The Learning

A short story.

It was the strangest, most unsettling day of my life—the day the great gleaming bird crashed into our realm from above, exploded into a fireball and changed everything forever. 

You humans have a peculiar word for what became of us, I believe. Wait, it’s right on the tip of my beak. Yes, here it is: transmogrification! 

(Apologies. I sometimes draw a “blank” which compromises my ability to communicate precisely.) 

But to proceed…

We had been happily ignorant. Each adhering to our present-moment roles, existing as evolution would have us exist, living and dying in turn as evolution would have it. But then after the previously mentioned event, we—some of us—became hopelessly distracted and alienated from our natural states. In sum, we became creatures we were never meant to become.

The moral? Be careful what you eat.

I suppose I should also inform you that because I’m a member of Corvus corax—a common raven, sometimes referred to as the “harbinger of doom,” subject of folklore and mythology, made famous by a drunken lunatic who called himself a poet, it’s a bad rap, an unfortunate personal brand for me, not at all what you think, i.e., an ebony-feathered symbol of evil and death—I sometimes tend to peck around the substance of things until I’m more sure of myself.  This behavior is exacerbated by the fact that, after the crash, I inherited the unique but sometimes infuriating personality of a certain B-movie and TV actor known for his raspy, meandering delivery and inability to pronounce his “r’s” (which typically turned out sounding like “w’s”, i.e., “May I get you a glass of sherry?” turns into “May I get you a glass of shewwy?”). 

Please, forgive my rambling and instances of stupefaction. Please, call me Percy. 

Now, a-hem. On to the reason I learned to think and feel and talk just like you, all of which allows me to tell you the story of what happened to us on that fateful day so long ago. 

* * *

It was late afternoon on our isolated mountain top, the winter moon already rising as a faint sliver of itself, bare tree branches burdened with fresh snow. Most of us were hiding from a frigid wind—all of us miserable with unbearable hunger. 

(Pardon the interjection, but I should offer a note of clarity re: the objective pronoun “us” and subjective pronoun “we.” Because not every animal suffered the same eye-opening, mind-expanding fate as the “us” I’m referring to. What I mean to say is that the group that shall be henceforth known as “we” or “us” were particularly fond of carrion. The fresher, the better.)

Since I’ve always been more nimbly opportunistic than the others while possessing a keen, inborn sense of observation (greatly enhanced by my typical high-altitude vantage point), I was the first to reach the wreckage after witnessing the explosion from across the canyon.

Upon flying towards the sound for a closer look, I landed on a tree branch and ruffled a cloud of ice crystals from my feathers. 

Looking down into the clearing, I surveyed the scene with suspicious avian eyes, but not with a judgmental point of view since I didn’t possess one at the time. (That only came later, after I’d “ingested” the ability to do so.)  You’d know it as an airplane, but broken apart. Silvery pieces flung near and far after it impacted the earth. Little islands of flame in the snow drifts encircled the nose of the plane—the only large piece still intact—it very much engulfed in flames big enough to lap and singe the boughs below my perch. 

Through the shattered windows I saw two burning objects, what in hindsight I determined to be human beings.

And another thing—things I should say—caught my attention. Numerous, identical objects strewn about in the snow, each one the size and shape of a hat box (oddly enough, I seem to remember those from mine or someone else’s “Vaudeville days”). So fitting that the contents of each object, as I later discovered, could’ve once presided merrily under a hat!

I flew down to the snowy ground, while keeping a safe distance from anything that felt hot or looked like rivers of jagged sunlight surging through the air. 

Cautiously, I waddled towards one of the boxes. On closer inspection, it appeared to be made of tree-like material (“wood,” is it? Of course!). Then I saw a pattern on the side of the box which I would later discern as a collection of meaningful symbols you refer to as “words.” The pattern was as follows: 

NEUROTECH BRAIN RESEARCH INSTITUTE
Fragile & perishable! • MTW42251 • Keep refrigerated

The box had been damaged on impact, as the lid sat slightly askew. And then, with great expectation, I detected the unmistakable aroma of decay wafting out of the box—only a hint, mind you, but enough to know that I might survive another day on the mountain. I pecked at the lid, it fell off completely. Inside, to my delight, the bounty awaited: an oozing, gray mass garnished with crystal shards of what reminded me of frozen pond scum (which, in my subsequent heightened sense of intelligence, I understood to be crystal shards of green laboratory glass). Nevertheless, I pecked enthusiastically into the gooey mass—ripping, tearing, shredding it into manageable bites, which I swallowed down with gusto!

But alas, in my state of distraction, I failed to sense the slobbering snarls behind me. Luckily, just before the hairy beast leaped at me—its jaws snapping and eyes glowing like angry lanterns in the falling light—I took wing and rocketed skyward, back up to my perch in the tree above. 

“Wolf!” I squawked—or rather…spoke? How strange! 

And then, from down below, a reply: “Yes?” Wolf licked the slime from its lips, then became motionless, one paw lifted in the air, the skin above its eyes deeply wrinkled like the bark of an ash tree. 

Suddenly, a whole series of vibrations rattled my gullet. “I think it would be nice if you saved some for the others.” 

Wolf sniffed the air. Stared at all the other boxes, one by one. Then growled, “Excuse me?” Shocked by his second vocalization, the beast exploded into the air—a ball of comically somersaulting fur, looping once, twice, three times—and then raced down the side of the mountain with its tail tucked between its legs.

Immediately I fluttered back down to the open box. But seconds later the others appeared—lingering warily on the perimeter of the crash site. Raccoon. Puma. Coyote. And casting the largest shadow of all—Bear. A moment later, I noticed the flapping of giant wings and the crack of a tree branch. Vulture, occupying the very branch I’d vacated. Soon, each animal found an open or mangled box, sniffed it and then began supping on the contents with unbridled zeal.

What unfolded next might be best understood as “lighthearted dinner table conversation,” as my mostly private feast had become a public banquet for six (seven if you count Wolf, who eventually skulked back in and rejoined the rest of us).

“Quite nice!” Raccoon said cheerily.

“A bit on the zesty side,” said Puma.

“The word is piquant,” said Vulture—self righteously—gulping down a stringy lump of the carrion.

Coyote, snarling with delight, was anything but critical. “Fabulous!”

“Not rancid enough for my taste, but it’ll do,” groused Bear.

“Anybody know what we’re eating?” asked Wolf, again confounded by the sound coming out of his mouth.

Because I’d been the first to sample the fare—and therefore the first to be, well, transmogrified—I could’ve easily answered the question with a degree of enlightened confidence. But I knew it would come soon enough to all of them without any help from me. 

And, like that, it did. 

You might say animal minds began “glowing” in the dark.

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