"Mike Resnick & Nicholas A DiChario- Birdie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

  BIRDIE                  by Mike Resnick and Nicholas A. DiChario I sleep. 
     Eventually the heavy oak doors of the wine cellar screech 
open, its iron hinges sprinkling detritus upon my earthen floor. 
     The slow _creak-creak-creak_ of wary footsteps descend the 
rotted wooden staircase that has not borne the weight of Man 
since -- hmmm, let me think about this -- Robert Darwin?  God only 
knows how many years ago that was, and _BOOM!_  The wine cellar 
doors collapse again, leaving in their wake a young human boy, 
standing at the bottom of the cellar steps, trembling in the soft 
glow of a single flickering candle. 
     "Is there a dragon down here?" says the lad. 
     "Anything's possible," I answer.
     The child gasps, and I see his white face turn a shade or two 
paler, and when he finally lets out his breath, out goes the 
candle.  I seem to recall Robert, when he was a lad, making the 
same blunder -- but when Robert blew out his candle he scrambled 
up the steps and pounded on the wine cellar doors, begging to be 
freed, screaming like a banshee that the dragon was about to 
devour him alive.  
     But this one just stands up straight, straining his weak 
human eyes, eyes not that were not made for seeing clearly through 
the darkness. 
     "What year is it, lad?" 
     "The year is 1817," he says. "I thought Father was fibbing.  
I mean about you.  Of course, I can't see you -- so you could be 
fibbing, too.  This could all be part of my punishment.  Are you a 
man pretending to be a dragon?" 
     "Why in the world would I want to do that?" 
     "Maybe Father is paying you." 
     "I am not so easily bribed." I flare a nostril, and reveal 
just enough of my flame to illuminate the corner of the wine 
cellar where I lay resting. 
     The youngster edges closer. 
     "Well, my boy," I said smugly, "do I pass the test?  Man or 
beast?" 
     "You do look different.  Is that green fur?" 
     "Land scales, actually." 
     "And that big head with the long nose--" 
     "Snout." 
     "And those long floppy--" 
     "Wings." 
     "I think your ears are bigger than my whole head," he says, 
his voice filled with more curiosity than awe. "Do you have four 
legs or two?" 
     "Two hind legs.  Two front forearms.  Fourteen digits in 
all." I wiggle my fingers and toes. 
     "Those are awfully small arms," he says.  "And awfully big 
legs.  And just look at the size of your toenails!" 
     "Talons." 
     "And there's that fire in your nose, too.  I don't know of 
any man who can light a room with his nose." 
     "Snout." I haul myself up to get a better look at the boy.  
He doesn't back off, even though I'm as tall as two men and as 
round as ten.  He's a skinny cub, but handsome for his race, 
nothing at all like the other Darwins I've seen. Erasmus was ugly 
as sin, and Robert was a fat pig of a child, an awkward, weary 
specimen with nerves like glass trinkets. The Darwins, 
historically, have been an absolutely hideous-looking clan.  
"If it makes you feel any better to believe I'm a man, then I'm a 
man." 
     The boy frowns.  "You smell different, too. Like... like... " 
     "Wine?" I suggest.
     "How many years have you been down here?" 
     "That's a good question." I pause. "Let me think.  I was 
sleeping under a tree, and when I woke up this wine cellar was all 
around me.  I don't remember much before that." 
     "You mean we built Mount Darwin right on top of you?" 
     This seems to upset the lad, although for the life of me I 
can't understand why.  I lie down and get comfortable again, 
resting my chin on the floor. 
     The boy strides right up to me, sticks his candle in my 
snout, and lights the wick.  He reaches out and touches my land 
scales.  "They don't feel anything at all like fur or fish scales.  
They feel like... I don't know... " 
     "Peat moss." 
     "You can put your fire out now if you like.  It must be 
painful for you to have it burning inside your nose like that." He 
stares at me. "Do you get headaches?  Father gets them badly 
sometimes.  Where do you come from?  Do you have any family?" 
     "My fire is not painful; I don't get headaches; and I don't 
come from anywhere, nor do I have any family." 
     "Everybody comes from somewhere." 
     "Is that so?" I retort. "Says who?" 
     The lad sits down cross-legged on the hard-packed dirt and 
holds the candle out in front of him, inspecting me.  I shut down 
my nostril, and a small cloud of smoke wafts in the air between 
us.  A pensive look crosses the cub's face, too serious a look for 
a young human boy -- at least from what I can remember of them.  
I've come across a few in my lifetime.  They always look a little 
stupid and very frightened in my presence, never pensive.  In any 
event, I am intrigued, as much by the boy as by the fact that I 
seem to be carrying on a conversation with him. 
     "What are you doing down here in my wine cellar?" I ask him. 
     "Father is punishing me for making too much noise in the 
house.  He's always punishing me for something.  I think he 
doesn't like me much.  He says I'll never amount to anything. He 
says I lack _ex-pe-di-en-cy_, whatever that means.  Just now he 
told me I've pushed him to the limits of his endurance so he's 
locking me in the dungeon until after dinner." 
     "The dungeon?" I repeat. "Is that what he calls it?" The boy 
nods. "What's your name, lad?" 
     "Charles.  Charles Darwin." 
     "Your father wouldn't happen to be Robert Darwin, would he?" 
     "Do you know Father?" he asks.
     "I've met a few members of your lineage.  Apparently it is a 
Darwin tradition to punish their cubs by banishing them to the 
wine cellar -- excuse me, the _dungeon_ -- where the sight of me 
is supposed to terrify them." 
     "I don't find you scary at all." 
     "Come to think of it, I don't find you scary either," I say. 
     The boy nods, apparently satisfied with the arrangement. 
     "Expediency," I say.  "A concentrated effort in pursuing a 
particular goal or self-interest with efficiency and haste." 
     "I think you might be a very big bird.  Do you come from a 
family of birds?  Do you know how to fly?  Are you lonely down 
here all by yourself?" 
     "I prefer solitude." 
     "Or maybe you are a fish, because of your scales." 
     "_Land_ scales.  I'd rather be a bird, anyway.  I don't know 
how to swim, but I _do_ know how to fly." I try to flex my wings, 
but it has been such a long time since I've used them that they 
flap just once, awkwardly and stiffly, so I give it up. 
     "I promise you, when I get out of here, I'll figure out where 
you come from," he says with exaggerated pride, tucking his thumbs 
under his suspenders. 
     "What if I don't want to know where I come from?" 
     "Everybody wants to know where he's from." 
     "I wouldn't bet my last shilling on that."
     The boy puffs out his candle, and curls up on the wine cellar 
floor.  "Do you mind if I take a nap, Birdie?" 
     _Birdie?_
     In a matter of minutes he is sleeping peacefully.  I smile.  
I do not ever remember smiling with any of the other Darwin stock.  
This one is different. 
     Charles Darwin. 
                              #
     "This is an incredible opportunity, Birdie!  I must go, I 
simply must!" 
     Charles is talking about the expedition, of course, as 
outlined in his letter from the botanist, John Stevens Henslow.  
Charles, only twenty-two years of age, has been recommended by 
Henslow to a Captain FitzRoy, R.N., commander of Her Majesty's 
Ship the _Beagle_, preparing for a journey to survey the coasts of 
Patagonia, Tierra del Fuego, Brazil, Chile, Peru, and several 
islands in the Pacific, to record chronometrical measurements 
around the globe.  The short of it is, FitzRoy needs a nature-
lover who can keep meticulous records. 
     "A trip around the world!  And listen to this.  Henslow 
recommended me as 'The best qualified person he knows likely to 
undertake such a situation.' " 
     "Not exactly a rave review," I say dryly. "You could well 
substitute 'madman' for 'person'."
     He ignores my sarcasm. "There's more, Birdie.  Henslow says 
Captain FitzRoy is 'A public-spirited and zealous officer of 
delightful manners, and greatly beloved by all his other 
officers!' " 
     "And were you the first chosen to undertake this _situation_, 
Charles?" 
     "Well, no," he admits.
     "Others turned it down?" 
     "Well, yes.  Henslow himself turned it down, but he didn't 
want to leave his wife, and Leonard Jenyns is a top-notch 
naturalist, but he is a clergyman first and foremost and he 
doesn't want to leave his parish in the lurch." 
     "Might I remind you that you are a clergyman, also." 
     "I am not," he replies heatedly. "Well, not yet, anyway.  And 
you're not going to talk me out of this expedition, Birdie.  I've 
already discussed it with Father, and I've sent my letter of 
acceptance to the captain.  This is the perfect opportunity for me 
to document new species." He paused and stares at me. "Don't you 
see what this means, Birdie?  At last I might be able to pinpoint 
your origins!" 
     "Ah-ha!  You're doing this for me, aren't you Charles?" 
