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A pigeon's dream

My kind lives, on average, no longer than five years, a.k.a. 157680000 seconds. At my age, I have a one in 78840000 chance of dying every second. That gives me a mortality rate of 1,27*10^-6 per second. Every second, I have a 1,27*10^-8 percent chance of death. Therefore, if we accept the quantumphysical theory that all situations simultaneously exist in multiple universes, we can deduce that every second, 1,27*10^-8 percent of me dies. Call me Schrödinger's pigeon, if Spero is too tough to pronounce.

It's a sad, sad day when the pseudoscientific mumbo-jumbo one uses to rationalize blatant carelessness with one's life starts making sense. When my poor old uncle Cepheus died, it was almost as if 1,27*10^-8 of my usual lightheartedness actually did disappear. The sky looked like it was about to start raining. A feral pigeon doesn't mind a few wet feathers, but we like to avoid it if we can. If it had already been raining, the entire occasion might have a slightly more dignified feel. The superstitious ones among us could have come up with some way to tie Cepheus passing to the weeping of the heavens or something, and we wouldn't have been trying so hard to wrap things up quickly and get home more or less dry. The dear old coot had perished yesterday, a long-awaited unexpected ending to a strange political situation. He had been the leader of the biggest birdclan in the area for twelve years, and he had ruled well and honestly for a good eight years. After which he had lost the ability to speak coherently and remember where he lived. You can't clean up after the entire clan if you can't clean up after yourself. Unfortunately, our successional system wasn't designed for monarchs who lived past the age of twenty, so he could not resign or appoint someone to lead the clan in his place. My uncle became louder and more unpredictable with age, age, making it increasingly harder to keep him hidden. Eventually, he was stuffed in a secluded church tower with some poor soul to take care of him, while my big brother Amphitryon ruled from behind the scenes. Everyone but me pretended not to know what was going on, providing me with an abundant source of toes to tread on. I take great pride in my position of truth-proclaimer.

My uncle was fortunate enough not to realize the chaos he left us in. For the last few years he was trapped in a flow of vivid hallucinations, some peaceful, others maybe ridden with a splinter of his guilt that had embedded itself into his unconscious. And yesterday, he managed to escape the attention of his nurse for a moment and tried to glide across the street to freedom, but found flying to be a lot harder than he remembered. I wasn't there, but I imagine him leaping out the window, leaving behind a parabolic trail of feathers and pulling up just in time to smash into the bumper of the priest's approaching Ford Pontiac. I wisely decided not to share my conclusions with my brother, or anyone else for that matter. The products of my imagination are often best kept to myself, as I have learned in the past. I guess we should be glad he didn't see the car coming. Those who see death approach have a tendency to defecate on themselves, making their funeral rites even less dignified. There are no coffins for us. Humans can transport their dead to wherever they want to leave them, they're not even the least bit shy about shutting off an entire street just to remove the remains of the victim of a hit and run. Dead birds don't get that kind of consideration. So here we are, sitting in a tree, preaching about the achievements of a man who is lying some ten feet below us, each passing car spreading him out across the pavement a little thinner. It would have been tragic if it wasn't so funny. Well actually, it is tragic. My brother seems more angry than sad, though. He has every right to be a little frustrated, and a little scared too. He is an impressive figure, the kind of guy you look to when it's all just not going the way it is supposed to. He was always serious, even from a young age very aware of his great responsibilities. A few years ago, a mysterious illness decimated the clan and killed four members of the royal family: both our parents and the all children of uncle Cepheus. Amphitryon got sick as well, but made a last-minute miraculous recovery that was interpreted by some as a sign of his right to rule. But the body of my father's older brother proved tough, even though his mind was already becoming feeble. Even I, in all my cynicism, can not deny how unfortunate my brother and his many supporters truly were. A beacon of reassurance he could have been, amidst the terror and tragedy of the slow process of recovering from the epidemic. He was young, but not too young. Handsome, but not too handsome. What a magnificent king he could have made, combining symbolism with charisma and true authority, who would restore our line to its former glory. A great fantasy that unfortunately never developed into reality. You see, The illness had not completely left his body unscarred. He had become sterile. Three different females attempted to bring his spawn to life, only the third one managed to lay a cold, fragile little egg that didn't hatch. A king is worth no more than his sperm in our society, because our individual lives are so short and so meaningless. All that matters is our legacy. And so, it was secretly decided that my firstborn son would officially be my brother's, as would my second, just in case the first one didn't work out.

Please note I did not say "we decided". I had no choice in the matter.

A sudden push to my shoulder breaks my contemplation. Ampitryons familiar look of silent judgment drops heavily on my head. I see. I am to pay attention to the current speaker, one of many flunkies with a title who take care of everyday affairs. I'm being watched, as usual, inspected, judged if I'm showing enough grief over the death of my uncle. I'll show them just how I feel about it. The familiar excitement of defiance swelled up in my chest, as I yawned with great showmanship. The disapproving looks became even more intense. I loved it. I guess I never realized what an amazing opportunity for making oneself hated a funeral presented. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I flapped up from the tree. Carelessly soaring away from the tragic scene, I relished every shocked gasp for air I heard. I could already picture the gossiping. Just perfect.

