3
I stepped back into the garden. Ebby was practicing his marshal arts and trying to kill a lump of soil. He seemed to stand on his back legs and box the lump with his front paws, then he'd toss it in the air and leap and spin as though he was being chased until he reached the shed where he'd turn and double back, jabbing at the soil with both paws at once before it had a chance. When he saw me he stopped dead in his tracks, came over and collapsed on the lawn.
'Muggy. Dark clouds,' he said, staring at the sky.
'What? Oh, sorry, sorry, Ebby.'
'Looks like thunder to me.'
That night I dreamt I saw the face of Uncle Pani looking through the glazed part of the kitchen door. I wouldn't let him in. I wanted to ask how he'd come back from the dead but there was some kind of blockage in my mouth so I couldn't speak. His face was a ghost face, set, like that of a Greek statue, and it was sad. He had this great sadness or some sort of nameless feeling that I tried to ignore but every time I tried to bar the door to keep him out he just breezed right through. Then next, I was dashing around the cottage and the gardens trying to hide from him. He kept appearing in front of me.
At one point, I seemed to be in our garden but all the fences had fallen down. He appeared by the pond and I was glad to see him again. I was glad to sit with him and feel his confidence and his friendship and his protection. I knew he still meant a great deal to me, if not more. When I tried to grab him, it was me who started to fade. Then when I simply let him sit, I grew more distinct, more at ease.
The next day, after lunch in the company of the pretty lady donkey in the middle meadow, I was just about to return to work when above her head something caught my eye. It was a blackbird with some grass in its pointy orange beak. The feathers on its chest were sticking out at various angles and it look ready for a fight. It stared at me as though I was trespassing on its private property.
Earlier, on my way out of town, I had taken a roundabout tour of the highways and byways in a last ditch attempt at coming to some solid reason to stay put in Cornwall. I climbed the first stile into the farmer's field. At least I was in the fresh air and enjoying the tranquillity away from the stultifying boredom of the library. This was my third August in Trevean and right on cue I was unable to resist that familiar curiosity that every year rushes me headlong over the edge of security into a pit of irresistible uncertainty. Even though I had decided definitely that it was time to leave the job, I had no idea of what I wanted to do next. In fact I'd had countless jobs since leaving school. I'd been a shipping clerk, singer in a band, an insurance agent, a cook, teaching assistant, worked with awkward kids and lately, a library assistant. I liked to chop and change and a variety of experiences certainly broadened my outlook and made me realise I preferred the peace and quiet of my own company.
Nodding to the stallion in the corner paddock, I climbed the second stile into the next field and looked around. Usually, there were some Jerseys grazing in the far corner and sometimes the donkey would be standing in the shade of an old sycamore by the dry-stone wall. I had often shared my lunch with him in the shade of the tree even when it wasn't raining, just to get away from people. There are about a thousand shades of green in the countryside and the donkey would keep me company as I admired them and munch away in silence. But that day, everything changed.
The blackbird came down and stood a few feet away, looking straight at me. I threw it some of the seeds I'd been chewing with my apple when I thought I heard it tut.
'Did you say something?' I stared into an eye that looked back without blinking.
'Wasn't me.'
'Well somebody did.'
'I only said, “Not sesame seeds again”. You see, I can only get a few of these seeds in my mouth at a time because they keep falling out of my beak and so it takes ages to have a decent meal. It may sound like I'm tutting but I'm far too patient to tut.'
'Would you prefer a Croissant? It's fresh.'
'Yes, please. Thank you.'
'My name's Godfrey. Godfrey Ash. I live in Trevean.'
'Over in the village. How do you do. I'm Frank. I'm from Wales originally. Usually I hang around the village gardens but I'm dining out today.'
'Pleased to meet you. My word, this is so unusual.'
'What is? My accent?'
'No. No. Us talking. Having a chat. Nice.'
He cocked his head to one side and gave me a beady stare.
'Now whatever you do, don't say, “Gosh a talking blackbird.” Sometimes the gods give me utterance and sometimes they don't, OK? Dear me, I don't know - typical human!'
'What do you mean, typical?'
'Oh, everything could have been so simple but you humans always have to go and complicate things. You're so insecure.'
'What have I said?'
The blackbird took a step closer. 'Look. I'm just a blackbird. A normal, average blackbird. A blackbird like every other blackbird. Blackbirds very rarely speak. Have you ever heard a blackbird speak before?'
'Not often.'
'Well, there you go then. Blackbirds don't have any reason to speak. We're pretty basic but at least we're light-hearted. We whistle and sing, boyo. And that's all there is to it. No more, no less. Unlike humans, most creatures are happy just being creatures. We are already as naturally perfect as our species does allow. Humans used to be content like us until they started comparing themselves with each other or with some other human's idea of how they should be and how they should live and that's when they lost the plot. Now they need an explanation and a reason for everything - all such a waste of time. And you still think you control the planet. Your egos are completely out of control. Remember, it's always nature that makes the final decision.'
'Oh, I...er...must be going. Look, I didn't mean to upset you.'
He flapped his wings, hopped a little then seemed to change his mind. He came towards me again, 'Hang on. Look, it's not you. It's just that when you don't speak for a long time, the first thing you talk about when you do, is get whatever you've been mulling over off your chest. I've been considering the human race lately and gradually fell into a bad mood, that's all. Sorry.'
'Oh, that's OK.'
'I heard you grumbling to Charlotte the donkey about needing some advice. Well, she can't help - she's taken a vow of silence. Most animals do. So I'm taking a chance with you.'
'You think you can help?'
'No. I don't give advice, but I know someone who does.'
'Fantastic. Tell me their name. Please.'
'It's Ebby the cat. He lives in Lilac Cottage, over in Trevean.'
'But that's our cat. Or we're his humans. How do you know him?' I couldn't believe it.
'Ebby is the Oracle - been here before, some say. Very wise he is.'
'Well, I'm blowed. Our Ebby! I should have known.'
'You mean you didn't ask him?'
'Well I did, but he didn't seem to be able to help.'
'Did you make him an offering?'
'No, but then I never have before.'
'Well there you are then. Sometimes we take our fellow creatures for granted and underestimate their true value.'
'You're right, of course. What shall I do?'
'Is your problem important?'
'It is to me.'
'Well, if I were you, and I'm not giving advice here, I'd make him an offering and ask him again. Anyway, nice to meet you. Take care then - must fly.'