     Silence.  Of course I am correct.  Ever since the first 
moment he saw me he has been driven to discover who and what and 
why I am. 
     He became interested in natural history, in minerals and sea 
shells and fossils, in pigeons, in marine life, always searching 
for clues to my origins.  The Greek and Latin that Dr. Butler 
tried to teach him at Shrewsbury Grammar School made no impression 
upon him whatsoever. 
     When Charles turned sixteen, his father gave up on the boy 
ever gaining a classical education, and decided to send him to 
Edinburgh to study medicine.  Alas, the sight of blood disgusted 
him, and he hated inflicting pain as much as most men hate bearing 
it, so he began to cultivate new and more interesting hobbies -- 
zoology, geology, botany -- and without the support or 
encouragement of his family or his masters at school, Charles 
continued to pursue my past, even though I constantly tried to 
dissuade him. 
     "Give it up, Charles.  Get on with your life," I would 
lecture him.  "I was here a long time before you were born, and 
I'll be here a long time after you are gone.  I don't need to know 
where I came from.  I will survive." 
     "I'll find you somewhere, Birdie.  You'll see.  I'll find 
you." 
     After Charles' failure at Edinburgh, old Robert Darwin began 
to think that the clergy might be the only respectable career left 
to his son -- a fate, as far as I was concerned, that did not 
frighten Charles nearly enough.  So, in 1828, off to Christ's 
College, Cambridge he went, just in time for the Lenten term.  
Mathematics, theology, languages -- how frustrated poor Charles 
became at this sacred institution of higher learning!  The 
administration had absolutely no use for his true love, the 
natural sciences, and excluded them from the curriculum. 
     He wrote me from Cambridge about how his father, on one of 
his visits to the college, had berated him:  "Father said I care 
for nothing but rat-catching, and that I will forever be a 
disgrace to myself and my family." 
     But Charles kept on. 
     It was at Christ's College that Charles met Henslow, and 
the opportunity for this boat ride came about. 
     As I look at the lad now, young and strong and healthy, full 
of red-faced determination, I see that his curiosity is stronger 
than any of the opposing forces in his life, and in a way I am 
almost jealous of his sense of urgency and wonder and purpose.  
What would it be like to feel such feelings? 
     "As I mentioned," Charles says, sitting cross-legged on the 
wine cellar floor, reminding me of the little Darwin who could so 
easily make me smile,  "I have already sent my letter of 
acceptance to Captain FitzRoy, on one condition." 
     "One condition?" 
     "Yes.  That I might be allowed to bring my faithful dog along 
with me, for comfort and companionship.  It is a two-year 
expedition, after all." 
     "You don't own a dog." 
     "You noticed," he grins. 
     So in the end, I agree to the expedition for Charles as much 
as Charles agrees to it for me. 
                              #
     It is a bright, December morning, in the year 1831. Charles 
and I stand on a hill in Devenport, overlooking the dockyard where 
the beleaguered _Beagle_ sits half-sunk, looking more like a 
shipwreck than a ship. I appear in the guise of a dog: there is 
no limit to what dragons can do when they set their minds to it.   
     "She may appear to be in dire straights," says Charles, "but 
Henslow has assured me she's seaworthy." 
     "Ah, yes," I say. "Your dear friend Henslow, who so 
graciously turned down this commission so he could offer it to 
you." 
     "The _Beagle_ has been five years at sea, so she's a bit 
battered, but she's been rebuilt from the inside out." 
     "How reassuring," I mutter.
     "She used to be a three-masted, twenty-five-ton brig, 
carrying up to ten guns," he says as we walk through the shipyard 
and up to the Beagle, where some of the crew are busy loading 
supplies by winch and crane.  Their sharp voices cut through the 
crisp morning air. 
     As we walk up the gangway he whispers to me, "Remember, don't 
talk to me in front of FitzRoy or the crew.  You're supposed to be 
a dog." 
     "Aarf!" I say, and he shoots me a behave-yourself glare. 
     I entertain hopes that this FitzRoy might just be bright 
enough to deny me passage -- the sea is no place for dead weight, 
after all -- but when we board the regal _Beagle_, FitzRoy, 
dressed in a spectacularly clean English Naval uniform, rushes up 
to us, salutes us both, and shakes Charles' hand. 
     "FitzRoy, Captain FitzRoy!" he exclaims, scooping a monocle 
out of his breast pocket and slapping it over his left eye.  "And 
you must be the young Darwin chap I've been expecting.  And this 
must be your dog.  What's his name?" 
     "Birdie," says Charles. 
     "Birdie, yes, of course, Birdie!" FitzRoy reaches down and 
scratches my snout.  I snarl. 
     "What strange green coloration you have, and what a unique 
short-hair fur, the likes of which I have never before felt on any 
animal!" He adjusts his monocle, which makes his eye appear 
larger, while simultaneously making him squint.  He smiles at me, 
then turns to Charles. "You'll have to keep him in the aft holds, 
below sea level." 
     "I understand," says Charles, without asking my opinion.
     "One last thing before you board, Darwin.  I run a clean 
ship.  That means no rum or whiskey or spirits of any kind, 
including wine.  Do I make myself clear?" 
     Charles is taken aback for a moment, then he nods.  "Ah, yes, 
that smell.  That's just Birdie.  I gave him a wine bath before we 
arrived in Devenport.  When I was at Edinburgh studying medicine, 
our professors discussed this new theory that alcohol might 
actually be used to sterilize--" 
     "Ah, say no more!" FitzRoy raises his hand.  "We don't want 
the beast in heat.  Progressive thinking, Darwin.  We're going to 
get along just fine, you and I." 
     So I'm led by two members of FitzRoy's crew into the bowels 
of the ship, where I'm shoved into this dark room, and the hatch 
is slammed shut and pad-locked over my head, at which point I 
gratefully assume my true shape.  I can hear the tired old wood of 
the hull creaking against the waves.  The hold smells of seaweed 
and mold. 
     I can only hope that this trip makes Charles happy, that he 
finds the treasure for which he has so earnestly been searching 
all these years.  My origins.  He's a good lad, after all, but he 
suffers from the same incurable ailment as all the others of his 
race: Restlessness. 
     I curl up in the corner, and sleep. 
                              #
     "It's about time you woke up," says Charles. 
     I yawn, stretch my arms and legs and wings.  It's so hot and 
stuffy in the aft hold I can barely breathe, but the heat has made 
my wings more flexible, and for the first time in centuries I am 
aware of their strength. 
     "Is it morning already?" I ask.
     "It's _July_ already," he replies with a touch of disapproval 
in his voice.  "We're in Maldanado, in case you're in the least 
bit interested." He stares at me and frowns. "I never knew you to 
be such a sound sleeper." 
     "I was hoping I would sleep through the entire expedition.  
If it weren't for this infernal tropical weather, I might have 
been able to do it." 
     "Honestly, Birdie, I don't even know why I bothered bringing 
you along." 
     "Nor do I.  All I've done is trade one dungeon for another." 
     I notice Charles is almost as pale as the first time we met, 
and he's sitting on the floor in a rather hunched position, as if 
ill.  He rubs at the dark circles under his eyes. 
     "What's wrong, Charles?" 
     "Would you like something to eat?" he says without lifting 
his head.  "The seamen have been netting shark for two weeks." 
     "No, thank you." 
     "Don't you ever get hungry?  I don't believe I've ever seen 
you eat.  To tell the truth, that bothers me.  Are you a 
carnivore?  Are you going to suddenly burst into a feeding frenzy 
and consume the crew?" 
     I search my memory. "I seem to remember eating once, a long 
time ago.  Something makes me say a spinach salad, somewhere in 
France.  Now why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?" 
     "Would you really like to know?" he says, raising his voice, 
glaring at me through glossy, red-streaked eyes.  He pushes 
himself up off the floor.  "I've been sea-sick since the first day 
we set sail.  FitzRoy is an ass -- that's right, an ass!  He's a 
_Creationist_ for God's sake, Birdie!  He thinks God snapped His 
fingers and created all living things in their past, present, and 
future forms, just like that!" 
     Charles tries to snap his fingers but he's shaking so badly 
he can't quite pull it off.  In this day and age, ardent 
Creationists aren't scarce enough, as far as Charles is concerned, 
and those who believe in Progressionism are just as bad.  
Progressionists would explain fossil discoveries and 
archaeological finds as proof of nothing more than successive 
intermittent catastrophes, with God destroying and replenishing 
the globe with new species after each cataclysm, Noah's flood 
being the last of them.  ("The existence of all species can be 
explained using the sound principles of science," Charles once 
told me.  This from a graduate of Christ's College, Cambridge.  
Amen.)
     "And that crew!" Charles raves on.  "You'd think a bunch of 
seamen who have sailed to almost every known port in the world 
would have something a little more stimulating to discuss than 
food, ale, and naked women!" 
