The Heron Now
Exclusive, brand new short fiction. A bus stop encounter of the avian kind.
Clouds cover the day.
The brisk walk does little to clear your gently fermenting mind. From a distance, a tall figure can be seen, standing by the bin, next to the bus stop. You get nearer and are surprised find that it is not a human figure, but a large bird. The bird stands on one leg, on the edge of the bin, head tilted.
You slow down as you approach. The bird uncurls its other leg, steadying itself on the bin, surveying its surroundings. The street is quiet. The few passers-by pay the bird no attention. It swivels its head in your direction. A brilliant, unblinking eye examines you.
White and silver-grey feathers, topped with a great, black crest. A long, sharp, fiery-orange bill, ending with a glittering eye, like a horizontal exclamation mark. The bird extends its neck as you shuffle closer. It shows no sign that it intends to fly away. You feel exposed under its level stare. The breeze lightly ruffles its feathers.
You are now standing next to the bin and the bird is looking down at you, quizzically. You check your watch. The bus is late.
“Puce puma,” says the bird.
It startles you. You ignore it because it did not say anything. It squawked and it sounded a bit like, “puce puma.”
“Picasso looks bewildered,” says the bird.
It is speaking, not squawking. A deeper sound than a squawk. It has a slight midlands accent. “By the bus stop on the high street,” the bird continues. “A buffet bar in Budgens. Easy come. Queasy go.”
You clear your throat and the bird blinks. A bus arrives and leaves. It is the wrong bus. The bird flaps its wings once, then speaks again. “One seven seven passing the mirror shop,” it says. “Under the branches, trailing powder-blue, plastic webs.”
You cannot understand what it is talking about. You ask the bird if you have met before. The bird shuffles around the edge of the bin. It rolls its head and reasserts its hard, golden stare. “I am the Heron Now,” it says. “You have a crushed velvet armchair for a head. Both lights at once. Welcome.”
The Heron Now?
“The Heron Now,” the heron agrees. “Cross the chest and counting. Red fences. No paving. The green moped outside the steps of the demolition site and all the trees and all the unfinished towers…” You interrupt the heron. You do not understand what it is trying to tell you. The heron blinks. It whistles the opening bars of Teenage Sensation by Credit To The Nation. You are surprised that you recognise the tune.
“Highwater,” says the heron. “A church in a tent. The Knights of the Old Kent Road walk in circles on the concrete compass.” It taps its beak twice on the edge of the bin and rakishly raises its crest. Two school children walk by. They chat to each other, paying no attention to you, the heron or anything else. They turn the corner and disappear.
“Why did you say that thing?” asks the heron. “You said that thing to that person you knew, twenty years ago. That person who doesn’t remember and doesn’t care and doesn’t know you and will never see you ever again?”
A crackle of anxiety. You cannot say why.
The Heron Now stretches to its full height, looking up and down the street. It spreads its wings wide and flaps once. Twice. “Shadow crane!” shouts the heron. “Skeletal giraffe! Don’t mention the daffodils! Bike blanket, cosy on the steps! The yellow sign! The red girl shades her eyes from the sun! Waiting by the boarded up windows! Blinking boxes!” The Heron Now thrashes its wings and rises into the air. It swoops over your head, circles back and lands on top of the lamp post on the opposite side of the street.
The right bus arrives and you step aboard. You go upstairs and sit at the back. You watch the Heron Now through the back window. The great bird watches you and the bus pulls away. You continue to watch the Heron Now as its shape recedes into the distance. It blends with the lamp post. The lamp post blends with the street. The street blends with the cars, the buildings, the people, the city.
The clouds thin out and pass.