Part 3:
The man and I talked, or rather he talked in human language and I answered with chirps and whistles. Neither of us really knew what the other was saying, but that didn't mean we didn't understand each other. I didn't know his human words and he couldn't interpret the complex rhythms of my own speech. So instead we spoke in tones and shared just the sounds of our voices with each other. He would whistle and I would trill back and we shared our songs for the whole afternoon, until the sky turned pink again with sunset.
I realized that it was time for me to go, and he must have too because when I looked back at him after checking the sky he offered me his human pre-laugh expression. I tweeted farewell and he made a sort of flipping gesture that would have scared me a lot except I found myself oddly trusting of this human. In any case I recognized the gesture as one I had often seen humans give one another before they parted ways and I took my leave. I was so filled with excitement about the strange human man I had communicated with that I didn't think I'd ever get to sleep that evening. As soon as I settled myself in for the night in Madison Park though, I discovered that I was exhausted. With only a few more stray thoughts for the man, I tucked my head beneath my wing and fell almost instantly asleep.
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John stared after his new friend a long time after the bird had long disappeared into the evening sky. He watched the sky turn dark and the few stars that could be seen over the city came out.
He wondered what he ought to make of what had just happened to him. Surely this sort of thing didn't happen to normal, sane people. He'd heard of stray dogs and even cats becoming attached to hobos and homeless people, fellow street-dwellers. Never though, ad he heard of a bird doing such a thing.
The next day he made sure to visit a shelter and pocketed some bread from the soup line. He didn't drink (much) that morning, feeling the need to keep his wits about him for the first time in a long while. It wasn't as though he had any plans, so he returned to the alley and waited patiently to see if the bird would return, watching the slice of pale, winter-blue sky above the alley.
By mid afternoon he's beginning to question again whether he'd just dreamed the whole thing in a drunken haze. Then the bird appeared. It swooped down from the sky, alighting on the fire escape with a flutter of wings. John whistled a greeting and the bird responded from its perch with a slightly more complex, trilling echo of the same melody.
John fishes in his pockets and extracts a small piece of the bread he stashed there earlier. He offers it to the bird by tossing it gently. It lands about two yards in front of him, safely out of his immediate reach. The bird hesitates, clearly interested in the white bread sitting temptingly on the dingy ground. John whistles invitingly and leans back against the bricks, folding his hands in his lap. The bird hesitates a few moments more, then flutters down from the fire escape, hopping carefully closer along the ground. It picks up the morsel of bread and hops back a few feet, watching him over the bread trapped in his beak.
John watched, strangely fascinated by how the bird ate the bread. He'd never been particularly interested in birds, and just generally ignored them, fixing his attention on things much more important to the success of his missions and to his own survival. Suddenly though, he found his attention fixed on this small creature, watching it use its tiny talons and beak to tear off pieces, then throwing its head back to swallow. He dimly remembered hearing somewhere that birds were the closest living relatives to dinosaurs, and observing the way it tore at the bread, he found he fully believed it.
He offers the bird more pieces of bread, dropping them steadily closer to himself and forcing it to come closer for each piece. Finally he stopped when he was holding the last piece between his thumb and forefinger. He made eye contact with the bird and whistled encouragingly.
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I tilted my head and asked in the driest tones I could manage, "Surely you don't expect me to come up there to get that?" Naturally, he did not understand me and remained unabashed, still holding out the hand pinching the last piece of bread in my direction.
The man whistled again and said something short in what was unmistakably a challenging tone. I've never been one to turn down a challenge, often to my personal woe. So against all my instincts and my better judgment, I found myself accepting. I hopped forwards and with no further warning, fluttered up into the air. I landed myself on top of his hand, grasping the fleshy part of his human thumb-finger tightly to keep myself steady. I knew that my small talons are pricking into his skin and it is probably uncomfortable for him, but he doesn't flinch or try to throw me off, so I don't hesitate. I snatch the bread from his fingers with my beak and look him in the eyes as if to say "There, I did it." His expression though, gave me pause. He was looking at me with a strange, indecipherable look in his eyes and instantly I was afraid again. It was a trap! He's got me now! Maybe he's going to hurt him for pricking his hand with my claws! All these thoughts rushed through my head as I was filled with desperate terror, frozen and unable to fly away.
Instead of trapping me or hurting me though, the human man just smiled at me and brought me a little closer to his body by pulling back his arm.
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John had been shocked when the bird actually jumped up onto his hand. The rational part of him had simply been playing alone with the rest of him, never really believing that the creature would show that kind of courage. A part of him that he had thought long dead fluttered and took wing on wonder.
He noted how frightened it was, sitting impossibly still like it wasn't even breathing. It held the bread it had daringly won but didn't eat it. It just sat and stared like it didn't dare to break eye contact – not even to blink.
The part of John that had been elated when the bird jumped onto his hand went cold and distant. He thought of how the bird clearly still saw him as a threat, just like so many others. Most of the men he'd killed on missions hadn't known what hit them before they hit the floor. The others though, had they all been so afraid? The bird was so small, so light on his arm, barely the weight of a couple of 19mm Sig rounds, like the ones he'd killed those men with.
The bird didn't fly away though. Maybe it was too scared. It had shown bravery when it had jumped up in the first place though, and John couldn't help but admire the way it boldly held his gaze where men dozens of times its size had quailed. So John just offered it a reassuring smile and pulled his arm in slightly, bringing the bird closer to his body.
"I suppose I'll have to give you a name now," John spoke softly, giving the little brown bird an appraising look. "How about something starting with an 'H'?" The bird just blinked at him uncomprehendingly apparently having relaxed enough to do that. John did his best to project calm and serenity towards the bird as he searched for the right name. "Harriet? No… I think maybe you're a boy, hmmn?"
"What about Herbert? Harper? Herman, Hector, Henry? No, no, and no. Howard – No, maybe Harry? Wait, I've got it." A triumphant smile spread across John's face. "Harold. I'll call you Harold. Harold…" He squints slightly, scrutinizing the bird again. John, never being interest in birds, knew very little about species or how to tell them apart, so he gave it his best guess. "Um, I'm not sure but I think maybe you're a finch?" He looks to the bird for confirmation but it only stares unhelpfully back.
"Alright then, Harold the Finch it is. I think it suits you, what do you think, Harold? The newly named Harold only tilts his head in response.
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Humans had this odd habit of naming things. Other animals, birds included, did no such thing. It was all here or there, this or that, you, me, us. Birds knew each other by their feathers and their voices, no names required.
Truth be told though I had always been fascinated by human names for people and places. I had found you could pick them out of human conversations and learn them with relative ease. Humans had names for places and things and themselves and other humans and even for animals – Oh so many names! I'd made a point of learning all the names of the streets in New York and the names of the cities I'd visited. I also made a point of listening in on human conversations and learning from them quite often.
I had learned many of humanity's names for different kinds of animal. I had listened to people on the steps of the library who taught groups of smaller humans gathered around. They showed each other colorful pictures in books and pointed to myself and other creatures in the park, saying their names for us. They had named the pigeons, the robins, the sparrows, and they had called me Wren.
For a while, I did not understand what the man was saying as he held me but did not hurt me. Eventually I came to realize based on his manner of speech and the repetition, that he had picked a name for me. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that I was Wren, not this Finch or this Harold thing. But he didn't understand me when I tried to correct him, and despite myself I found I quite liked the sound of my new name- the new name that had been chosen just for me by the man.
Lacking any other real course of action I sat on the hand of the strange human man who held me but did not hurt me, and wove complicated songs for him. And the whole while he spoke softly to me, calling me Harold and Finch until the sky grew dark.