     Charles begins to sob.  I reach out and take him under my 
wing.  "There, there, Charles, everything will be fine. The longer 
they're at sea, the less interested they'll be in talking about 
food and ale."
     "Try to stay awake, will you, Birdie?" he snuffles. "Just so 
I have someone intelligent to talk to." 
     I get him to relax a bit, and then I get him talking, which 
is something he seems to need desperately. 
     He tells me about the lofty mountains of Porta Praya, and 
their groves of cocoa-nut trees and tracts of lava plains and 
herds of goats.  He tells me of the octopus that sprayed him with 
a jet-stream of water on the rocky shore of St. Jago.  He tells me 
of the stark-white rocks of St. Paul, the vast Brazilian forests, 
the reddish-brown sea of the Abrolhos Islets.  He tells me of the 
vampire bats in Engenhodo and how they bite the horses there, and 
how the large black-and-ruby spiders of St. Fe Bajada feast upon 
prey ten times their own size. 
     All of this between bouts of tears, while I rock him gently 
in the crook of my wing. 
     And then, exhausted, in the middle of a sentence about a 
sparkling apricot-and-flamingo-colored sunset in Rio de Janeiro, 
he falls fast asleep.  I feel his fragile body shivering beside me 
like that of a tiny butterfly.  The heat is stifling.  The _H.M.S. 
Beagle_ rolls helplessly in the waves, like a wine barrel, and I 
think: _Oh, how I miss the sweet smell of wine!_  I smell nothing 
here but salty sea water and fish, fish, fish, like a Venetian 
summer (although how I remember a Venetian summer I do not know).  
Charles is feverish.  Why did I ever allow him to go through with 
this? 
                              #
     In the days that follow, Charles' spirits brighten under my 
care and attention.  He is excited about leaving the ship and 
traveling by land from Bahia Blanca to Buenos Aires.  He is 
reluctant to leave me behind, but I assure him that I will be 
fine. 
     When he finally meets up with the _Beagle_ again, he seems 
more energetic.  He has collected hoards of specimens, some to 
dissect, some to stuff, and others merely to observe.  He seems 
his old self again -- enthusiastic, inquisitive, determined, even 
expedient.  He has returned with a gift for me, a bright, jade-
crimson-turquoise-colored blanket, woven by a half-naked woman of 
some South American Indian tribe. It's big enough to fit around me 
like a shawl.  Much to my surprise, I adore it. 
     I notice he has returned with something else as well. His 
skin is covered with red bumps, some of them swollen, some of them 
scabbed, and he cannot stop himself from scratching.  "We were 
attacked by large, black bugs as we crossed the Pampas." 
     "What kind of bugs?" 
     "Benchuca, I believe." 
     "What can we do for the itch?" I ask.
     "Nothing.  Nothing can be done.  The bumps will disappear 
soon.  You can stop mothering me now." And then he smiles and 
winks. 
     "Welcome back," I say. 
     So the days turn into weeks, months, and so on and so 
forth...the Falkland Islands, the Straight of Magellan, Chile, 
Peru, and the Galapagos Archipelago fall behind us. Once in 
a while, late at night, Charles will sneak me on deck where I will 
watch the waves roll beneath the ship, look up at the bright moon 
and the vast canvas of stars, and feel the salty spray of the sea 
upon my face.  
     Charles' gloominess returns only when he finds it necessary, 
ever so often, to inform me that he has still found no clues to 
my origins.  On such occasions he hangs his head low and speaks 
into his chin and cannot look me in the eye.
     This infuriates me.  Why can he not let go of this childhood 
obsession with the origin of my species?  But I keep my anger to 
myself.  Charles needs my support.  He has dealt with more 
defeatism and opposition in a quarter-century of his life than 
I've seen in eight or nine centuries of mine. 
     I am a dragon, I remind myself, and Charles is only a man. 
                              #
     When we set sail for Van Diemen's Land, Australia, the crew 
begins to talk about something more than food and ale, more even 
than naked women, and I don't like what I'm hearing.  Apparently 
the aborigines there were run off by the white settlers only a few 
months ago, and since that time raids and burnings and robberies 
and murders have become commonplace, the aborigines striking back 
with small ambushes whenever and wherever possible. 
     When we drop anchor, I tell Charles, "I don't want you going 
ashore.  The natives are restless." 
     "Nonsense, Birdie.  The town is secure and most of the 
natives have been deported to another island.  We'll be docked for 
ten days and I'll need to make some excursions inland to examine 
the unique geological structures of the area." 
     "You've got more than enough--" 
     "Birdie, this expedition is nearly at its end and I've still 
found no clues to your origins!  There are some highly 
fossiliferous strata in Van Diemen's Land, and I must take every 
opportunity to--" 
     "My origins!  _My origins!"_ I feel the heat rise into my 
snout.  I rear back on my haunches, and my nostrils begin to 
flare.  "Why can't you just give it up!" I can't remember the last 
time I've been angry enough to smolder like this. 
     Charles takes a step back.  For the first time in all the 
years we have known each other, he is afraid of me.  Why do I 
worry so about Charles?  I am a dragon.  What do I care for the 
ephemeral pursuits of Man?  And yet I _do_ care about Charles. 
     The heat of the moment passes.  I plop down on the floor, let 
my nostrils fizzle out, and pull my Indian blanket up around my 
neck and shoulders.  "I'm sorry," I say.
     Charles exhales slowly, trying to pretend he was not 
frightened, though we both know he was.  "It's been a long voyage 
for us all," he says.  "I think everyone is tired, including you.  
Just remember to keep your voice down.  We don't want FitzRoy 
catching on to us this late in the game." 
     "FitzRoy couldn't catch a mountain if Mohammed dropped it on 
him." 
     "Have you ever met Mohammed?" he asks.
     "Possibly," I answer.
     Charles climbs out of the aft hold, leaving me to stew for 
ten days. 
                              #
     Only it's not ten days when the trouble begins.  I hear the 
explosions of black-powder rifles.  My ears perk up.  Men are
shouting.  I smell smoke. 
     "Charles?" 
     I climb the steps of the aft hold.  The hatch is padlocked 
shut.  I feel the anger rise within me.  My belly churns like a 
furnace and I feel my throat burn with red heat.  It has been so 
long since I've erupted, it almost frightens me. My body trembles.  
My throat tastes like coal.  My saliva drips like hot tar.  I am 
appalled at the digestive system I must house in order to manage 
such an internal inferno. 
     I rear back and belch, blowing a fire hole through the hatch. 
     There is nothing left to do but burst onto the upper deck. 
     It is a pitch-black night.  The _Beagle_ has been abandoned.  
All hands are on shore.  It seems that the aborigines have 
attacked the town. 
     _Charles!_
     I leap overboard, splash into the sea.  The water drowns my 
fire, and I sink like a stone.  I suddenly remember that I can't 
swim. But I know how to fly, so I start flapping my wings.  
Higher, higher, higher I rise -- and finally I break the surface. 
     Into the great mysterious night I fly!  It has been so long. 
Centuries!  Up over the _Beagle_, over the sea that ripples the 
gold-orange of the burning town below me, up over the town itself, 
I fly. 
     The aborigines are withdrawing.  They've killed. They've 
taken prisoners.  The townsfolk fire their balls aimlessly into 
the dark.  But I am a dragon and my eyes can see everything.  I 
can see the dancing spears of the natives, their hurried retreat, 
their wounded victims and struggling prisoners..._and Charles!_ 
Charles has been taken at spear point, his hands bound behind him, 
driven like an animal by a dozen aborigines into the black forest.  
If they reach the thick of the woodlands, I'll never find him, 
I'll never see him again. 
     The fire screams within me! 
     I dive! 
     _"Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarles--!"_
     My fire rakes through the aborigines, setting the field of 
their retreat aflame.  They scream.  Charles screams.  I make my 
pass and my wings caress the air and I circle back, a trail of 
fiery phlegm cutting through the black night, and I dive again.  
One native, two natives catch fire and roll in the grass. The 
others run for their lives.  Charles has fallen.  Smoke billows.  
I circle and dive and circle, giving the natives a damn good look 
at me.  I shall live in their nightmares for the next ten 
generations!  But I must save Charles before the fire or the smoke 
take him.  So I dive once more, and like a hawk snaring its prey I 
pluck Charles out of the grass with my talons and take to the air 
again. 
     He looks up at me with stark terror in his eyes, and his lips 
form the question: _Birdie?_
     I glide low to the ground, as silent as the wind.  I drop 
Charles in a safe field near town, and head back to the ship, 
without so much as a word to the poor boy.  There is nothing to 
say.  Charles has finally seen me for what I truly am, a dragon.  
It will take him time to adjust. 
