Batfish

Singing batfish and cockatoos have more in common than most people think.

The trick is to ignore the batfish’s reptilian dorsal fin (along with those claws, which, frankly, could gut a grizzly from snout to tail with a sneeze), and simply focus on the notes.

Once you do, the similarities are all right there, plain as a mushroom cloud.

Sadly, this one isn’t working for me.

Call me a snob, but as the first conductor of the newly-minted, Inter-Quadrant Harmonic Choir for Beautifully Bellowing Beasts, I believe I’ve earned the right to be critical. (Also, because I’m a professional. With a baton. And in some circles, that makes me quite important—not that I’m bragging.)

“NEXT!” I shout.

Grumbling, Bovine escorts the disappointed batfish to the hall, and calls for the next contestant.

Bovine is always grumbling. Glaring, too. At first, I thought it was because—somehow—he knew my secret (which would not have been ideal). After months working together, though, I’ve realized that the man simply struggles from a very limited range of emotion.

Still. A little enthusiasm wouldn’t hurt. I’m aware we’re pressed for time (four hours until curtain call, and no lead bass), but that’s no reason to relax our standard of excellence.

Not with everyone watching.

A lock of hair falls in front of my eyes. I smooth it back into place, trying to pretend I can’t hear the din of angry protesters drifting in from outside… trying not to wonder if my mother is among them.

Before the Wars, mothers told their children they could grow up to become anything they wanted.

Mine told me I shouldn’t even try.

I don’t think she meant anything by it. Or rather, she did, but only in the way mothers do. (Which is to say, as a way to kindly level my dreams before the world could do it for her.)

What she didn’t know—and what most don’t, I suspect—is that in trying to let me down gently, my mother wounded me far deeper than the world ever could have.

***

An adolescent boy struts into the room wearing a bowler hat slanted cheekily to one side, and tattoos over nearly every inch of exposed flesh.

I dislike him almost instantly.

“Who are you?” I pat my hair self-consciously.

“Name’s Theo.” He winks, displacing a smattering of stars beside his right eye. “And you must be Wolfgang.”

I’m struck with the nearly overpowering urge to knock the hat off his head.

“Indeed. Why are you here?”

At that moment, a shy, juvenile batfish peers around the doorframe, tethered to the boy by a leash.

“We heard you were in the market for a Chiroptera thunnini,” he drawls. “Hamlet, here, is the best vocalist in four quadrants, and comes with pleasant regards from Marcello Vincini of the Calliope.”

“Circus men,” I mutter.

Honestly.

The boy—Theo—tugs the leash, but the reluctant batfish digs in his heels. “Come on now. Move.” Theo unhooks a short, black pipe from his belt, its end capped with two metal prongs.

With a squeak, the batfish hurries forward.

My scalp bristles. “Young sir, kindly remove that objectionable mechanism of involuntary subjugation from this creature at once.”

The boy shrugs—shrugs!—and unclips the leash, as casual as ‘if you please’ and apple pie.

“He’s all yours, chaps.” Handing the tether to Bovine, Theo tips his hat and swaggers off, singing the words of an unfamiliar tune as he goes.

“… somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue.”

The door slams behind him.

I stare at the closed partition, straining to catch another shred of the fading refrain, a peculiar longing in my chest.

Bovine coughs. “Wolfgang?”

With a start, I straighten. “Right. Mr… ahhh… Hamlet. Let’s begin.”

Lifting a tuning fork, I knock it against the music stand, and let the tinny twang vibrate around the room.

Quivering, the batfish lifts his head.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

Spreading his wings, the huge mammal fills his gills with the chilled—only slightly dusty—air from the building’s reclamation system, and begins to sing.

***

BROADCAST TRANSCRIPT #00813279

NATTER: A thousand years ago, the Radiation Wars killed billions and scrambled the biologic blueprints of what was left. They said it was the end, and in many ways, it was…

In others, it was just the beginning.

Good evening, I’m Erasmus Natter at Old Earth Broadcasting, and tonight, I’m joined by Mr. Phineas Wolfgang, controversial composer and founding conductor of the Inter-Quadrant Harmonic Choir for Beautifully Bellowing Beasts.

WOLFGANG: Hello!

NATTER: Mr. Wolfgang, you’ve done an extraordinary thing, here, turning chimera into an organized choir. Tell me, what’s it like?

WOLFGANG: Ohhh… chaotic, mostly.

NATTER: [laughs] It must be a zoo.

WOLFGANG: Yes—but in a good way.

NATTER: So how do you get them to calm down and sing for you? Sparklers?

WOLFGANG: Heavens, no! There’s no need for that barbarity.

NATTER: You have some loud, angry critics who say otherwise. Many are calling for chimera captivity. They believe those creatures are dangerous.

WOLFGANG: [scoffs] That’s preposterous.

NATTER: Is it, though? Batfish… Kangagators… Poison Bisonfrogs… Surely you can see the cause for public concern.

WOLFGANG: What I see, are people who would use chimera captivity to make a profit.

NATTER: Bold words. Are you at all deterred by the threats of violence you’ve received?

WOLFGANG: Not in the slightest. The whole purpose of my choir is to remedy the gross misunderstandings that surround chimera. The Wars destroyed many things, but they created something, too. Something beautiful. And I believe that beauty is worth protecting—celebrating, even.

