The Seven Whistlers

Link to the Challenge:

Superstition: whistling at night attracts ghosts, evil spirits, predators, etc.

*

This all began because of the weather.

I am Pete, and also Mr. Skeel to the students at the school. The kids liked it and said that it sounded like “Mr. Steel”. Not sure why that sticks with me now, but as you get older, the things you remember and the things you want to remember take different roads and never meet.

But, I am rambling…

The weather was unseasonable, as they say. It was warm; maybe even humid, which was very odd for the start of September and the beginning of another school year. Yeah, I had seen hot starts to it, but nothing like this. Just a shirt and trousers for me – no tie (shocker for the staff) – boys in shorts and girls in skirts. Also, the sun did not really give us a break. Just intense all through that week, and even the shade had no pity for you.

And then there were the birds.

Like I said, it is still amazing what you remember and what you forget as you get older, but there was no way those damn things would ever be a pleasant memory. I could hear them whistling their damn beaks off as I tried to go over the history of the Norman Invasion. Some of the boys snickered and I told them off, but really, I could not blame them a bit. The girls tried to be indifferent to them, but the lesson was really hard for them to get through without a laugh. I waited for the end of the day before I told the staff what was going on and found out that I was not alone.

“Just a strange quirk this year.”

Ms. Allen said that. Josephine to her friends, so Ms. Allen to the rest of us. I don’t mind new staff pretending they know everything – they get a very hard lesson in reality by the end of a year of teaching, but what the hell did she know about birds (her role here was English literature, not science).

“Ah, you heard them?”

“My late grandmother could hear them.” That was as near a joke as she got that week (maybe there was hope for her). “Those damn curlews are just unmerciful when the weather changes.”

“And when things go bad.”

Joseph said his peace. Mr. Oscar to the P.E. kids, but Joseph to the rest of us. He had what must have been his fourth cup of coffee in his big hands as he said this. “It’s a bad sign.”

“So’s an addiction to caffeine and nonsense.” Ms. Allen had the second of the only two cups of chamomile she would allow herself as she shot down what Joe was about to deliver.

Josephine and Joseph… People did make the jokes they wanted to make about that but not when she was in the room. Our janitor, Sanders, was the first one, saying how odd a couple it would be if they were together (she was too young; he was too aware of what she was). The principal even wondered if it was some cosmic joke to have those two names on the staff (Ms. Kettleman, you are still missed). But I kept my thoughts to myself. And I knew that no one abhorred a vacuum the way Joe did.

“What nonsense? This is all the truth.”

“You really believe that they’re a sign?”

Joe ignored all the other remaining staff in the room as he stood up by the counter (only Mr. Heaney and Ms. Dugan – biology and geography – remained behind).

“Everything’s a sign. Those birds and this weather. It ain’t just climate change, my dear.”

She winced, but I’m still not sure it was due to the improper English or the title he gave her.

“Utter nonsense.”

“Utter truth. Say anyone, have you heard of the Seven Whistlers?”

Not a head nodded.

“Ah, well you might like this one. They were a group of seven birds that were considered phantoms, bad luck if heard, especially at night. That meant that death was coming. Even miners refused to work if those birds were around. They’d start wondering how quickly the shafts would collapse.”

“They’re miners. They are always wondering if today will be the day of a collapse.”

He smiled and put his World’s Greatest Gym Rat mug down.

“I know you think that there has to be a reason for everything, but this one is simply the way things work. And I’m also gonna give you some advice before you head off into the weekend.”

Again, the quiet in there was deaf-making.

“Don’t whistle at night.”

Her laugh was actually charming (a snort followed by a bray that you’d never think she had in her).

“You’ve gotta… have got to be…”

“Say what you will, but every culture has a story about whistling when the sun’s away. You could get skinwalkers, water spirits, shapeshifters, ghosts, forest spirits, demons, and…the Seven Whistlers themselves…”

“And the tooth fairy, the bogeyman, Uncle Fester and Freddy Kruger, right?”

I was impressed she knew those last pulp culture references, and also by his silence and lack of a smile.

“Laugh all you want, but signs are signs. And this is a big one. You don’t want to attract anymore ugliness than’s already here.”

I kept my peace up to that point. I really had to say something.

“Seriously, Joe. How’d you know all that?”

His smile returned.

“I read. I have family who have stories. And I’ve travelled. Anyone who doesn’t believe me can look this stuff up.”

Ms. Allen and all the others watched as he rinsed out his mug and left.

“Oh, and have a good long weekend.”

Still more of that silence, but Josephine had to break it.

