Big Birds and a Man on the Roof

Erastus one day came upon a house built by a sizable lake. It might have been like any other he'd ever seen, save this one had a young man sitting atop it. He stood to greet Erastus, waving his arm loosely from side to side. He was a tall but thin, in a blue straw hat. In his off hand he held a staff that was heavily nicked and splintered.

'How's you are, mister?' the man spoke, betraying his limited intellect. He did not seem to be truly impaired, but instead meagerly educated.

'I am quite well, thank you. How do you do?' was Erastus' reply. 'And what are you doing up on that roof, if you don't mind me asking.' he added.

'Scaring big birds' he explained in his jittery voice that clicked like a river rocks struck against one another. 'We want no nests here. 'Ts my job. 'Ts my job and I don't want to loose it.' Suddenly he grew serious and turned his back to look out over the lake.'

Adjusting himself to follow the roof-man's gaze, Erastus noticed a small ram-shackled village nestled by the foot of a large hill across the water. The thatched roofs had collapsed into most of the houses and the walls had been streaked a bright white, seemingly from bird droppings. White stork-like creatures with wingspans that might span the length of two grown men waded in shallow water or stood watch from atop the walls that still stood. It was doubtful that any humans still resided in that place.

Erastus looked back up towards the man and noticed a small, simple tented structure on the left side of the roof on which he stood. It could only be a dwelling of some sort. He didn't mean to get the man fired, but Erastus hadn't spoken to a soul in a week, and he was sure that the rooftop man had been exaggerating.

'Excuse me, sir,' he started. 'What might I call you?'

'Josigh.' he answered frankly without looking back.

Erastus hesitated for a moment. 'Do you sleep up here sometimes?' he decided to ask.

'All times, sir. I never been down, nope' he recited like a code of honor.

'You mean to say you've never left the rooftop!?'

'Yes'sir'

'Surely you weren't born up there!'

Josigh seemed to consider this for a long moment. '... Can't remember' he finally said, very seriously.

There was a stirring from within the home before a voice called out ‘Who are you speaking with?’ Moments later a lady emerged in a blue apron, the same hue as the Josigh’s wide brimmed hat, though the color was not so dull and weathered. She was a full head smaller than Erastus, who would not have considered himself tall by any standards, and may have been two decades his senior. She appeared from the door with her attention focused directly over head. ‘Only the mad chatter to the winds! I’ve told you this before.’ Not waiting for Josigh to fumble a reply, she promptly disappeared back into the house, shutting the door forcefully in her wake.

Erastus had earned the rooftop man a scolding that was undeserved. It was a wrong he felt that he must now right.

A cold breeze whistled through the trees as Erastus approached the house. Rays of light filtering though cracks of the crudely built wooden door danced across his shirt. Erastus knocked upon it thrice. Before long a shadowy form blocked the light from within. It ducked its head to one of the larger cracks and Erastus could feel a cautious eye inspecting him. He smiled in the dim pink light of the setting sun. ‘Good evening, ma’dam.’

The door opened suddenly to reveal the small, wrinkled lady frowning at him suspiciously. ‘Yes?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’

Erastus was taken aback by her forwardness for a second. Quickly gathering himself, he explained that it had been he who was conversing with Josigh.

‘And?’

‘And so... he is not mad.’ It was the best conclusion Erastus could draw, though he doubted it himself.

‘Noted.’ she replied simply. ‘Now is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘No, that would be all.’ Erastus felt foolish and defeated somehow. ‘Well, farewell then...’

He had turned away and begun to leave when he heard her voice call out for him to return. ‘There is not a warm bed for many, many miles.’ she explained matter-of-factly. ‘Come stay the evening here. You look dreadfully weary from travel.’ She said it as if it were common logic, or a homeowner’s duty, seeming to him that she was more reasonable than kind. He accepted her offer graciously, though she only shrugged at his thanks.


He served himself a meager helping of bread and corn and sat beside the fire. The lady, Marbeth, went around back to bring food up to Josigh. When she returned she helped herself to a cob and joined Erastus, sitting on a cushion that had been propped up against the wall. She took a few bites before she she spoke to him.

‘Do not think unkindly of us, stranger. Know that this is the way it must be.’

He knew that she must be referring to Josigh,

‘If it weren’t for us, he would not even be alive today.’ she explained, gazing into the fire. ‘He would have died in the village, like our son. As we saved and protected him for the birds, he now does the same for us. Is that too much to ask?’

It might have been, Erastus was not sure. ‘What happened?’ he finally asked.


She told him that until seventeen years ago she had been living peacefully in that village with her husband. While it could largely sustain itself, the village thrived due to a blue berry that grew exclusively year round on the nearby hills. A dye could be made from that berry that was treasured by noblemen from far off lands. And so merchants would come and pay generously for it, and the people prospered by gathering the berries to sell.

Sadly, this gift would reveal itself to be a curse.

It is not known from where the enormous birds came, but why they decided to stay quickly became very clear. They wildly relished the taste of the blue berries, and in combination with the fish of the lake, the area proved to be a perfect land in which the creatures could flourish.

It began with a handful, but soon many more of the birds began to join the flock, and more and more of the berries were consumed. The richer men of the village that were dependent on the blue berry for their luxurious lifestyle began to grow fearful at this time and wanted to drive the animals away. But it was soon discovered that the birds would grow violent to keep the humans from the berries, and so most of the villagers decided to leave them in peace and live a modest life. They lived side by side for the remainder of the summer months, but then winter came and the birds began their nesting.