     When I land on deck, I scorch a few more areas of the 
bulwarks to mask my escape and make it look like the aborigines 
tried but failed to burn the vessel, and then I climb down through 
the ruined hatch, back into the aft hold, and curl up on the floor 
with my blanket. 
     In the morning, after order has been restored, rumors pass 
among the crew of a flying creature all ablaze, a beast the size 
of a country-cottage, storming through the nighttime sky and 
wrecking havoc among the aborigines.  But it was dark, and there 
was so much confusion and so many fires that most of the seamen do 
not believe the tales, or if they do, they aren't willing to admit 
the truth. 
     Charles is uninjured, but it is three days before he comes to 
the aft hold to tell me so. 
     "I never should have gone ashore, Birdie." 
     "Wisdom is hard-learned," I tell him. 
     But at least Charles has come to me.  I believe this is a 
gesture of acceptance.  Man, I have come to learn, is a creature 
of metaphor. 
                              #
     The two-year expedition runs five years in all. 
     When we return, I retire to the Darwin dungeon.  It is my 
home, after all.  I curl up with my Indian blanket, and sleep. 
     Charles visits me often in that first year, and together we 
compile his _Journal of Research Into the Geology and Natural
History of the Various Countries Visited by H.M.S. Beagle under
the Command of Captain FitzRoy, R.N._  It's Charles' bright idea 
to include FitzRoy's name in the title, a point on which he 
refuses to compromise in spite of my objections. Otherwise, I edit 
the manuscript for him, suggesting some stylistic enhancements, 
all of which he agrees to, including striking all references to 
his faithful Birdie, a point on which I refuse to compromise 
because I insist upon protecting his scientific integrity. 
     After the publication of the _Journal_, he is lionized by 
London's intellectual society, his career as a scientist 
catapults, and I know I'll never have to worry about Charles 
settling in as a country clergyman in some obscure backwoods 
parish. 
     Still he visits me often, to tell me of an exciting speaking 
engagement, or of a treasured new colleague, or of an admiring 
letter from some American naturalist, and one day when he comes, 
he tells me of his cousin, Emma Wedgwood, to whom he has proposed 
marriage. 
     Even after he is married and moves to Upper Gower Street in 
London, he thinks to visit me occasionally.  He comes to tell me 
about his children, and how he will be among the first generation 
of Darwins not to punish his cubs by banishing them to the dungeon 
on Mount Darwin. 
     One day when he comes, he is so ill he can barely lift the 
wine cellar doors and make his way down the steps.  He is weak and 
nauseous and suffering from heart palpitations.  He does not stay 
long. 
     It is many months before I see him again, and when I finally 
do, he tells me his symptoms have worsened, and I can see he has 
lost weight and appears deathly pale. 
     "I am not likely to improve, Birdie.  I am suffering from the 
attack of the Benchuca, the great black bug of South America.  Do 
you remember the day I returned to the ship riddled with bites, 
after my hike through the Pampas?" 
     I remember, but I say nothing. 
     "The disease carried by the Benchuca is fatal," he says. "It 
can also be long and painful.  I had hoped that after having gone 
so long with no symptoms, I might not have been infected, but it 
was not to be."
     Charles carries with him a stack of notebooks and papers he 
can barely hold in his arms.  He spreads them out on the floor and 
stares at me.  "I have been working on a theory," he says.  "Will 
you help me?" 
                              #
     Among the volcanic outcrops known as the Galapagos Islands, 
off the coast of South America, each island claims its own 
distinct population of birds and animals. Although there were 
obviously common ancestors, the fauna of each island developed 
separately, despite only a modest oceanic separation.
     When Charles traveled across the islands, he noticed that the 
finches have become so distinct from one island to the next that 
they can no longer interbreed. 
     Charles has read Lamarck's hypothesis, dating back to the 
eighteenth century, that all living matter has an inherent drive 
toward increased complexity.  This intrigues him, as does Buffon's 
theory, which suggests that environmental conditions as well as 
the struggle for survival might lead to the extinction of some 
species, and the succession of others. 
     "We also must consider Lyell's belief in uniform geological 
change," says Charles.  "As geological alterations occur, this 
must bring about changes in the natural habitat of all living 
things." 
     We assemble the evidence, piece by piece, until it all 
finally makes sense. 
     Global changes.  Genetic mutations.  The struggle of all 
species for survival.  Natural selection. 
     _Evolution._
     It is not _my_ origin that Charles has discovered during the 
voyage of the _Beagle_, it is his own. 
     And yet just when the theory of Man's evolution becomes so 
absurdly obvious that neither of us can ignore it, ignore it is 
exactly what we do.  We push aside our papers and relax to the 
smell of wine and cedar and moist earth, and spend most of our 
time together talking about death. 
     "I am looking forward to my death, Birdie," Charles says.  
"Death is the last great challenge of Man." 
     "You have always been too curious for your own good," I tell 
him. 
     Charles slides a Chilean cigar out of his pocket.  I flare my 
nostril for him.  He sticks the cigar in my snout and puffs hard 
on the butt, then succumbs to a coughing fit. 
     "Charles, I want you to know that I am very sorry." 
     "Sorry about what?" 
     "In many ways I am responsible for your malady.  If not for 
me, you never would have gone on the expedition, and you never 
would have been attacked by the Benchuca." 
     "No, no, don't you see, Birdie?  You have given me my life, 
not my death.  If I had not met you, I never would have been 
driven to explore, I never would have lived through such exciting 
adventures.  Death is merely a consequence.  That is the way of 
Man, Birdie.  We pay for our lives with our deaths." 
     I nod, but I do not understand.  How can I?  
     "Because of you," I say, "I was able to share in that 
adventure." I am surprised to discover that this matters to me. 
     "You know, I could have died at the hands of those 
aborigines.  I have never properly thanked you for saving my life, 
Birdie." 
     "Think nothing of it." 
     "I'm sure it is a point of less concern to someone who has 
lived centuries, probably eons." Charles coughs. He does not 
possess the lung strength to keep the cigar lit, so he stubs it 
out in the dirt.  "Man needs to believe in his life after death.  
Man must have his gods." 
     Ah, yes.  Charles is afraid of the changes his insights might 
bring about among his species.  He is afraid of how his race might 
suffer without the comfort of the Book of Genesis. He does not see 
what I see.  He does not have the perspective of centuries. 
     "Charles," I say.  "What does your theory tell you about 
Man?"
     He looks at me blankly.
     "_Adaptation_, Charles," I explain gently. "If Man needs new 
gods and new beliefs, I promise you that he will devise them. It 
is not only the body that evolves, but also the spirit." 
     "But does Man want new gods?" he asks dubiously.
     "I cannot say," I answer. "If he does not, rest assured that 
he will create new reasons to believe in the old ones." 
     "I am very tired, Birdie," he says.  And this is the last 
thing he will ever say to me. 
                              #
     Charles is supposed to visit me today, but when or if he 
arrives, I will not be here.  I have decided that I cannot watch 
him die. 
     So I am alone in the wine cellar when I scribble Charles 
Darwin's name across the cover page, and affix a title to our 
manuscript: _Upon the Origin of Species By Means of Natural
Selection, or Preservation of Favoured Races and the Struggle for
Life._
     I don my Indian blanket and tuck the manuscript under my wing 
and climb the stairs of the wine cellar.  I push open the doors 
and step out into the bright morning sun. 
     I think I shall take the train to London -- or perhaps I 
shall fly -- to Albemarle Street, and in my human guise, much as I 
hate corsets and bustles, I will personally deliver the manuscript 
to the publishing company of John Murray.  I was impressed by the 
job they did with the 1845 edition of the _Journal_, quite a 
money-maker from what I understand, and I am certain they will be 
eager to print Darwin's newest work.  In any event, I must do what 
Charles cannot.  I must offer Man the truth.  It is essential, I 
think, for the continued development of his species. 
     Then I shall find another place on this Earth to live. Mount 
Darwin will never be the same without Charles.  The future 
Darwins, like those before him, seem a dull lot. I am a dragon: I 
can fly, I can set a field aflame with my breath, I can see things 
clearly in a way that men, even so gifted a man as Charles, 
cannot, and I have needs of my own. 
                             #   
     The boy has overcome his initial surprise at seeing me, and 
now sits down on the floor, cross-legged, a few feet away. 
     "Why have your parents locked you down here?" I ask.
     He stares at me uncomprehendingly, and I switch to German.
     "No one locked me here," he answers. "I often come here to 
think." 
     "And what do you think about?" I ask.
     He shrugs. "It is difficult to express," he says. "They are 
very big thoughts," he adds seriously.
     A warm glow suffuses me. "Sometimes I think very big thoughts 
myself." I pause. "I think we are going to become friends." 
     "I would like that." 
     "What is your name, boy?" I ask. 
     "Albert," he says.
     "Albert," I repeat. "That is a very nice name. And I am 
Birdie." 
