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The centre fell. We knew it would. It couldn’t possibly have held out any longer. We’d been saying as much for years. And it wasn’t because of the guy with the bird; he was exactly where we’d left him, tear-dimmed eyes on the heavens, hollering himself hoarse, trying to joystick the damn reaper bird back into the narrower circle, the sky widening black with its gyroscoped loiterings and kamikaze rolls, pitches and yaws; but just the same, when it actually happened, when it spilled out, overwhelming our defenses, we were, as usual, the last to know, the last to see, because, as usual, our attentions were elsewhere, distracted by everything else in the spiraling vortex: the account-keepers’ lists, the revelations, the novelties, the inertial sensors, the one-way attacks, the walk-ons, the pandemic, the rhubarbing tumult in the wings. And now again all eyes are back on the birdman, alone in the field, gloved arm aloft, staring up at the clouds, trying to guess the scope and range of the munitions.
As usual, it has to be said, we were expecting something bigger. Grand entrances, great unveilings, vast incarnations, Spiritus Mundi in a Humvee or some inner change maybe, a voice we would all hear, a Pope or a bell maybe, a call to prayer, but by then voices were hollow and the bird wasn’t even circling anymore; it had just flown off and disappeared into the distance. So, humbled to the dust the hell we said, and we kept it shut, buttoned it tight, tight as a drum, turning and turning, wheeling and reeling, banging away, watching twenty-one centuries disintegrating into chaos, bare lawlessness, precision changes in thrust and angle, the darkened surging flood of violence, every innocent rite of clarity and virtue dragged under.
The last to know and the last to leave because we liked the food, the cocktails, the digestifs, the coffee, the friendly waiters, the hot men, the beautiful ladies. Go back to the old place, some suggested, or try one of the new ones, a shinier one, a high-tech somewhere better, safer, anywhere, as long as there are clean people wearing nice clothes making dosas and tacos and gelatos; but, in the end, of course, off we went, hell in a handcart, head down, eyes on the sandbox beneath our feet, indignant lions looking for holes to bury their human heads, eyes empty, merciless, lumbering forth their great thighs forward straight to the blood-dimmed edge of the storm.
Everything bright, no shadows. The darkness missed. Not that we had much of a say. Because no one was listening. Why would they? They had the floor. We all had the floor by then; the good paralysed by doubt, drained of certainty, the dangerous ablaze with zeal. Remember when we thought this, and weren’t afraid to say so? The good, the bad. Nothing else, really. Nothing more. Nevertheless. Sin embargo. What would that look like? No more offences let in. The tide tight. No more trespass of trade. An immoral act breaks the divine law or the moral law and an order halts exchange. Combined: a political offence deliberately blocking, the cradle rocking, a serious breach of accepted rules or duties. Is that was this is?
The cheap swarm reeling harder now, circling and staggering in the heated air; the scavengers angry, restless; the birdman vexed. The darkness falls again. He throws down the glove, drops the console, folds up the baby stroller, slouches back to the airstrip and boards the last night flight back to Bethlehem.
Easter 2026. Apologies to Mr Bill.
