Gregory The Cormorant

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-912681-70-9
Verlag: Parthian Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 132 Seiten

A young family receives a welcome surprise when old Uncle Ian dies and leaves them a cottage in north Wales. For Ian's nephew and his wife Ann, it seems a stroke of incredible good fortune, enabling them to leave their unfulfilling lives in the city for a newfound freedom in the remote seaside cottage. There's just one catch. Uncle Ian's will has a strange condition: the couple must care for his pet cormorant or forfeit the bequest. They think nothing of it at first: Uncle Ian was eccentric, and the bird is amusing in a way. But when the cormorant begins to show a violent and malevolent side, they soon find that Uncle Ian's gift may not be a blessing, but a curse.

Stephen Gregory has been called a horror writer, although his novels and short stories reflect a love of the countryside and especially his interest in birds. The Cormorant, which won the Somerset Maugham Award and was made into a BBC television film, was followed by The Woodwitch and The Blood of Angels, all written in and around the mountains of Snowdonia. After a year as a screenwriter in Hollywood, alongside the notorious film director William Friedkin, Stephen spent fifteen years teaching in Borneo, and during the long hot tropical evenings he wrote four more novels, set back home in rural England and Wales ... and using a bird here and there as a focus of each story. He now lives in France with his wife Chris, in a small house beside the river Vienne, while they're slowly rebuilding a 16th century fortified farmhouse.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Gregory, Stephen

Leseproben

II

In the fortnight which followed, I began to find that I could exercise more control over Archie. The bird became accustomed to the man who came each morning with food, and it no longer made its snaking thrusts at my hands. Instead, it watched from the far corner of its cage while I opened the hatch and eased the iron plate through the wire, before it walked like a duchess towards the meat. Archie ate with a flurry of bolting gulps, taking a beakful and then stretching up its head to ease the food into the gullet. I saw the meat slipping downwards, a bulge in the throat, working and moving like a live thing. Every afternoon, it was time to hose out the cage with a fine spray of water. All the accumulated droppings sped across the slates in foaming milk, pieces of straw and discarded fish, the walnut-sized pellets of indigestible matter, it all washed out of the cage and into the nettle beds of the little garden. Archie spread its wings and held its face up to the flying water. It stood under the shower with its beak open, allowing the water to course over its tongue and its half-closed eyes, down its oily breast. The cormorant shook off the water with a vigorous beating of its wings. It shivered from top to toe, like a wet dog, and the droplets flew across the backyard in a confetti of blues and greens and silver.

But the bird could not stay inside its cage for ever. Sooner or later, it would be time to bring it out and let it have some exercise. Now that it was used to its new breadwinner, I began to foresee the time when Archie would even go free, as it had begun to do for Uncle Ian, and still return for its food. First of all, it would suffice to bring Archie out on a leash. One crisp November afternoon, while Ann was at work and Harry was sound asleep upstairs, I decided to attempt to exercise the bird. I gave it a small dish of cat food, only a couple of beakfuls, to distract it long enough for me to secure it on a length of rope. As the cormorant bent to the meat, I approached. I had put on my Wellington boots and a pair of gardening gloves as protection against the beak. The meal was placed near the hatch, to bring the bird within range. It was disconcertingly easy: Archie obligingly placed one foot into the noose which I had put onto the floor in front of the plate, and, from the safety afforded by the barrier of chicken-wire, the rope was gently pulled tighter until the knot was snug around the bird’s ankle. Archie hardly glanced up from the plate. It continued to swallow each morsel with familiar speed, as though at any moment the remaining food would be confiscated. I waited for it to finish. At the final gulp, Archie turned towards me, stared and blinked, yawned a long, creaking yawn, a gentle kiss of fish breath. I opened the hatch.

Archie waddled out into the yard. It was a cold, clean afternoon, lit by a watery sun. The sky was blue and empty of gulls. I left the rope slack, and the bird stalked into the garden, pushing its head among the long grass. It glanced up at the sky and shook out its wings, but it folded them again carefully, pushing away a few feathers with the preening of its beak. I allowed Archie to lead me further from the cage, towards the stream which ran past the foot of the garden. At the sight of the water, the cormorant increased its pace. There it stood on a slippery boulder and watched the tumbling brook. In a calmer pool, it trod boldly down and floated like a duck, paddling its feet to maintain position in the current. It put its head under the water and tugged at the weed. The stream brought along a clustered spawn of bubbles, leaves from the oak and ash which lined the water, twigs and acorns which the bird inspected and sieved with its inquisitive bill. Archie floated low in the current, the water ran across its back like mercury. The bird relaxed and filled itself with the half-remembered rhythm of tides.