I hope you can forgive me my sadism. Or my masochism really, after all, I'm the one who's supposed to suffer. I'm the one getting punished in the cruel courtroom of public opinion for my crimes against basic decency. Call it my public service. This is how I make this clan happy for a few more years before they will have to deal with a king who will no doubt inherit my sick sense of humor, my arrogance and my mercilessness. They love it. The one thing my pigeons love more than anything in the whole wide world, is to feel, just for a moment, that the royal family is no better than them. I let them push me down, so they can hide their self-hatred. I don't mind. If my purpose in this life is to father the next king, so be it. But until then, I will torture my followers as much as I can. And they will love it. I guess there's a masochist in all of us.

---

_Nothing infinite exists. Nothing can live, if it cannot die. _

None of us know exactly why we do it. We know it's stupid at the very least, but Hey. In this case, "Hey" is what we use to replace common sense. Some of us come to the train tunnel every day, some once or twice a month. We sit on the wires, shivering like beggars, waiting for the trains to arrive. They carry with them a secret that only a select few individuals, willing to take the risk, will ever get to experience. This particular morning, there are four of us on the wire when a short passenger train appears in the distance. Experienced as we are, we recognize the model from afar. This one will serve three riders only. My companions look at each other, asking who will stay behind this time. I graciously offer to wait for the next one and the three of them fly up in great excitement. Let me explain something about the way a pigeon rides a train. For a human, it's simply a means of transport. For us, it is a brief, yet addictive escape from our own world. Here's what happens. First, fly up high above the tunnel entrance. At the appropriate moment, dive down at about a sixty degree angle, flying into the tunnel just above the wagon that provides the space your body can occupy whilst moving through the tunnel. The most important thing is timing this right, so that you arrive at the train's "sweet spot" at the exact moment that it enters the tunnel, moving just as fast as the train itself. Yes, that takes practice. No, it's not impossible to master. As long as you hit the space, you will survive, so just start with that should you wish to take this up as a hobby. Adrenaline has its charms, but the real magic happens when you hit the tunnel in such a way that inside the tunnel, you are not moving relative to the train at all.

Please forgive me for all this explaining, I know it may not be the most engaging read. I've always had bigger appetites than most addicts, which I know I am. This goes further than simply sticking yourself with needles or inhaling some expensive flour. For in that train tunnel, in your filthy, noisy coffin, something truly unique happens. It's nothing short of a miracle. Millimeters away from the train itself, millimeters from the roof of the tunnel you glide between two protective sheets of air, warmed by the engines exhaust. For the briefest moment, the rushing air picks you up and holds you firmly inside your little cage of thundering steel and brick. Move up, and the ceiling of the tunnel will touch your back, ripping you apart instantly. Move down, and your chest will touch the train, allowing the air current above it to propel you any of six different ways, probably all six at a time if it really goes wrong, which it almost always does. Move to the side, and your wing will be caught between the wagon and the tunnel wall, pulling you in and rolling you like an inexperienced cook would roll a meatball. Move back or forth, and the same will happen to your beak or tail. You might not quite understand why you would take this risk. Therefore, you will proclaim me suicidal or insane, and never attempt to recreate this feat. But on the off chance you are a pigeon that can read, I will try to describe what happens. Surrounded by truly humbling forces clashing like mythical titans, you enter a state of sleep. The air current supports your weight, carrying you in an ever so fragile bubble through the tunnel. Imagine the first one of our species to discover this! A bird, tired of life, committing the most brutal way of death he could think of, to instead return to the egg. A dark, warm, quiet place, exclusively his. He confuses this pre-birth for heaven, until all of a sudden, he is flung out into the world again, unharmed, a changed man. There are no problems on the train. There is only you and your glimpse of salvation.

My attention is suddenly drawn by a young pigeon sitting beside the track. He is watching me with still, judging eyes. He makes no effort to pretend he wasn't spying on me. My beak clenches with rage and I suddenly feel more aggrieved than I have in a long time. The insolent little twat almost seems to think I would speak to him first, maybe even fly down to greet him. Me, the first in line to the throne, being gawked at by that little feathery rat. What is he even doing here? Nobody other than the frequent trainriders ever come here. My anger inflated my brain like a balloon. Had he been following me around? As if his outrageous impudence hasn't been taken far enough, he comes up to the roof of the tunnel and greets me with a small bow. "On the authority of his majesty king Amphitryon, I..." He began. He suddenly stops and looks down, as if he has suddenly spawned some respect for his superior. "Well then," I say with all the icy politeness I can muster. "Spit it out, boy." In a soft, almost personal voice he says:

"My... Sir... Lord... uh, Spero, I'm an agent of his majesty." "Your brother," He adds, as if to clarify. "I have been charged with... locating you and bringing you home safely." My indignation could no longer be contained in the cage of reason. Bring me home safely. As if my brother could have cared less about my personal safety, had he not needed me as a breeding machine. People like this twat liked to be referred as "agents of the royal family", but are usually no more than glorified message boys. I smile as charmingly as I could, hopefully leading this groveling chick to believe, if only for a moment, I will not cause him the trouble he obviously was expecting.