The straw rooftops of the homes proved to be perfect nesting spots for the birds, even more so when it had collapsed, leaving the walls to shelter them from the wind. By the time the fifth roof had fallen, the townsfolk’s patience with the animals had been stretched too thin.

Their attempts to frighten the birds away quickly grew violent and their anger was matched by the creatures. A civil war of man and beast erupted, but nature proved too strong. Men, women, and children alike were slain by the infuriated birds, impaled on claw and beak. Those who survived the initial onslaught were forced to flee quietly in the dead of night.

Marbeth and her husband were among those. As they had begun to leave they came across a baby, abandoned or orphaned, in a window sill. They took him with them and named him Josigh.


‘Where is your husband now?’ Erastus enquired, confident by the way Marbeth had spoken of him that he had not passed on.

‘Across the lake, in the hills’ she told him. ‘We are the last collectors the berries. Gerald leaves before sundown to gather them in the darkness, returning at dawn. You see, the birds hate all humans now, and will kill any that come near the village without hesitation. This is why he must sneak in and out by night. And only when the moonlight is dim.’

‘Why don’t you just leave to begin a life anew?’

‘And surrender to the wretched beasts? My Gerald is prouder than that.’ she said bitterly.

Erastus wanted to point out that surrender came before defeat, but felt it would do little good. Instead he finished his tea and took to bed.

He left the next morning just afore dawn, tipping his hat to Gerald as he passed him on the road.

A Man Covered in Rats

It was not long down the road that Erastus met a haggard young man sitting beneath an ancient gnarled tree. Clinging to his chest was a small swarm of what seemed to be rats. Curiosity aroused, he approached the young man with a smile. 'I say, lad! Are those rats crawling all upon your tunic?'

'Why yes... yes they are indeed.' he replied as though he'd never noticed them before. The young mans eyes were glazed and he seemed to look right through Erastus. For, in fact, he was lost deep within his own mind, and was minimally aware of the world around him. Being an intuitive man, Erastus sensed as much and kindly bid him farewell, to which he received no reply.

As he walked away he wondered if the rats clung to the man or the man to the rats. 'Perhaps both' he hoped, and yet he had his doubts.

Being Home

He stepped from within, glowing with the confidence of one who has stepped many times before. Sure enough, as the sun does rise and fall, so did his feet. And with gentle thuds against the dew-moistened earth, Erastus strode his way down the steep of a hill.

'But not just any hill' he might say, 'my hill!' For atop the grassy mound his humble home did sit.

Not long did he walk, but returned to find his door agape, unlike the way in which he left it. Having not been a particularly windy morning, he approached the weathered wooden arc with caution.

'Welcome, welcome!' a happy voice did bid him enter. And enter he did, for after all, it was his home. She smiled in earnest and poured a second cup of tea.

Upon his cushioned throne, there sat a damsel neither young nor old, wrapped in the rags of a rainbow, once vibrant, but faded by the years. Her teeth were yellow-beige and her hair and nails unkempt and clot with spots of dirt. The woman adjusted her feet beneath her and held the cup her full arms length before him.

'You offer me that which is mine' he told her, but accepted the steaming glass none the less. She may be a thief, he thought, but she was a generous one at the least. They slipped in silence for a peaceful moment. Then it passed and naught had still been said, so he inquired (a trifle annoyed) 'what are you doing in my home?'

For a breath she seemed frightened, like a cat whose milk's been snatched away. Then she frowned. 'Well, I've been living here for nearly... eight minutes! And I'm quite settled in' she told him. 'Oh! But you are more than welcome to stay as long as you like.' she added. 'Forever even! It's all the same to me.' She got up and turned to the kitchen 'Would you like a muffin? They're not so fresh, but still they have not lost all their flavor.'

Now Erastus was a kind man, not one prone to forcing ladies from his home. Especially not ones so hospitable as she. Often in the past he had remarked 'what's mine is yours, so make yourself at home!' And now that someone actually had he could not go back on his word. 'Someone may take my home,' he said, for she was in the kitchen beyond the distance whispers traveled, 'but my honest virtue's mine alone.'

He resolved to leave and seek life anew, checked for stones, and was out the door.

She turn out from the hall bearing a tray of dry berried muffins. Upon the chair, where had been the man, lay a note. It simply read:

'Thank you for the lovely tea.
But I am afraid,
a muffin life is not for me.'

'What an awful poem' she thought. And yet, she was impressed for the effort.

On ... the first

I find beginnings often to be the most difficult.

I think, just before a step out the door: 'What if for the first step, my foot should land upon a rock?' My journey shall be ruined from the very start! But I cannot stay inside, where it is safe. Greater still would be the woe, to know that I had never begun. And so I say to myself 'Erastus, your journey may last but a second, but if you stay inside it will last exactly zero seconds. And zero divides into one an immeasurable amount of times. Therefore a journey of one second is infinity more fulfilling than one of zero.'

I drape my cloak upon my shoulder and take the handle to my hand. But then I think: 'Who is to say that time at home is not a journey. Perhaps not a journey of the feet, but could I not have a pleasant journey of the mind? Or even just a tasty journey of the mouth!?' And then I decide that all of life is a journey.

I was once told that for every path you choose you leave a thousand behind you, but who knows how many may lay ahead. And if you choose a path laden with traps or covered in dung, you need but turn around and find you're back to the path from which you came.

With a chuckle I am out the door, the grass cool between my toes. The ground is littered with stones, like stars in a sky of night, but not to my dismay. I say to them, 'You are not wicked' and take heed for where I step.

For if I should stub my toe they may exclaim to me: 'For what have you kicked me!?'