“No whistling at night.  Like something from Mother Goose or the guide to being a good neighbour. Just nonsense…”

The rest of us just sat there and wondered about the weekend.

*

Curiosity can injure the best felines.

I was very eager to get home after Joe put that story out there. My townhouse was right by the corner nearest the variety store, and I found that I really needed a bit of a drink before I got home.

“Not your usual, is it?”

Devin on his name tag; Devil to me with those eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s a long weekend.” A small six-pack of pale ale was on the plastic tray holding lottery tickets for people who did not know much about odds and math.

“Long day with the brats?”

“Longer day with the staff.”

He swiped the bar code and laughed. “I really don’t know how teachers do it, man. I like doing all my lessons online after work.”

Still not sure if he dropped out or just skipped things after high school.

“Everyone’s got to find their own thing.”

“Right.”

I swiped for the Interac and picked up the cans. And then I made a mistake.

“Have you ever heard of whistling at night?”

Now, remember, I called the kid “Devil” in my own head (those eyebrows). I had been a customer there since moving in about five years ago. I had spoken to him before about everything under the sun, or at least the fluorescent lights (World Cup, politics, family issues, so on…) But I never saw his face do that.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Just…don’t do that. You shouldn’t whistle at night. It’s real bad luck.”

The beer was cold in my hands, but it wasn’t the only thing giving me a chill.

“You all right? I just heard about it and…”

“No, it’s real. That isn’t something I mess with. Just stay safe and stop with the whistling.”

“I hadn’t started.”

“WELL DON’T!”

I wondered how that would look on a security camera as I stepped slowly away from the counter and walked back to the car. He must have been staring at me as I stood outside, felt the heat and no regret over the purchase. I would have to do my own research.

*

Please forgive me for this.

Saturday was a day for relaxing while I pretended that the papers I had in front of me were coherent (no one remembers dates anymore). But I got it done, went out, got groceries, and had a thought about what to do with my free time.

The library, right on the way home, had their history and mythology sections on the first floor, and it was quiet (everyone had a life). I popped in and read what I could about the Seven Whistlers. It was just one of many myths (Joe nailed it and I wish I could ask him why he stuck with the gym instead of teaching something important). I was walking back to my car when I thought about it...and decided to do something really, really dumb (student dumb, you would say)...

I would whistle at night.

As I said, it was a Saturday. It was a long weekend. Did not want to face more Netflix and dread with the Sunday to come. I had to find something to amuse myself and a myth about birds and other annoying creatures was the best I could do.

I don't live in the quietest neighbourhood. Birds that settle on our trees do so for a reason, not to add to the symphony of sounds around us (car alarms, firecrackers shot off by crackers in the park, the occasional fight for our audio entertainment). I would take a walk just as the sun hit the horizon and then see what I could laugh off before heading home.

So, I got back, had a frozen dinner that did the job, changed my clothes, and decided to test a theory.

It was a beautiful evening and I knew that most of that time would be my own without interruptions from the idiots around me (not sure why I had that thought). I made it down to Yeats Park and saw that there was no one straggling in the dark; no one around except me and my intentions.

I began.

And then I stopped.

As I said, often there were the idiots of my neighbourhood who would set off firecrackers and ignore car alarms while I tried to sleep or keep my sanity. I would often hear them and wonder about who they were. But once I started whistling, it all escaped my thoughts. There was only one other thing worth noticing.

It was finally quiet.

I must have walked extra fast up the hill to my place as the moon came out. I had been to that park many times with a lot of jogging and shopping to do, but it was a long haul. That night was a special difference.

Now, I would like to explain my side of things before I end this.

It was now Sunday, the moment when so many of us dread what the week ahead will be (or at least the Monday morning rush). I woke up early, made some coffee, and looked out the window to the front of the house.

Seven birds.

There were seven birds on the telephone lines.

You would think that I would not notice such things, but it bothered me because of one thing.

They were looking right at me.

People have commented on missing people in their lives over the last month, but that would only matter to me if I had someone special to think about. No, that was not true. None of the colleagues made the list (I miss Joe; even Josephine deserved better); most of the students are gone; and I cannot look Devin in the eye when I pass by the store. He knows what's going on, even if he can't prove it.

He knows.

And I know.

And that is why this is my last letter.

The birds have returned and I cannot take what I am responsible for anymore. Please accept my apology and hope that this is not permanent. We should all be reunited with the ones we love. And I am sure I will get that chance after I do this.

Please forgive me.

Mr. Skeel (no longer Steel)

*

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