     I wrap my Indian blanket around me. I am content.                              - The End -
 

  BIRDIE                  by Mike Resnick and Nicholas A. DiChario I sleep. 
     Eventually the heavy oak doors of the wine cellar screech 
open, its iron hinges sprinkling detritus upon my earthen floor. 
     The slow _creak-creak-creak_ of wary footsteps descend the 
rotted wooden staircase that has not borne the weight of Man 
since -- hmmm, let me think about this -- Robert Darwin?  God only 
knows how many years ago that was, and _BOOM!_  The wine cellar 
doors collapse again, leaving in their wake a young human boy, 
standing at the bottom of the cellar steps, trembling in the soft 
glow of a single flickering candle. 
     "Is there a dragon down here?" says the lad. 
     "Anything's possible," I answer.
     The child gasps, and I see his white face turn a shade or two 
paler, and when he finally lets out his breath, out goes the 
candle.  I seem to recall Robert, when he was a lad, making the 
same blunder -- but when Robert blew out his candle he scrambled 
up the steps and pounded on the wine cellar doors, begging to be 
freed, screaming like a banshee that the dragon was about to 
devour him alive.  
     But this one just stands up straight, straining his weak 
human eyes, eyes not that were not made for seeing clearly through 
the darkness. 
     "What year is it, lad?" 
     "The year is 1817," he says. "I thought Father was fibbing.  
I mean about you.  Of course, I can't see you -- so you could be 
fibbing, too.  This could all be part of my punishment.  Are you a 
man pretending to be a dragon?" 
     "Why in the world would I want to do that?" 
     "Maybe Father is paying you." 
     "I am not so easily bribed." I flare a nostril, and reveal 
just enough of my flame to illuminate the corner of the wine 
cellar where I lay resting. 
     The youngster edges closer. 
     "Well, my boy," I said smugly, "do I pass the test?  Man or 
beast?" 
     "You do look different.  Is that green fur?" 
     "Land scales, actually." 
     "And that big head with the long nose--" 
     "Snout." 
     "And those long floppy--" 
     "Wings." 
     "I think your ears are bigger than my whole head," he says, 
his voice filled with more curiosity than awe. "Do you have four 
legs or two?" 
     "Two hind legs.  Two front forearms.  Fourteen digits in 
all." I wiggle my fingers and toes. 
     "Those are awfully small arms," he says.  "And awfully big 
legs.  And just look at the size of your toenails!" 
     "Talons." 
     "And there's that fire in your nose, too.  I don't know of 
any man who can light a room with his nose." 
     "Snout." I haul myself up to get a better look at the boy.  
He doesn't back off, even though I'm as tall as two men and as 
round as ten.  He's a skinny cub, but handsome for his race, 
nothing at all like the other Darwins I've seen. Erasmus was ugly 
as sin, and Robert was a fat pig of a child, an awkward, weary 
specimen with nerves like glass trinkets. The Darwins, 
historically, have been an absolutely hideous-looking clan.  
"If it makes you feel any better to believe I'm a man, then I'm a 
man." 
     The boy frowns.  "You smell different, too. Like... like... " 
     "Wine?" I suggest.
     "How many years have you been down here?" 
     "That's a good question." I pause. "Let me think.  I was 
sleeping under a tree, and when I woke up this wine cellar was all 
around me.  I don't remember much before that." 
     "You mean we built Mount Darwin right on top of you?" 
     This seems to upset the lad, although for the life of me I 
can't understand why.  I lie down and get comfortable again, 
resting my chin on the floor. 
     The boy strides right up to me, sticks his candle in my 
snout, and lights the wick.  He reaches out and touches my land 
scales.  "They don't feel anything at all like fur or fish scales.  
They feel like... I don't know... " 
     "Peat moss." 
     "You can put your fire out now if you like.  It must be 
painful for you to have it burning inside your nose like that." He 
stares at me. "Do you get headaches?  Father gets them badly 
sometimes.  Where do you come from?  Do you have any family?" 
     "My fire is not painful; I don't get headaches; and I don't 
come from anywhere, nor do I have any family." 
     "Everybody comes from somewhere." 
     "Is that so?" I retort. "Says who?" 
     The lad sits down cross-legged on the hard-packed dirt and 
holds the candle out in front of him, inspecting me.  I shut down 
my nostril, and a small cloud of smoke wafts in the air between 
us.  A pensive look crosses the cub's face, too serious a look for 
a young human boy -- at least from what I can remember of them.  
I've come across a few in my lifetime.  They always look a little 
stupid and very frightened in my presence, never pensive.  In any 
event, I am intrigued, as much by the boy as by the fact that I 
seem to be carrying on a conversation with him. 
     "What are you doing down here in my wine cellar?" I ask him. 
     "Father is punishing me for making too much noise in the 
house.  He's always punishing me for something.  I think he 
doesn't like me much.  He says I'll never amount to anything. He 
says I lack _ex-pe-di-en-cy_, whatever that means.  Just now he 
told me I've pushed him to the limits of his endurance so he's 
locking me in the dungeon until after dinner." 
     "The dungeon?" I repeat. "Is that what he calls it?" The boy 
nods. "What's your name, lad?" 
     "Charles.  Charles Darwin." 
     "Your father wouldn't happen to be Robert Darwin, would he?" 
     "Do you know Father?" he asks.
     "I've met a few members of your lineage.  Apparently it is a 
Darwin tradition to punish their cubs by banishing them to the 
wine cellar -- excuse me, the _dungeon_ -- where the sight of me 
is supposed to terrify them." 
     "I don't find you scary at all." 
     "Come to think of it, I don't find you scary either," I say. 
     The boy nods, apparently satisfied with the arrangement. 
     "Expediency," I say.  "A concentrated effort in pursuing a 
particular goal or self-interest with efficiency and haste." 
     "I think you might be a very big bird.  Do you come from a 
family of birds?  Do you know how to fly?  Are you lonely down 
here all by yourself?" 
     "I prefer solitude." 
     "Or maybe you are a fish, because of your scales." 
     "_Land_ scales.  I'd rather be a bird, anyway.  I don't know 
how to swim, but I _do_ know how to fly." I try to flex my wings, 
but it has been such a long time since I've used them that they 
flap just once, awkwardly and stiffly, so I give it up. 
     "I promise you, when I get out of here, I'll figure out where 
you come from," he says with exaggerated pride, tucking his thumbs 
under his suspenders. 
     "What if I don't want to know where I come from?" 
     "Everybody wants to know where he's from." 
     "I wouldn't bet my last shilling on that."
     The boy puffs out his candle, and curls up on the wine cellar 
floor.  "Do you mind if I take a nap, Birdie?" 
     _Birdie?_
     In a matter of minutes he is sleeping peacefully.  I smile.  
I do not ever remember smiling with any of the other Darwin stock.  
This one is different. 
     Charles Darwin. 
                              #
     "This is an incredible opportunity, Birdie!  I must go, I 
simply must!" 
     Charles is talking about the expedition, of course, as 
outlined in his letter from the botanist, John Stevens Henslow.  
Charles, only twenty-two years of age, has been recommended by 
Henslow to a Captain FitzRoy, R.N., commander of Her Majesty's 
Ship the _Beagle_, preparing for a journey to survey the coasts of 
Patagonia, Tierra del Fuego, Brazil, Chile, Peru, and several 
islands in the Pacific, to record chronometrical measurements 
around the globe.  The short of it is, FitzRoy needs a nature-
lover who can keep meticulous records. 
     "A trip around the world!  And listen to this.  Henslow 
recommended me as 'The best qualified person he knows likely to 
undertake such a situation.' " 
     "Not exactly a rave review," I say dryly. "You could well 
substitute 'madman' for 'person'."
     He ignores my sarcasm. "There's more, Birdie.  Henslow says 
Captain FitzRoy is 'A public-spirited and zealous officer of 
delightful manners, and greatly beloved by all his other 
officers!' " 
     "And were you the first chosen to undertake this _situation_, 
Charles?" 
     "Well, no," he admits.
     "Others turned it down?" 
     "Well, yes.  Henslow himself turned it down, but he didn't 
want to leave his wife, and Leonard Jenyns is a top-notch 
naturalist, but he is a clergyman first and foremost and he 
doesn't want to leave his parish in the lurch." 
     "Might I remind you that you are a clergyman, also." 
     "I am not," he replies heatedly. "Well, not yet, anyway.  And 
you're not going to talk me out of this expedition, Birdie.  I've 
already discussed it with Father, and I've sent my letter of 
acceptance to the captain.  This is the perfect opportunity for me 
to document new species." He paused and stares at me. "Don't you 
see what this means, Birdie?  At last I might be able to pinpoint 
your origins!" 
     "Ah-ha!  You're doing this for me, aren't you Charles?" 
     Silence.  Of course I am correct.  Ever since the first 
moment he saw me he has been driven to discover who and what and 
why I am. 