"I am pleased to hear our king has found the time in his busy schedule to patronize his little brother as usual. I was almost beginning to think he had something better to do. Please inform him that I will return home when I damn well please, and that the next lackey he sends to escort me will end up in in a stew. Have a nice day." And with that, I return to my own business (sitting) as if that ended the affair.

His face slowly sinks into a despairing grimace. From the corner of my eye (yes, of course I am still watching him!) I see his beak opening and closing many times as he tries to find the proper words. It looked like it was being controlled by the fingers of a bad puppeteer. A train approaches in the distance. When is that annoying little leech going to leave? Is he gone? No, he's still sitting there with that same, dumb, awkward look. I'm beginning to despise him more than I ever thought I would despise a stranger. "I have to catch that train, so if you don't mind..." "I have an obligation to mind, sir." "I don't have time for this, son! You don't want to take this all the way to the end, trust me. I might die in the next minute, And you don't want to be the one to bring that news back to your boss, do you now?

I fly up in the direction of the approaching train, now completely focused on the matter at hand. Some say the true high of trainriding is the moment just before...

Is he following me? He is, the leech is trying to catch me. This has gone too far already, I'm not going to let this pestering twerp ruin my ride. I speed up as much as I can, before performing the perfect dropping hairpin turn maneuver needed to catch up to a vehicle on land speeding in the other direction. There's the sweet spot, there's the tunnel. Could this be the rare perfect approach to ... Two feet. One foot.

Perfect. Like diving into a swimming pool of warm fluff. Here, I am safe. Here, I am happy. But am I alone?

---

"Spero! Thank god you're here, where the fuck have you been?!"

" Amph... Amphitryon, Leave me alone!" I am in a vaguely familiar room, small and a little smelly. I don't remember how I got there, though I must have been flying through the morning for hours in utter oblivious disorientation. The world is spinning around me, or maybe I spin inside it, I am not quite sure. A haze had been laid over my mind, that blocked my thoughts from one another. But a haze sounds too soft to describe it, it was more like a static. All the sounds had been broke down and mixed into a deafening flurry. My mind was stormed, not clouded.

"Where is Gregory? "

Who the hell was that? Was that the leeches' official title? Gregory was right next to me, right? After all, we were still in the tunnel, and he was chasing me over the train, trying to talk to me? I looked around; not only was I not in the train tunnel, "Gregory" was nowhere to be seen. How had he escaped me?

He has not escaped. The scene blurs into reality, because it is real, even though I wouldn't want it to. His whining... _ how could anyone be so barbaric as to open their mouth in the holiest place a bird could ever be? How could he _dare_ _to disturb the stillness of the bubble we shared? Was it wrong to preserve the silence for those precious few seconds? Especially considering how easy it had been. Like pressing a button to eternally rid the world of evil. How can you not? I had been comfortably sandwiched between his skinny chest and the frictionless sheet of air separating me from the train. A push, a nudge really, and I was liberated from his panicking presence. It could not have been farther from murder. Murder is an ugly thing, something humans do. To push the young royal agent against the roof of the tunnel was a sacred act performed by a humble servant of my bliss.

"We were on the train. I killed him." Is this real? "What the living hell you mean, "killed" him?" Am I real? "I mean the living hell exactly what I said." Am I here?

Am I still in my dirty coffin? Am I asleep, cradled by the soothing heartbeat of imminent death, which can come closer than any living thing ever will without touching me? Or am I in another kind of coffin _ __ that shackles me to a life of illusion without awareness?__ _

My brother's eyes slowly widens to frantic proportions as he realizes what I'm telling him. No further explanation is needed. His wings slowly raise up to the ceiling before folding onto his head in a silent gesture of desperation. It looks like a slomo of flying into a glass wall. If the circumstances hadn't been so surreal, I might have laughed at him. Instead, I just sit there and stare at the wall, exploring the magnitude of what I've done. He cries out twice, in sharp bursts of anguish, before cramping up in silence. The king watches his kingdom crumble. It's like I can see into his imagination, a telepathic connection between brothers that we've never had before. The death of a young regal officer will not be swept under the rug, but it will forever stick to my name and that of my spawn. No child of mine will ever be allowed to rule. Tomorrow morning, the first scrap-pickers at the trainstation will find the body, hear the witnesses, piece together the story of a demented, murderous prince who snuffed out the young life of a boy who had sworn to serve my family. The sun is rising... when it sets, the monarchy will have ended. Ampytrion and I share this vision, clear and close and undeniably unavoidable.

The scene fades from my mind and is replaced by an all-overpowering sense of finality. The king is gone, because there is no king without a clan to be king of. In the blurring of time and reality, the birds fly away in all directions, to find other clans or start their own. I am the only one still here. The sun is so bright... By the entrance, I listen for the voices of the clan that I have murdered, but there are none.

Wait for me, loyal subjects!

I soar through the hole, up, then down, and greet the priest's approaching Ford Pontiac as an old friend.