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Mike Resnick and Nicholas A. DiCharioBIRDIEI SLEEP. EVENTUALLY THE heavy oak doors of the wine cellar screech open, theiriron hinges sprinkling detritus upon my earthen floor.The slow creak-creak-creak of wary footsteps descend the rotted wooden staircasethat has not home the weight of Man since-- hmmm, let me think about this--Robert Darwin? God only knows how many years ago that was, and BOOM! The winecellar doors collapse again, leaving in their wake a young human boy, standingat the bottom of the cellar steps, trembling in the soft glow of a singleflickering candle."Is there a dragon down here?" says the lad."Anything's possible," I answer.The child gasps, and I see his white face turn a shade or two paler, and when hefinally lets out his breath, out goes the candle. I seem to recall Robert, whenhe was a lad, making the same blunder-- but when Robert blew out his candle hescrambled up the steps and pounded on the wine cellar doors, begging to befreed, screaming like a banshee that the dragon was about to devour him alive.But this one just stands up straight, straining his weak human eyes, eyes thatwere not made for seeing clearly through the darkness."What year is it, lad?""The year is 1817," he says. "I thought Father was fibbing. I mean about you. Ofcourse, I can't see you-- so you could be fibbing, too. This could all be partof my punishment. Are you a man pretending to be a dragon?""Why in the world would I want to do that?" "Maybe Father is paying you.""I am not so easily bribed." I flare a nostril, and reveal just enough of myflame to illuminate the comer of the wine cellar where I lie resting.The youngster edges closer."Well, my boy," I said smugly, "do I pass the test? Man or beast?""You do look different. Is that green fur?""Land scales, actually.""And that big head with the long nose --""Snout.""And those long floppy --""Wings.""I think your ears are bigger than my whole head," he says, his voice filledwith more curiosity than awe. "Do you have four legs or two?""Two hind legs. Two front forearms. Fourteen digits in all." I wiggle my fingersand toes."Those are awfully small arms," he says. "And awfully big legs. And just look atthe size of your toenails!""Talons.""And there's that fire in your nose, too. I don't know of any man who can lighta room with his nose.""Snout." I haul myself up to get a better look at the boy. He doesn't back off,even though I'm as tall as two men and as round as ten. He's a skinny cub, buthandsome for his race, nothing at all like the other Darwins I've seen. Erasmuswas ugly as sin, and Robert was a fat pig of a child, an awkward, weary specimenwith nerves like glass trinkets. The Darwins, historically, have been anabsolutely hideous-looking elan. "If it makes you feel any better to believe I'ma man, then I'm a man."The boy frowns. "You smell different, too. Like . . . like . . . ""Wine?" I suggest."How many years have you been down here?""That's a good question." I pause. "Let me think. I was sleeping under a tree,and when I woke up this wine cellar was all around me. I don't remember muchbefore that.""You mean we built Mount Darwin right on top of your?"This seems to upset the lad, although for the life of me I can't understand why.I lie down and get comfortable again, resting my chin on the floor.The boy strides right up to me, sticks his candle in my snout, and lights thewick. He reaches out and touches my land scales. "They don't feel anything atall like fur or fish scales. They feel like . . . I don't know. . . ""Peat moss.""You can put your fire out now if you like. It must be painful for you to haveit burning inside your nose like that." He stares at me. "Do you get headaches?Father gets them badly sometimes. Where do you come from? Do you have anyfamily?""My fire is not painful; I don't get headaches; and I don't come from anywhere,nor do I have any family.""Everybody comes from somewhere.""Is that so?" I retort. "Says who?"The lad sits down cross-legged on the hard-packed din and holds the candle outin front of him, inspecting me. I shut down my nostril, and a small cloud ofsmoke wafts in the air between us. A pensive look crosses the cub's face, tooserious- a look for a young human boy -- at least from what I can remember ofthem. I've come across a few in my lifetime. They always look a little stupidand very frightened in my presence, never pensive. In any event, I am intrigued,as much by the boy as by the fact that I seem to be carrying on a conversationwith him."What are you doing down here in my wine cellar?" I ask him."Father is punishing me for making too much noise in the house. He's alwayspunishing me for something. I think he doesn't like me much. He says I'll