     He became interested in natural history, in minerals and sea 
shells and fossils, in pigeons, in marine life, always searching 
for clues to my origins.  The Greek and Latin that Dr. Butler 
tried to teach him at Shrewsbury Grammar School made no impression 
upon him whatsoever. 
     When Charles turned sixteen, his father gave up on the boy 
ever gaining a classical education, and decided to send him to 
Edinburgh to study medicine.  Alas, the sight of blood disgusted 
him, and he hated inflicting pain as much as most men hate bearing 
it, so he began to cultivate new and more interesting hobbies -- 
zoology, geology, botany -- and without the support or 
encouragement of his family or his masters at school, Charles 
continued to pursue my past, even though I constantly tried to 
dissuade him. 
     "Give it up, Charles.  Get on with your life," I would 
lecture him.  "I was here a long time before you were born, and 
I'll be here a long time after you are gone.  I don't need to know 
where I came from.  I will survive." 
     "I'll find you somewhere, Birdie.  You'll see.  I'll find 
you." 
     After Charles' failure at Edinburgh, old Robert Darwin began 
to think that the clergy might be the only respectable career left 
to his son -- a fate, as far as I was concerned, that did not 
frighten Charles nearly enough.  So, in 1828, off to Christ's 
College, Cambridge he went, just in time for the Lenten term.  
Mathematics, theology, languages -- how frustrated poor Charles 
became at this sacred institution of higher learning!  The 
administration had absolutely no use for his true love, the 
natural sciences, and excluded them from the curriculum. 
     He wrote me from Cambridge about how his father, on one of 
his visits to the college, had berated him:  "Father said I care 
for nothing but rat-catching, and that I will forever be a 
disgrace to myself and my family." 
     But Charles kept on. 
     It was at Christ's College that Charles met Henslow, and 
the opportunity for this boat ride came about. 
     As I look at the lad now, young and strong and healthy, full 
of red-faced determination, I see that his curiosity is stronger 
than any of the opposing forces in his life, and in a way I am 
almost jealous of his sense of urgency and wonder and purpose.  
What would it be like to feel such feelings? 
     "As I mentioned," Charles says, sitting cross-legged on the 
wine cellar floor, reminding me of the little Darwin who could so 
easily make me smile,  "I have already sent my letter of 
acceptance to Captain FitzRoy, on one condition." 
     "One condition?" 
     "Yes.  That I might be allowed to bring my faithful dog along 
with me, for comfort and companionship.  It is a two-year 
expedition, after all." 
     "You don't own a dog." 
     "You noticed," he grins. 
     So in the end, I agree to the expedition for Charles as much 
as Charles agrees to it for me. 
                              #
     It is a bright, December morning, in the year 1831. Charles 
and I stand on a hill in Devenport, overlooking the dockyard where 
the beleaguered _Beagle_ sits half-sunk, looking more like a 
shipwreck than a ship. I appear in the guise of a dog: there is 
no limit to what dragons can do when they set their minds to it.   
     "She may appear to be in dire straights," says Charles, "but 
Henslow has assured me she's seaworthy." 
     "Ah, yes," I say. "Your dear friend Henslow, who so 
graciously turned down this commission so he could offer it to 
you." 
     "The _Beagle_ has been five years at sea, so she's a bit 
battered, but she's been rebuilt from the inside out." 
     "How reassuring," I mutter.
     "She used to be a three-masted, twenty-five-ton brig, 
carrying up to ten guns," he says as we walk through the shipyard 
and up to the Beagle, where some of the crew are busy loading 
supplies by winch and crane.  Their sharp voices cut through the 
crisp morning air. 
     As we walk up the gangway he whispers to me, "Remember, don't 
talk to me in front of FitzRoy or the crew.  You're supposed to be 
a dog." 
     "Aarf!" I say, and he shoots me a behave-yourself glare. 
     I entertain hopes that this FitzRoy might just be bright 
enough to deny me passage -- the sea is no place for dead weight, 
after all -- but when we board the regal _Beagle_, FitzRoy, 
dressed in a spectacularly clean English Naval uniform, rushes up 
to us, salutes us both, and shakes Charles' hand. 
     "FitzRoy, Captain FitzRoy!" he exclaims, scooping a monocle 
out of his breast pocket and slapping it over his left eye.  "And 
you must be the young Darwin chap I've been expecting.  And this 
must be your dog.  What's his name?" 
     "Birdie," says Charles. 
     "Birdie, yes, of course, Birdie!" FitzRoy reaches down and 
scratches my snout.  I snarl. 
     "What strange green coloration you have, and what a unique 
short-hair fur, the likes of which I have never before felt on any 
animal!" He adjusts his monocle, which makes his eye appear 
larger, while simultaneously making him squint.  He smiles at me, 
then turns to Charles. "You'll have to keep him in the aft holds, 
below sea level." 
     "I understand," says Charles, without asking my opinion.
     "One last thing before you board, Darwin.  I run a clean 
ship.  That means no rum or whiskey or spirits of any kind, 
including wine.  Do I make myself clear?" 
     Charles is taken aback for a moment, then he nods.  "Ah, yes, 
that smell.  That's just Birdie.  I gave him a wine bath before we 
arrived in Devenport.  When I was at Edinburgh studying medicine, 
our professors discussed this new theory that alcohol might 
actually be used to sterilize--" 
     "Ah, say no more!" FitzRoy raises his hand.  "We don't want 
the beast in heat.  Progressive thinking, Darwin.  We're going to 
get along just fine, you and I." 
     So I'm led by two members of FitzRoy's crew into the bowels 
of the ship, where I'm shoved into this dark room, and the hatch 
is slammed shut and pad-locked over my head, at which point I 
gratefully assume my true shape.  I can hear the tired old wood of 
the hull creaking against the waves.  The hold smells of seaweed 
and mold. 
     I can only hope that this trip makes Charles happy, that he 
finds the treasure for which he has so earnestly been searching 
all these years.  My origins.  He's a good lad, after all, but he 
suffers from the same incurable ailment as all the others of his 
race: Restlessness. 
     I curl up in the corner, and sleep. 
                              #
     "It's about time you woke up," says Charles. 
     I yawn, stretch my arms and legs and wings.  It's so hot and 
stuffy in the aft hold I can barely breathe, but the heat has made 
my wings more flexible, and for the first time in centuries I am 
aware of their strength. 
     "Is it morning already?" I ask.
     "It's _July_ already," he replies with a touch of disapproval 
in his voice.  "We're in Maldanado, in case you're in the least 
bit interested." He stares at me and frowns. "I never knew you to 
be such a sound sleeper." 
     "I was hoping I would sleep through the entire expedition.  
If it weren't for this infernal tropical weather, I might have 
been able to do it." 
     "Honestly, Birdie, I don't even know why I bothered bringing 
you along." 
     "Nor do I.  All I've done is trade one dungeon for another." 
     I notice Charles is almost as pale as the first time we met, 
and he's sitting on the floor in a rather hunched position, as if 
ill.  He rubs at the dark circles under his eyes. 
     "What's wrong, Charles?" 
     "Would you like something to eat?" he says without lifting 
his head.  "The seamen have been netting shark for two weeks." 
     "No, thank you." 
     "Don't you ever get hungry?  I don't believe I've ever seen 
you eat.  To tell the truth, that bothers me.  Are you a 
carnivore?  Are you going to suddenly burst into a feeding frenzy 
and consume the crew?" 
     I search my memory. "I seem to remember eating once, a long 
time ago.  Something makes me say a spinach salad, somewhere in 
France.  Now why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?" 
     "Would you really like to know?" he says, raising his voice, 
glaring at me through glossy, red-streaked eyes.  He pushes 
himself up off the floor.  "I've been sea-sick since the first day 
we set sail.  FitzRoy is an ass -- that's right, an ass!  He's a 
_Creationist_ for God's sake, Birdie!  He thinks God snapped His 
fingers and created all living things in their past, present, and 
future forms, just like that!" 
     Charles tries to snap his fingers but he's shaking so badly 
he can't quite pull it off.  In this day and age, ardent 
Creationists aren't scarce enough, as far as Charles is concerned, 
and those who believe in Progressionism are just as bad.  
Progressionists would explain fossil discoveries and 
archaeological finds as proof of nothing more than successive 
intermittent catastrophes, with God destroying and replenishing 
the globe with new species after each cataclysm, Noah's flood 
being the last of them.  ("The existence of all species can be 
explained using the sound principles of science," Charles once 
told me.  This from a graduate of Christ's College, Cambridge.  
Amen.)
     "And that crew!" Charles raves on.  "You'd think a bunch of 
seamen who have sailed to almost every known port in the world 
would have something a little more stimulating to discuss than 
food, ale, and naked women!" 
