its jolting motions. Each failed escape attempt only prompts a more violent one. The man almost smiles watching the ugly creature struggle, but that single moment of distraction breaks his concentration long enough for the creature to whip itself free of the portal. The man rushes to repair his mistake, catching the creature in a hoisting spell before it cuts itself on the roses. The creature's blood spills out of its lobbed off tail. Maximilian dives first, letting the blood of the beast flow through his well-worn teeth. Erasmaus comes close to the tail hole, globs of the creature's blood missing his mouth and matting his bright white feathers.
“I require assistance,” says the man. Satisfied with their snack, the birds clasp their razor sharp teeth into the skin of the creature. It shrieks with pain as Erasmus locks his jaw near the creature’s eye and Maximilian bites the point that should be the start of a tail. The blood coming from the tail lessens to merely a few drops. The creature continues to take struggling breaths.
The man shakes his head at the beast. “Well this will have to do. The Encyclopedia must be completed,” he says. With his hands outstretched, a piece of paper unrolls in front of him. A small bristle brush soaked with wet paint flies into his right hand and a fine-tipped quill dripping with ink in his left. The man begins to work. The outline of the beast is simple, oblong oval tapering to a point where the tail should start. The details are where it gets more complex. The man takes note of the row of ornate spikes along the back ridge, and a set of gills that must belong to a fish. To add to the difficulty of drawing, the creature was constantly writhing and flopping in the air as if it had a desire of somewhere to be.
It does not take long for the man to get annoyed by the fish because–along with its unceasing movement–the fish did not look much like a fish at all. Upon the closer examination required for an accurate drawing, its large fins are actually more like dragon wings; long wrinkled pieces of skin pulled taut over skinny bones, ending in two sharp claws. The man grumbles as he scribbles notes down with his left hand as his right continues to fill in the details. Spots covered all points on the body: wings, skin and beak. The spots are truly difficult to draw, following no pattern in placement or shape. And the wings are not much easier, as they reflect light as if they are scales but are taught like skin. The man has no idea what he is looking at. Ersamus attempts to snicker, but the fish-dragon’s flesh blocks the sound. The man tries to pay no attention to the bird or the fish’s increasing movements at the shift of Erasmus’ mouth. He has work to finish.
He pauses the note taking carried out by his left hand, frustrated with the creature’s inconsistencies. There is no use in writing if he does not know where it goes. If it were a fish he would need to note the shape of the scales. If it were a dragon the wingspan would be more important.
His right hand continues to work diligently to capture the beast. He draws the curve of its body and shape of its small claws jutting out of its wings. The man moves slightly as he works, allowing the small bits of light filtering through the slits in the roof to illuminate different parts of the creature. In only a few strokes the outline of the creature is done. The man smiles at his work for it reflects reality better than reality. The beast’s outlines are smoother, the wings are a more consistent texture, the spots are in a pleasing pattern. He adds the tail he would imagine that the creature should have. The real tail snuggled under the first layer of the rose vines. The man begins to write again. He decides that creature was indeed a fish because there is no category in the encyclopedia for fish-dragons, and without a proper place, the record cannot be finished and he must finish quickly because that is what is his job. He records that the fish’s scales are octagonal.
The man shifts his brush towards the last remaining piece of the work; the creature's eyes. Gazing into the creature’s pale pupils he sees something that he does not like. He sees within the eyes a smugness. The man searches within the whites of the eyes, the cornea, the iris for the origin of the human-esque emotion. Yet, for a single, unsettling, moment, it seems as if he is staring directly at the man.
And then the eye pops. Blood oozes from the hole where the eye once was as the razor-sharp teeth hidden within Ersmaus’ beak tear into the flesh of the fish. Maximilian follows suit, plunging his beak into the hole where the tail should be, forcefully reopening the wound. Erasmus moves down the fish’s body, hooking his beak to the edge of a scale and forcefully shredding it with his teeth. One drop of the blood flies onto the man as Maximilian rips his beak out of the flesh holding a bright red organ in between his chipped teeth. The man notes the color and shape of the organ. The birds work diligently, crushing the scale to powder with the force of their jaw and sliding the blue flesh and red muscles through their teeth, discarded dust and flaked flesh floating to the rosebed below. In a few seconds the fish is gone, torn apart by the cockatoos’ ravenous efforts. Erasmus dives down and picks at the fallen bits of meat that remain. Maximilian squawks again, disappointed by the lack of fat.
“Could you have waited?” says the man with a sigh.
“We are hungry,” says Maximillian.
“Always hungry,” says Erasmus.
“You are not always hungry, you are just never full. There is a difference.”
He finishes his work, writing the last line with his left hand and finishing the drawing, painting on the eyes a fish should have. He leaves no questions unanswered. Upon the page he writes “The Spotted Fish.” The man walks up to the man-sized encyclopedia sitting on the floor and places the newly finished page in the section labeled “fish.”
With that, the man retires. Erasmus and Maximilian too. The man closes the large encyclopedia and lays himself out on the front cover as the two birds snuggle up upon his head.