‘We’re behind you, sister,’ said Papa. ‘Don’t be bashful.’
Donnell wondered if anyone could possibly buy Papa’s cheerleading act. His face was brimful of bad wishes, and by course of logic alone it was obvious that Clea’s failure would improve his lot. She lifted her reedy voice again, and it seemed to Donnell to be the voice of Maravillosa, the sad, common sound of the dead trees and the ‘friends’ and the ebony faces, of Otille herself, of the sullen and envious relationships between the pets, the whine of a supernatural nervous system which governed them all. Even if no one were there to hear it, he thought, the sound would go on, arising from the wreckage of evil. A futile transmission like the buzz of a half-crushed wasp.
Clea faltered, a high note shrilled. ‘I can’t sing when he’s grinnin’ at me,’ she said, gesturing at Downey. ‘He’s makin’ me too nervous.’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Downey. ‘Lemme help her.’ He stalked over and took the guitar from her.
‘If it won’t interfere,’ said Otille. ‘Will it interfere?’
Clea could not hide her delight. She blushed, casting a furtive glance at Downey. ‘Maybe not,’ she said.
He pulled up a chair beside her, picked a fancy introduction of chords, and this time the song had the courtly feel of a duet between a country girl and a strolling balladeer.
Some of the birds were fluttering up in their cages, chirping, agitated; others perched on the bars, trilling, throats pulsing in a transport of song. Donnell felt Otille tense beside him, and he focused on Clea. Her magnetic field was undifferentiated by arcs, a nimbus of white light encompassing her and Downey and sections of all the cages. Through the glow, she looked like an enraptured saint at prayer with her accompanying angel. The face of her gros bon ange was ecstatic, a mosaic of cobalt interlaced by fine gold threads. Nearing its end, the song grew more impassioned and the white glow spread to surround the cages and every one of the birds was singing.
Otille was disappointed at song’s end. She praised Clea’s effort, acknowledged the result, but her displeasure was evident.
‘Lemme have a crack at them birds, Otille,’ said Papa. He popped his knuckles, eager to get started.
‘We all know what you can do, Papa,’ said Otille. ‘It will prove nothing to see it again. I was hoping for something more… more out of the ordinary.’
Clea hung her head. Downey picked out a brittle run of blue notes, uninvolved.
‘It’s obviously a matter of mood,’ said Simpkins. ‘When poor Pavarotti was struck down, I recall Sister Clea as bein’ in a snit, whereas today, makin’ music with her heart’s desire.,.’
‘He’s not!’ squawked Clea; she leapt up and pointed at him, fuming. ‘Lessee what you can do with ‘em! Nothin’, I bet!’
Downey smiled, strummed a ripple of chords.
‘If I begin to tweet,’ said Simpkins, ‘then indeed we have a proof positive of Sister Clea’s talent. But frankly I’m more interested in seein’ what Brother Harrison can achieve with our feathered friends.’
Otille pursed her lips and tapped them with an ivory finger. She cocked one eye towards Donnell. ‘Would you mind?’ she asked.
Donnell stretched out his legs and folded his arms in imitation of Simpkins, returning his bland smile. Simpkins was obviously a force to be reckoned with, despite his failed gift, and Donnell did not want to establish the precedent of following his orders by proxy. ‘I’ll pass,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come here to kill birds.’
‘You don’t have to kill them,’ said Otille, as if that were the furthest thing from her mind. ‘I’m much more interested in the variety of psychic powers than their repetition. Why don’t you just see what you can do. Experiment. I won’t hold it against you if nothing happens.’
But you will if I don’t try, thought Donnell. ‘All right,’ he said. He took Clea’s place in the midst of the cages, and she and Downey settled into chairs.
The birds appeared none the worse for wear, bright-eyed and chirping, swinging on their perches. Their plumage was beautiful - pastel blues and pinks, snowy white, bottle greens - and their magnetic fields were hazy glimmers in the air, easy to influence at a distance like the fields of telephones and cameras. He found if he reached out his hand to a cage, the birds within it stilled, quieted, and their fields glowed. But he could produce no other effect. The two cages closest to him contained nine birds, and by spreading his fingers magician style he managed to still all nine controlling each with one of his fingers, feeling the tug of the fields. He doubted, though, that this would satisfy Otille. Then following Otille’s advice - ‘Experiment’ - and wondering why it had never occurred to him to try before, he maintained his hold on the fields and shifted his focus into the darkness of the gros bon ange.
Bits of whirling blackness and jeweled fire hung in the silver cages. Tentatively, he pushed a forefinger against one of the fields, stroking it, and a thread of iridescent light no thicker than a spiderweb shot from his fingertip. He withdrew the finger, startled; but since the bird displayed no ill effects, its fires undimmed, he tried it again. Eventually nine threads of light connected his fingertips with the nine birds, and the refractions inside their bodies flowed in orderly patterns. The pressure of their fields against his hands increased, and when he involuntarily crooked a finger, one of the birds hopped down off its perch. He repeated the process, and soon, feeling omnipotent, the ringmaster of the magical circus, he had gained enough control to send them marching about the cages. Tiny jewelbox creatures hopping onto silvery feeders and swings, twittering and parading around and around.
Clea gasped, someone knocked over a chair, and someone else contributed slow, ironic applause. ‘Thank you, Donnell,’ said Otille. That’s quite sufficient.’
He relaxed his control, brought the ballroom back into view and saw Otille smiling at him. ‘Well,’ he said, stung by the pride of ownership in her face, ‘was that out of the ordinary enough?’ Then he glanced down at the cages.
He had not killed the birds. Not outright. That would have been merciful compared to what he had done. The delicate hues of their feathers were dappled with blood, and freed from his control, their cries had grown piercing, stirring echoes in the sunlit upper reaches of the room. Their beaks were shattered, crimson droplets welling from the cracks; their wings and legs were broken; and the membranes of their eyes had burst and were dripping fluid. All lay flapping on the floors of the cages except for a parakeet, its legs unbroken, which clung to its perch and screamed.