     Charles begins to sob.  I reach out and take him under my 
wing.  "There, there, Charles, everything will be fine. The longer 
they're at sea, the less interested they'll be in talking about 
food and ale."
     "Try to stay awake, will you, Birdie?" he snuffles. "Just so 
I have someone intelligent to talk to." 
     I get him to relax a bit, and then I get him talking, which 
is something he seems to need desperately. 
     He tells me about the lofty mountains of Porta Praya, and 
their groves of cocoa-nut trees and tracts of lava plains and 
herds of goats.  He tells me of the octopus that sprayed him with 
a jet-stream of water on the rocky shore of St. Jago.  He tells me 
of the stark-white rocks of St. Paul, the vast Brazilian forests, 
the reddish-brown sea of the Abrolhos Islets.  He tells me of the 
vampire bats in Engenhodo and how they bite the horses there, and 
how the large black-and-ruby spiders of St. Fe Bajada feast upon 
prey ten times their own size. 
     All of this between bouts of tears, while I rock him gently 
in the crook of my wing. 
     And then, exhausted, in the middle of a sentence about a 
sparkling apricot-and-flamingo-colored sunset in Rio de Janeiro, 
he falls fast asleep.  I feel his fragile body shivering beside me 
like that of a tiny butterfly.  The heat is stifling.  The _H.M.S. 
Beagle_ rolls helplessly in the waves, like a wine barrel, and I 
think: _Oh, how I miss the sweet smell of wine!_  I smell nothing 
here but salty sea water and fish, fish, fish, like a Venetian 
summer (although how I remember a Venetian summer I do not know).  
Charles is feverish.  Why did I ever allow him to go through with 
this? 
                              #
     In the days that follow, Charles' spirits brighten under my 
care and attention.  He is excited about leaving the ship and 
traveling by land from Bahia Blanca to Buenos Aires.  He is 
reluctant to leave me behind, but I assure him that I will be 
fine. 
     When he finally meets up with the _Beagle_ again, he seems 
more energetic.  He has collected hoards of specimens, some to 
dissect, some to stuff, and others merely to observe.  He seems 
his old self again -- enthusiastic, inquisitive, determined, even 
expedient.  He has returned with a gift for me, a bright, jade-
crimson-turquoise-colored blanket, woven by a half-naked woman of 
some South American Indian tribe. It's big enough to fit around me 
like a shawl.  Much to my surprise, I adore it. 
     I notice he has returned with something else as well. His 
skin is covered with red bumps, some of them swollen, some of them 
scabbed, and he cannot stop himself from scratching.  "We were 
attacked by large, black bugs as we crossed the Pampas." 
     "What kind of bugs?" 
     "Benchuca, I believe." 
     "What can we do for the itch?" I ask.
     "Nothing.  Nothing can be done.  The bumps will disappear 
soon.  You can stop mothering me now." And then he smiles and 
winks. 
     "Welcome back," I say. 
     So the days turn into weeks, months, and so on and so 
forth...the Falkland Islands, the Straight of Magellan, Chile, 
Peru, and the Galapagos Archipelago fall behind us. Once in 
a while, late at night, Charles will sneak me on deck where I will 
watch the waves roll beneath the ship, look up at the bright moon 
and the vast canvas of stars, and feel the salty spray of the sea 
upon my face.  
     Charles' gloominess returns only when he finds it necessary, 
ever so often, to inform me that he has still found no clues to 
my origins.  On such occasions he hangs his head low and speaks 
into his chin and cannot look me in the eye.
     This infuriates me.  Why can he not let go of this childhood 
obsession with the origin of my species?  But I keep my anger to 
myself.  Charles needs my support.  He has dealt with more 
defeatism and opposition in a quarter-century of his life than 
I've seen in eight or nine centuries of mine. 
     I am a dragon, I remind myself, and Charles is only a man. 
                              #
     When we set sail for Van Diemen's Land, Australia, the crew 
begins to talk about something more than food and ale, more even 
than naked women, and I don't like what I'm hearing.  Apparently 
the aborigines there were run off by the white settlers only a few 
months ago, and since that time raids and burnings and robberies 
and murders have become commonplace, the aborigines striking back 
with small ambushes whenever and wherever possible. 
     When we drop anchor, I tell Charles, "I don't want you going 
ashore.  The natives are restless." 
     "Nonsense, Birdie.  The town is secure and most of the 
natives have been deported to another island.  We'll be docked for 
ten days and I'll need to make some excursions inland to examine 
the unique geological structures of the area." 
     "You've got more than enough--" 
     "Birdie, this expedition is nearly at its end and I've still 
found no clues to your origins!  There are some highly 
fossiliferous strata in Van Diemen's Land, and I must take every 
opportunity to--" 
     "My origins!  _My origins!"_ I feel the heat rise into my 
snout.  I rear back on my haunches, and my nostrils begin to 
flare.  "Why can't you just give it up!" I can't remember the last 
time I've been angry enough to smolder like this. 
     Charles takes a step back.  For the first time in all the 
years we have known each other, he is afraid of me.  Why do I 
worry so about Charles?  I am a dragon.  What do I care for the 
ephemeral pursuits of Man?  And yet I _do_ care about Charles. 
     The heat of the moment passes.  I plop down on the floor, let 
my nostrils fizzle out, and pull my Indian blanket up around my 
neck and shoulders.  "I'm sorry," I say.
     Charles exhales slowly, trying to pretend he was not 
frightened, though we both know he was.  "It's been a long voyage 
for us all," he says.  "I think everyone is tired, including you.  
Just remember to keep your voice down.  We don't want FitzRoy 
catching on to us this late in the game." 
     "FitzRoy couldn't catch a mountain if Mohammed dropped it on 
him." 
     "Have you ever met Mohammed?" he asks.
     "Possibly," I answer.
     Charles climbs out of the aft hold, leaving me to stew for 
ten days. 
                              #
     Only it's not ten days when the trouble begins.  I hear the 
explosions of black-powder rifles.  My ears perk up.  Men are
shouting.  I smell smoke. 
     "Charles?" 
     I climb the steps of the aft hold.  The hatch is padlocked 
shut.  I feel the anger rise within me.  My belly churns like a 
furnace and I feel my throat burn with red heat.  It has been so 
long since I've erupted, it almost frightens me. My body trembles.  
My throat tastes like coal.  My saliva drips like hot tar.  I am 
appalled at the digestive system I must house in order to manage 
such an internal inferno. 
     I rear back and belch, blowing a fire hole through the hatch. 
     There is nothing left to do but burst onto the upper deck. 
     It is a pitch-black night.  The _Beagle_ has been abandoned.  
All hands are on shore.  It seems that the aborigines have 
attacked the town. 
     _Charles!_
     I leap overboard, splash into the sea.  The water drowns my 
fire, and I sink like a stone.  I suddenly remember that I can't 
swim. But I know how to fly, so I start flapping my wings.  
Higher, higher, higher I rise -- and finally I break the surface. 
     Into the great mysterious night I fly!  It has been so long. 
Centuries!  Up over the _Beagle_, over the sea that ripples the 
gold-orange of the burning town below me, up over the town itself, 
I fly. 
     The aborigines are withdrawing.  They've killed. They've 
taken prisoners.  The townsfolk fire their balls aimlessly into 
the dark.  But I am a dragon and my eyes can see everything.  I 
can see the dancing spears of the natives, their hurried retreat, 
their wounded victims and struggling prisoners..._and Charles!_ 
Charles has been taken at spear point, his hands bound behind him, 
driven like an animal by a dozen aborigines into the black forest.  
If they reach the thick of the woodlands, I'll never find him, 
I'll never see him again. 
     The fire screams within me! 
     I dive! 
     _"Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarles--!"_
     My fire rakes through the aborigines, setting the field of 
their retreat aflame.  They scream.  Charles screams.  I make my 
pass and my wings caress the air and I circle back, a trail of 
fiery phlegm cutting through the black night, and I dive again.  
One native, two natives catch fire and roll in the grass. The 
others run for their lives.  Charles has fallen.  Smoke billows.  
I circle and dive and circle, giving the natives a damn good look 
at me.  I shall live in their nightmares for the next ten 
generations!  But I must save Charles before the fire or the smoke 
take him.  So I dive once more, and like a hawk snaring its prey I 
pluck Charles out of the grass with my talons and take to the air 
again. 
     He looks up at me with stark terror in his eyes, and his lips 
form the question: _Birdie?_
     I glide low to the ground, as silent as the wind.  I drop 
Charles in a safe field near town, and head back to the ship, 
without so much as a word to the poor boy.  There is nothing to 
say.  Charles has finally seen me for what I truly am, a dragon.  
It will take him time to adjust. 
     When I land on deck, I scorch a few more areas of the 
bulwarks to mask my escape and make it look like the aborigines 
tried but failed to burn the vessel, and then I climb down through 
the ruined hatch, back into the aft hold, and curl up on the floor 
with my blanket. 