NATTER: Yesss… but when you get right down to it, they’re just animals, aren’t they?

WOLFGANG: When you get right down to it, Mr. Natter, aren’t we all?

***

I gaze out at the auditorium through a small hole in the house curtain. “Bovine, have you ever heard of a blue sky before?”

Bovine grunts.

You can tell a lot about a person from the sound of their grunt. For example, Bovine’s just said, Of course not, what a stupid question.

“Hmmm… me neither,” I muse. “Orange… brown… and gray, too, obviously. Even the occasional pink. But blue?”

Patrons check their respiratory masks in at the door, before finding their seats. I count at least a hundred already—but there could be more. The curtain’s tear has a somewhat limited range, cutting off both aisles and half of the rickety balcony. All the same, it’s a very useful rip. Hard to say what might have made it in the first place, but it does bear a striking resemblance to the size and shape of my baton.

I make a mental note to utilize it during future performances.

Near the rear of the hall, I spot Theo the Boy in his cheeky bowler, looking distinctly uncomfortable beside a man in a top hat and a jacket with silver buttons shiny enough to catch a reflection.

Vincini, presumably—the circus man.

“Distasteful flesh peddler,” I mutter. The thought of sending Hamlet back to him turns my stomach.

Circus Man glances our direction.

There’s no way he can know we’re here.

Even still.

For half a thump of Bovine’s large, lumbering heart, I could swear he’s looking straight at me.

Overhead, the house lights dim.

“Come, Bovine.” I step back, adjusting the high-neck collar of my suit. “It’s nearly time.”

***

The truth is, I don’t control the chimera.

No one does.

They are creatures of music, who answer—not to me—but to the careful arrangement of pitch and frequencies that rise up from the orchestra. Notes that hang in the air like prompts.

An invitation.

In the end, it’s entirely up to them whether they accept.

Bathed in bright glow of lime lights, I pick up a tuning fork, and ask the question.

***

It goes even better than I imagined.

Hamlet finishes the aria, and the final, gossamer thread disappears over the auditorium.

No one moves.

The silence grows. Full and breathless. Swelling to fill all the empty spaces. Pressing into threadbare velvet. Rushing down splintered hardwood and up to the rafters. Twining around an audience locked in the kind of trance only a batfish can boast.

You see mother? A single tear wells, and slips down my cheek.

Beautiful.

Music philosophers have long debated the role of applause in performance, weighing the need to satisfy an artist’s ego, against the loss of that exquisite stillness of a job well done.

Tonight, incidentally, I don’t have to choose a side.

The hush is shattered by the patter of gunfire. Shouts rise from outside, and I whirl around in time to see the back half of the theatre explode into flame. Fire twists through auditorium, and a punch of air knocks me in the chest, tossing me over risers of terrified chimera.

A bomb, my brain registers.

Too late.

I hit the opposite wall, and fall into darkness.

***

I wake under a veil of stars.

Normally, they’re impossible to see—too much filth floating around up there in space (or so they tell us). Tonight, though, they’re clear. Visible among the clouds of poisoned dust. Drifts that catch the far-off glow of the distant sun, creating a rainbow of transparent light speckled by diamonds.

It occurs to me, that the ceiling must be gone, but I haven’t the strength to care.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The woman beside me doesn’t respond.

She stares up at the heavens—not really seeing—a halo of blood growing around her crown. Her gown in tatters. The tarnished, bronzed filigree of a heart-shaped locket laying in the cupped hollow of her neck.

Muffled footsteps pound across the broken stage.

Wincing, I turn my head.

The mob is inside. Cartoon animal masks conceal their identities, but I recognize a few by their fine outfits. Audience goers. Laughing in macabre glee, while they round up the chimera.

Hamlet bellows, as a black pipe spits blue sparks into his ribs.

I can’t see Bovine, anywhere.

A figure kneels in front of me. His bowler is missing, but he seems to have found something new to wear in its place.

“Hello.” I cough on plaster dust.

Theo's eyes are wide with shock.

A cold wind ruffles my naked head. My wig is gone. I hold up a hand. “Listen, I know this looks bad, but—”

I tense, as Theo reaches for me.

His fingers graze the plume of feathers running from widow’s peak to tailbone down my back… like a cockatoo… like the cartoon bird mask resting on his forehead…

A body only a mother could love.

Realization dawns over Theo’s face. The understanding of what I am sinking in:

A human chimera.

He looks quickly over his shoulder. Circus Man hasn’t seen me yet, but I suspect he will soon—even if I ran, I wouldn’t get far.

I wonder how much money Theo the Boy will make off trading my secret.

It’s not his fault, really.

Theo reaches for something I can’t see. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

Closing my eyes, I brace for the sting of blue light.

***

From the other side of a baton-shaped hole, I watch Theo the Man—a boy no longer—retreat into the haze.

The heavy house curtain he hid me under is actually quite cozy (especially since it’s growing cold without a ceiling). I am alive, but alone. Stranded in silence with a heart that hurts more than my head.

On the bright side, though—and mother always did tell me to look on the bright side—I have an excellent view of the stars.

Stay here until they’re gone, he said. I won’t tell.

I look up at the heavens, and, for a moment, I think I see it… hovering over the rainbows of poison shrouding the earth…

The faintest hint of a blue sky.