I sat down on a dry boulder a little way upstream and wound the rope a few times around my wrist, allowing a little slack so that Archie could move about the slower pool and venture into the swifter currents.

I thought about Uncle Ian: a grey, anonymous man, embedded in a grey, anonymous school, a man whose features I had never really noticed. We had met so seldom, usually at a graveside, with our carefully polished shoes side by side in the soil, hearing the customary graveside words and the drumming of earth on a coffin of new wood. I knew little about him. He had been a teacher, but his heart was never in it; he was irritable with his boys and curt with the other members of staff. He had never married. He must have spent the long evenings after school in his musty flat, just a hundred yards from the Channel coast, where the spray spattered the window frames until orange tears of rust stained the building, where the salt gathered like frost on the panes of glass. In the holidays, he rubbed and painted the boat on the mudflats behind Denton island. When the rain came or it was too cold to work, he would sit alone inside the cabin, with his cigars and a bottle of beer. The swans came and demanded feeding, soaking the crusts of a sandwich in the water of a tidal pool before drawing them down and down the emaciated columns of their necks. He might flick them the butt of a cigar and watch them recoil, nauseated. It was Ian’s little joke. And in his final year, he had the cormorant to occupy him over a bitter Sussex winter. Whatever love he had stored up and barely touched in the recesses of his soul, he must have spent on the bird. He restored it to rude health. Somewhere within Uncle Ian, under the greyness of his disappointments, behind his gruff and apparently wilful gracelessness, there must have been a reservoir of love, as good as new, never sullied by the pitfalls of human companionship. The one time he had reached into this untapped fund, the cormorant had answered with such passionate kisses as tore away the flesh of his cheeks, his lips, his gums. The fresh soil had rained also on the wood of Ian’s coffin. I was at the graveside, with my shoes in mud. The rain trickled into the sparse hairs of my beard and poppled my glasses. My hands shook with the cold until I felt for the warmth of Ann’s fingers. Uncle Ian had thought of us in his last few months. Archie had come from Sussex to the mountains of Wales, like an orphan, lost and hurt in the company of strangers. It was a strange gift. Ours was a bizarre duty.

The roar of a low-flying jet broke the peace of the autumn afternoon. At the buffeting noise, the cormorant sprang from the water as though an electric charge had been passed through it, landing on the grassy bank of the stream in a disarray of wet feathers. For a moment, Archie scrabbled to get a foothold and lay on its breast, unable to find a purchase with its unsuitable feet. The jet howled on its way and left behind a thunder of bruised air. The bird stood up. It blinked and came at me like a farmyard gander, the head held low, the beak agape, hissing. For Archie, the breach of its calm in the cold pool must be attributed to the presence of a man: the noise was a man-noise and the man was a threat. I jumped to my feet and retreated before the determined bird, cracking the length of rope and sending a loop like a wave along it, which finally snapped against the cormorant’s belly. This, and the size of the green wellingtons, was too much for Archie; backing off, it began to shake itself. A shower of icy water flew from its slick black plumage. I tugged the bird towards the wire cage. Again, it was a simple task to lure Archie into captivity with the replenished plate of cat food. Leaving the line attached to the bird’s ankle for future use, tying it through the mesh onto the kitchen drainpipe, I securely closed the hatch. Archie was back in the cage and no damage was done. I looked forward to telling Ann when she came in from work.

It became increasingly easier to take Archie into the garden and down to the stream for his afternoon exercise. I enjoyed the hours I spent with the cormorant, and the bird began to treat me as though I were an acceptable part of its environment. I sat with my boots in the water and felt the teeth of the cold gnawing on my toes, through my feet and into my ankles. It was a marvel that Archie was content to float there, half submerged, to explore the depths of its pool without being affected by the temperature. At night, the bird returned to the white wooden crate in which it had been delivered, snuggling down into the pit of straw. There was once a visit from the executor of the will, one of my cousins. He was a suave young executive, disappointed not to have benefitted under the will; it was quite clear that he would have been glad to find either that the cormorant was being neglected by the fortunate couple who had inherited the cottage or that the bird was proving to be a really intolerable addition to our family. In fact, he saw that Archie was thriving, growing into a sleek and haughty creature. Our routine had comfortably accommodated the bird. We did not mention the uproar caused by Archie’s first emergence from the box, nor the congregation of gulls. I smiled behind my hands to see the cormorant on its best behaviour: it lunged like a wild cat at the man in the city suit when he put out a hand to inspect the cage; it hung on the wire in a spasm of rage. As a peace offering to the astonished visitor, a steaming pellet was delivered after a second’s laboured retching, and a squirt of shit nearly reached the city shoes. Archie was on top form. I winked at Ann, who was watching from the kitchen window, but she turned away, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

The weeks passed. Autumn in...