Fictitious Friday: The Broken Whistle

A slender grey and white bird landed on a cotton branch near the young man and cocked its head. The two studied each other for a moment. The bird blinked its shiny black eyes and deciding that it liked this young man, opened its beak and trilled out a tune. But the melody was lost to the man. He looked at the bird in wide eyed wonder, trying to understand. Another man, who they called Walt, came up next to him and looked at the bird with a smile. He saw the confusion in the young man’s eyes and said “Mockingbird.”

He had to repeat the word a few times before the young man finally got it.

The young man read Walt’s lips and silently formed the word on his own lips. He had seen birds many times before but never had one come right up to him and open its little mouth. He had never wondered what it was they did when they opened their mouths and tilted their little heads back. The older man saw this wonder and explained. “It’s singing.”

The young man nodded in understanding, and in his silent world, he watched the mockingbird sing. When it was done, the bird cocked its head to the side again and looked at him as if it knew he was deaf. The young man gave a tentative smile, and reached out a hand to the bird when suddenly a whip cracked across his back. The bird took flight and watched safely from a distance.

“Get back to work Dummy!”

The young man took a second whiplash to his back and he grimaced in pain. Walt stood huddled in the bush near him and they hastily resumed picking the cotton. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the slaves grew darker. Sweat mingled with blood, a salty pain. As the days went by, the young man would look out for the mockingbird, watching it as it flitted about freely from tree to tree. But it never came too close again. The young man thought it didn’t want him to get another beating. But they always found an excuse to use their whips. Walt was always close by, to shake the young man out of his wistful reveries and prevent any more beatings than necessary. He always caught the young man watching the birds, a longing look in his eye. His mouth always tried to form the sounds the birds made, but he couldn’t form what he couldn’t hear.

Walt shook his head. “It will do you no good.”

But of course, the young man couldn’t hear him. As the men worked, they would sing in hushed tones. The white men weren’t too thrilled about it, but they let them be. The young man compared the men’s lip formations with the birds trill. Sometimes, when he caught the words of the songs, he would sing along in a broken tune. Other times he would purse his lips and form a beak with his mouth. He tried to imagine what a bird song sounded like. Walt as always knew what the young man was thinking, and that evening in their sleeping quarters, he tried to get the other men to explain to the young man what a bird song sounded like. The young man watched as the other men around him pursed their lips and tried to imitate birdsong. They started out by singing, but in the end they were all whistling. The young man cocked his head just like the mockingbird, watching the lip formations carefully. The white men didn’t like the noise coming from the men and soon they were all in the dark. As the young man lay on his bed of hay that night, he wondered where the mockingbird was. It could sleep wherever it wanted. Eat whenever and whatever it wanted. Do whatever it wanted. Wherever it was, he couldn’t help wishing to be like the mockingbird.

Early the next morning, the mockingbird came back to the young man as he was picking cotton. The man straightened up and greeted the bird with a smile. As usual, it cocked its head to the side and studied him. The young man waited for it to sing, but it didn’t. It just flew to a nearby branch and waited. The young man looked after it curiously and took a step toward it. He stopped and looked back. No one was watching him. He felt a sudden surge of independence and took a deep breath. Then he ran. He ran towards the woods where the mockingbird sat waiting for him. Exhilaration coursed through his veins as he threw caution to the wind. Then a gunshot filled the air. The young man fell to his knees, a perplexed look on his face. Then he fell to the ground. As he lay, the life draining out of him, the mockingbird landed on the ground before him. As usual, it cocked its head and they studied each other. The young man smiled intrepidly and reached out to the bird. It hopped onto his hand and watched as the young man pursed his lips and began to whistle. The mockingbird listened until his broken tune faded and his eyes closed. And as all the men watched, the mockingbird tilted its head back, and finished the young man’s long and broken whistle.

-By Wilhelmine Wachter