The Last

The Last

By Leslie Cieplechowicz  

 She perched as she always had, her dried toes mounted to a fading branch, peering out into the illuminated hall. Voiceless. Longing. Alone. Waiting.

   Crowds of humans shuffled past, their fingerprints leaving greasy stains on the glass separating her from them. An endless stream for as far as her glassy eyes could see, crowding the room, noisy and naked. Two teenagers paused. One wrinkled his nose, “This is so boring. I can see pigeons on the street.” He sneered at her drifting away.

   Martha was the last of her kind, a passenger pigeon, trapped in a glass box, rooted to one spot. Her need to continue her species was still strong, lingering in a stuffed body, mounted with faded feathers.

   Memories flickered back.

   A dark ribbon looped across the sky, a collective consciousness, vibrating in formation. The sky above with wisps of white. Fields below riddled with dry corn stocks. Soaring. So many of them, darkening the sky, their future secured.

   Feeling trapped, chipping away at the barrier, cramped until a hole formed. Inhaling the cool air and soft cooing. Warmth settling down from above.

   Bars bristling in front of her, trapping her in a container. Two others of her kind, perched near, heads drooping. No response to her cooing. Her dancing. Her overtures to create. And people, closer, breathing her air, louder, smellier.

   Wings beating, following, alighting. Tucking in a twig into the crook of the branches. One after another, weaving, meshing. Then nestling down into the bowl. Silent. Waiting. Feeling the smoothness of the eggs. Fluffing feathers. Spreading warmth.

   Shrieking, pounding with wings, a lithe striped form hissing. Striking again and again. Jaws crushing. Small, feathered bodies falling to ground. Then a larger one, streaked with crimson. All gone. A human staring upward. Calling. The beast leaping down into arms. Purring. Laughter. Footsteps trailing away. Loneliness.

   Cracks shattering eardrums. Smoke snaking upward. Shattering bodies plummeting, raining from the heavens, the collective destroyed. Humans scattered over the ground. Panic. Fear. Scattering. Wings pounding.

   Always humans, more and more and more. An endless stream. Poking fingers through the bars, touching the window. Coughing. Snorting. Laughing. But never one of her kind.

   And waiting and searching.

   The hall dome rose above with yellow-stained windows, one slightly a jar. Light filtered through the panes creating shimmering mosaics on the tile floor. A shriek, then feathered flapping. Within a light beam landed a gray pigeon, iridescent rainbows across its back. Martha’s heart raced. She cried out silently. The visitor cocked its head. In came a person with a broom, beige slacks sagging from his bony rear. He swatted at the pigeon, and it exploded into the air. The broom grazed its tail and sent a feather spiraling downward. And Martha was alone. Waiting.

   People crowded the front of the glass. Pointing. No end. When one flock left, another came. Staring. Then shadows crept along the floor and the hall grew silent.

   A flap of wings. And the pigeon alighted on the edge of her display case. She cooed softly. It twisted its head, then answered. Another like her. Not exactly the same. But not a human. She realized it was a male. A potential mate.

   They sat with each other until darkness shrouded them. She was not alone.

   Each evening, when the hall cleared, he returned to roost with her. Bringing presents, bits of colored paper, a silver bottle cap, frayed scrap of emerald ribbon. She waited for him, searched for him, longed for him, throughout the day. When morning streaked the painted walls, he left, thirsty, hungry. Driven.

   One day, the man with the broom came, his watery eyes downward as he stroked the floor. Another man trailed in after him, his voice rising. The first man paused as the other tapped him on the shoulder.

   “That bird is still in here. It has been five days now.”

   The man with the broom nodded.

   “You need to get rid of it. It is leaving droppings all over the museum.” The second man gestured to Martha. “Look. Martha’s case is streaked with feces. And she is a very valuable specimen. Irreplaceable.” He tapped the glass with a pen.

   “I will get on it, sir.” The first man’s voice crackled like dried leaves. He coughed.

   “Make sure you do.” The second man strode from the hall.

   Hazy light splattered the hall. A man shuffled in with a dish holding fragments of corn. Her mate arched it back and half opened its wings. The man slipped to the other end of the hall, set the dish down, then dusted the grain with white powder. He snuck out.

   The pigeon eyed it. Martha could feel the hunger clawing inside him. Something was not right. The man with the broom was not following the daily pattern. Fear snatched her. She cooed to her mate, pleading him to stay. But the urge to eat superseded. He glided to the floor and pecked at the grain until the dish lay bare. Then he preened his feathers, pulling the blades through his beak. She called to him, begging for him to return.

   The pigeon ruffled his feathers and shook. He gasped, retching, then clawed at his mouth. He staggered across the hall, spinning and dancing with death, his wings drooping, then collapsed in a heap.

  Martha grew silent. And waited. Alone. When sunlight glittered above, the man returned with a broom and a dustpan and swept her mate up, rolling his corpse into the pan. Then he shuffled from the room.

   Flapping beat the silence. Martha’s mate perched next to her. He cooed and she responded. She lifted her wings and stretched them up and down, the urge to reproduce consuming. She hopped next to him, and they both soared upward, higher and higher, a melded spirit, flowing as one, and slipped out the window. The rays of the sun struck them, shattered them into scraps of energy, which swirled, then dissipated. She was no longer alone.