     In the morning, after order has been restored, rumors pass 
among the crew of a flying creature all ablaze, a beast the size 
of a country-cottage, storming through the nighttime sky and 
wrecking havoc among the aborigines.  But it was dark, and there 
was so much confusion and so many fires that most of the seamen do 
not believe the tales, or if they do, they aren't willing to admit 
the truth. 
     Charles is uninjured, but it is three days before he comes to 
the aft hold to tell me so. 
     "I never should have gone ashore, Birdie." 
     "Wisdom is hard-learned," I tell him. 
     But at least Charles has come to me.  I believe this is a 
gesture of acceptance.  Man, I have come to learn, is a creature 
of metaphor. 
                              #
     The two-year expedition runs five years in all. 
     When we return, I retire to the Darwin dungeon.  It is my 
home, after all.  I curl up with my Indian blanket, and sleep. 
     Charles visits me often in that first year, and together we 
compile his _Journal of Research Into the Geology and Natural
History of the Various Countries Visited by H.M.S. Beagle under
the Command of Captain FitzRoy, R.N._  It's Charles' bright idea 
to include FitzRoy's name in the title, a point on which he 
refuses to compromise in spite of my objections. Otherwise, I edit 
the manuscript for him, suggesting some stylistic enhancements, 
all of which he agrees to, including striking all references to 
his faithful Birdie, a point on which I refuse to compromise 
because I insist upon protecting his scientific integrity. 
     After the publication of the _Journal_, he is lionized by 
London's intellectual society, his career as a scientist 
catapults, and I know I'll never have to worry about Charles 
settling in as a country clergyman in some obscure backwoods 
parish. 
     Still he visits me often, to tell me of an exciting speaking 
engagement, or of a treasured new colleague, or of an admiring 
letter from some American naturalist, and one day when he comes, 
he tells me of his cousin, Emma Wedgwood, to whom he has proposed 
marriage. 
     Even after he is married and moves to Upper Gower Street in 
London, he thinks to visit me occasionally.  He comes to tell me 
about his children, and how he will be among the first generation 
of Darwins not to punish his cubs by banishing them to the dungeon 
on Mount Darwin. 
     One day when he comes, he is so ill he can barely lift the 
wine cellar doors and make his way down the steps.  He is weak and 
nauseous and suffering from heart palpitations.  He does not stay 
long. 
     It is many months before I see him again, and when I finally 
do, he tells me his symptoms have worsened, and I can see he has 
lost weight and appears deathly pale. 
     "I am not likely to improve, Birdie.  I am suffering from the 
attack of the Benchuca, the great black bug of South America.  Do 
you remember the day I returned to the ship riddled with bites, 
after my hike through the Pampas?" 
     I remember, but I say nothing. 
     "The disease carried by the Benchuca is fatal," he says. "It 
can also be long and painful.  I had hoped that after having gone 
so long with no symptoms, I might not have been infected, but it 
was not to be."
     Charles carries with him a stack of notebooks and papers he 
can barely hold in his arms.  He spreads them out on the floor and 
stares at me.  "I have been working on a theory," he says.  "Will 
you help me?" 
                              #
     Among the volcanic outcrops known as the Galapagos Islands, 
off the coast of South America, each island claims its own 
distinct population of birds and animals. Although there were 
obviously common ancestors, the fauna of each island developed 
separately, despite only a modest oceanic separation.
     When Charles traveled across the islands, he noticed that the 
finches have become so distinct from one island to the next that 
they can no longer interbreed. 
     Charles has read Lamarck's hypothesis, dating back to the 
eighteenth century, that all living matter has an inherent drive 
toward increased complexity.  This intrigues him, as does Buffon's 
theory, which suggests that environmental conditions as well as 
the struggle for survival might lead to the extinction of some 
species, and the succession of others. 
     "We also must consider Lyell's belief in uniform geological 
change," says Charles.  "As geological alterations occur, this 
must bring about changes in the natural habitat of all living 
things." 
     We assemble the evidence, piece by piece, until it all 
finally makes sense. 
     Global changes.  Genetic mutations.  The struggle of all 
species for survival.  Natural selection. 
     _Evolution._
     It is not _my_ origin that Charles has discovered during the 
voyage of the _Beagle_, it is his own. 
     And yet just when the theory of Man's evolution becomes so 
absurdly obvious that neither of us can ignore it, ignore it is 
exactly what we do.  We push aside our papers and relax to the 
smell of wine and cedar and moist earth, and spend most of our 
time together talking about death. 
     "I am looking forward to my death, Birdie," Charles says.  
"Death is the last great challenge of Man." 
     "You have always been too curious for your own good," I tell 
him. 
     Charles slides a Chilean cigar out of his pocket.  I flare my 
nostril for him.  He sticks the cigar in my snout and puffs hard 
on the butt, then succumbs to a coughing fit. 
     "Charles, I want you to know that I am very sorry." 
     "Sorry about what?" 
     "In many ways I am responsible for your malady.  If not for 
me, you never would have gone on the expedition, and you never 
would have been attacked by the Benchuca." 
     "No, no, don't you see, Birdie?  You have given me my life, 
not my death.  If I had not met you, I never would have been 
driven to explore, I never would have lived through such exciting 
adventures.  Death is merely a consequence.  That is the way of 
Man, Birdie.  We pay for our lives with our deaths." 
     I nod, but I do not understand.  How can I?  
     "Because of you," I say, "I was able to share in that 
adventure." I am surprised to discover that this matters to me. 
     "You know, I could have died at the hands of those 
aborigines.  I have never properly thanked you for saving my life, 
Birdie." 
     "Think nothing of it." 
     "I'm sure it is a point of less concern to someone who has 
lived centuries, probably eons." Charles coughs. He does not 
possess the lung strength to keep the cigar lit, so he stubs it 
out in the dirt.  "Man needs to believe in his life after death.  
Man must have his gods." 
     Ah, yes.  Charles is afraid of the changes his insights might 
bring about among his species.  He is afraid of how his race might 
suffer without the comfort of the Book of Genesis. He does not see 
what I see.  He does not have the perspective of centuries. 
     "Charles," I say.  "What does your theory tell you about 
Man?"
     He looks at me blankly.
     "_Adaptation_, Charles," I explain gently. "If Man needs new 
gods and new beliefs, I promise you that he will devise them. It 
is not only the body that evolves, but also the spirit." 
     "But does Man want new gods?" he asks dubiously.
     "I cannot say," I answer. "If he does not, rest assured that 
he will create new reasons to believe in the old ones." 
     "I am very tired, Birdie," he says.  And this is the last 
thing he will ever say to me. 
                              #
     Charles is supposed to visit me today, but when or if he 
arrives, I will not be here.  I have decided that I cannot watch 
him die. 
     So I am alone in the wine cellar when I scribble Charles 
Darwin's name across the cover page, and affix a title to our 
manuscript: _Upon the Origin of Species By Means of Natural
Selection, or Preservation of Favoured Races and the Struggle for
Life._
     I don my Indian blanket and tuck the manuscript under my wing 
and climb the stairs of the wine cellar.  I push open the doors 
and step out into the bright morning sun. 
     I think I shall take the train to London -- or perhaps I 
shall fly -- to Albemarle Street, and in my human guise, much as I 
hate corsets and bustles, I will personally deliver the manuscript 
to the publishing company of John Murray.  I was impressed by the 
job they did with the 1845 edition of the _Journal_, quite a 
money-maker from what I understand, and I am certain they will be 
eager to print Darwin's newest work.  In any event, I must do what 
Charles cannot.  I must offer Man the truth.  It is essential, I 
think, for the continued development of his species. 
     Then I shall find another place on this Earth to live. Mount 
Darwin will never be the same without Charles.  The future 
Darwins, like those before him, seem a dull lot. I am a dragon: I 
can fly, I can set a field aflame with my breath, I can see things 
clearly in a way that men, even so gifted a man as Charles, 
cannot, and I have needs of my own. 
                             #   
     The boy has overcome his initial surprise at seeing me, and 
now sits down on the floor, cross-legged, a few feet away. 
     "Why have your parents locked you down here?" I ask.
     He stares at me uncomprehendingly, and I switch to German.
     "No one locked me here," he answers. "I often come here to 
think." 
     "And what do you think about?" I ask.
     He shrugs. "It is difficult to express," he says. "They are 
very big thoughts," he adds seriously.
     A warm glow suffuses me. "Sometimes I think very big thoughts 
myself." I pause. "I think we are going to become friends." 
     "I would like that." 
     "What is your name, boy?" I ask. 
     "Albert," he says.
     "Albert," I repeat. "That is a very nice name. And I am 
Birdie." 
     I wrap my Indian blanket around me. I am content.                              - The End -