Donnell stretched out his legs and folded his arms in imitation of Simpkins, returning his bland smile. Simpkins was obviously a force to be reckoned with, despite his failed gift, and Donnell did not want to establish the precedent of following his orders by proxy. ‘I’ll pass,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come here to kill birds.’
‘You don’t have to kill them,’ said Otille, as if that were the furthest thing from her mind. ‘I’m much more interested in the variety of psychic powers than their repetition. Why don’t you just see what you can do. Experiment. I won’t hold it against you if nothing happens.’
But you will if I don’t try, thought Donnell. ‘All right,’ he said. He took Clea’s place in the midst of the cages, and she and Downey settled into chairs.
The birds appeared none the worse for wear, bright-eyed and chirping, swinging on their perches. Their plumage was beautiful - pastel blues and pinks, snowy white, bottle greens - and their magnetic fields were hazy glimmers in the air, easy to influence at a distance like the fields of telephones and cameras. He found if he reached out his hand to a cage, the birds within it stilled, quieted, and their fields glowed. But he could produce no other effect. The two cages closest to him contained nine birds, and by spreading his fingers magician style he managed to still all nine controlling each with one of his fingers, feeling the tug of the fields. He doubted, though, that this would satisfy Otille. Then following Otille’s advice - ‘Experiment’ - and wondering why it had never occurred to him to try before, he maintained his hold on the fields and shifted his focus into the darkness of the gros bon ange.
Bits of whirling blackness and jeweled fire hung in the silver cages. Tentatively, he pushed a forefinger against one of the fields, stroking it, and a thread of iridescent light no thicker than a spiderweb shot from his fingertip. He withdrew the finger, startled; but since the bird displayed no ill effects, its fires undimmed, he tried it again. Eventually nine threads of light connected his fingertips with the nine birds, and the refractions inside their bodies flowed in orderly patterns. The pressure of their fields against his hands increased, and when he involuntarily crooked a finger, one of the birds hopped down off its perch. He repeated the process, and soon, feeling omnipotent, the ringmaster of the magical circus, he had gained enough control to send them marching about the cages. Tiny jewelbox creatures hopping onto silvery feeders and swings, twittering and parading around and around.
Clea gasped, someone knocked over a chair, and someone else contributed slow, ironic applause. ‘Thank you, Donnell,’ said Otille. That’s quite sufficient.’
He relaxed his control, brought the ballroom back into view and saw Otille smiling at him. ‘Well,’ he said, stung by the pride of ownership in her face, ‘was that out of the ordinary enough?’ Then he glanced down at the cages.
He had not killed the birds. Not outright. That would have been merciful compared to what he had done. The delicate hues of their feathers were dappled with blood, and freed from his control, their cries had grown piercing, stirring echoes in the sunlit upper reaches of the room. Their beaks were shattered, crimson droplets welling from the cracks; their wings and legs were broken; and the membranes of their eyes had burst and were dripping fluid. All lay flapping on the floors of the cages except for a parakeet, its legs unbroken, which clung to its perch and screamed.
‘Papa,’ said Otille. ‘Will you and Downey take the undamaged ones to my office?’
Downey was frozen, grim-faced; Clea buried her head in his shoulder. Papa hesitated, eyeing Donnell nervously.
Three, no, four of the birds had quit fluttering, and Donnell sat watching them die, stunned.
‘Simpkins,’ said Otille. ‘Take the others out to my car.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Simpkins. He came over to the cages, and as he bent down, he whispered, ‘Poor Dularde never knew what hit him, did he, brother?’
Sick of his snide comments, his contemptuous air, Donnell jumped up and swung, but Simpkins easily caught his wrist and with his other hand seized Donnell’s throat, his fingers digging in the back of the Adam’s apple. ‘I ain’t no goddamn parakeet, brother,’ he said. He tightened his grip, and Donnell’s mouth sprang open.
‘Simpkins!’ Otille clapped her hands.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Simpkins released Donnell and hoisted the cages, once again bland and smiling.
Donnell headed for the door, holding his throat.
‘Where are you going?’ called Otille.