neveramount to anything. He says I lack ex-pe-di-en-cy, whatever that means. Just nowhe told me I've pushed him to the limits of his endurance so he's locking me inthe dungeon until after dinner.""The dungeon?" I repeat. "Is that what he calls it?" The boy nods. "What's yourname, lad?""Charles. Charles Darwin.""Your father wouldn't happen to be Robert Darwin, would he?""Do you know Father?" he asks."I've met a few members of your lineage. Apparently it is a Darwin tradition topunish their cubs by banishing them to the wine cellar--excuse me, the dungeon-- where the sight of me is supposed to terrify them.""I don't find you scary at all.""Come to think of it, I don't find you scary either," I say.The boy nods, apparently satisfied with the arrangement."Expediency," I say. "A concentrated effort in pursuing a particular goal orself-interest with efficiency and haste.""I think you might be a very big bird. Do you come from a family of birds?Do you know how to fly? Are you lonely down here all by yourself?""I prefer solitude.""Or maybe you are a fish, because of your scales.""Land scales. I'd rather be a bird, anyway. I don't know how to swim, but I doknow how to fly." I try to flex my wings, but it has been such a long time sinceI've used them that they flap just once, awkwardly and stiffly, so I give it up."I promise you, when I get out of here, I'll figure out where you come from," hesays with exaggerated pride, tucking his thumbs under his suspenders."What if I don't want to know where I come from?""Everybody wants to know where he's from.""I wouldn't bet my last shilling on that."The boy puffs out his candle, and curls up on the wine cellar floor. "Do youmind if I take a nap, Birdie?"Birdie?In a matter of minutes he is sleeping peacefully. I smile. I do not everremember smiling with any of the other Darwin stock. This one is different.Charles Darwin."This is an incredible opportunity, Birdie! I must go, I simply must!" Charlesis talking about the expedition, of course, as outlined in his letter from thebotanist, John Stevens Henslow. Charles, only twenty-two years of age, has beenrecommended by Henslow to a Captain FitzRoy, R.N., commander of Her Majesty'sShip the Beagle, preparing for a journey to survey the coasts of Patagonia,Tierra del Fuego, Brazil, Chile, Peru, and several islands in the Pacific, torecord chronometrical measurements around the globe. The short of it is, FitzRoyneeds a nature-lover who can keep meticulous records."A trip around the world! And listen to this. Henslow recommended me as 'Thebest qualified person he knows likely to undertake such a situation.'""Not exactly a rave review," I say dryly. "You could well substitute 'madman'for 'person'."He ignores my sarcasm. "There's more, Birdie. Henslow says Captain FitzRoy is 'Apublic-spirited and zealous officer of delightful manners, and greatly belovedby all his other officers!'""And were you the first chosen to undertake this situation, Charles?""Well, no," he admits."Others turned it down?"Well, yes. Henslow himself turned it down, but he didn't want to leave hiswife, and Leonard Jenyns is a top-notch naturalist, but he is a clergyman firstand foremost and he doesn't want to leave his parish in the lurch.""Might I remind you that you are a clergyman, also.""I am not," he replies heatedly. "Well, not yet, anyway. And you're not going totalk me out of this expedition, Birdie. I've already discussed it with Father,and I've sent my letter of acceptance to the captain. This is the perfectopportunity for me to document new species." He paused and stares at me. "Don'tyou see what this means, Birdie? At last I might be able to pinpoint yourorigins!""Ah-ha! You're doing this for me, aren't you, Charles?"Silence. Of course I am correct. Ever since the first moment he saw me he hasbeen driven to discover who and what and why I am.He became interested in natural history, in minerals and sea shells and fossils,in pigeons, in marine life, always searching for clues to my origins. The Greekand Latin that Dr. Butler tried to teach him at Shrewsbury Grammar School madeno impression upon him whatsoever.When Charles turned sixteen, his father gave up on the boy ever gaining aclassical education, and decided to send him to Edinburgh to study medicine.Alas, the sight of blood disgusted him, and he hated inflicting pain as much asmost men hate bearing it, so he began to cultivate new and more interestinghobbies -- zoology, geology, botany -- and without the support or encouragementof his family or his masters at school, Charles continued to pursue my past,even though I constantly tried to dissuade him."Give it up, Charles. Ge... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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