LITMIR.BIZ

      Three

      For hours after the slender man left, the man who belonged to the sounds Dubykky, the boy-creature practiced words with the crow, Jurgen. In the course of it, he discovered in himself a new state of mind, which desired the bird to remain close, required it even. So most of all he practiced his new self-sounds, Junior. He pointed at himself, widened his mouth as Dubykky had taught, and spoke “Junior” over and over. Now perched on the shoe tip of the boy’s right foot, the bird paid strict attention. When he finally said, “Junior,” in return, the boy switched to a new instruction. He pointed at Jurgen and began to repeat, still smiling, “You are Jurgen.” Eventually the crow repeated the phrase exactly.

      Too exactly. Junior sensed something wrong. He checked the book, thought over what Dubykky had taught him, and realized that he had used the wrong words. He should have taught the bird to say, “I am Jurgen.” But if he, who was called Junior, said that, it would also be incorrect. “I am Jurgen” and “You are Jurgen” meant different things. It would be like teaching the crow to say, “I am Junior.” That would be equally wrong for the crow to repeat because Jurgen was Jurgen, not Junior. Thinking further, Junior considered saying, “I am Junior, and you are Jurgen.” But if the crow learned to say that, it would be twice wrong. Possibly he should instruct, “I am Jurgen, and you are Junior.” But the boy couldn’t say that. It was not correct that he was Jurgen. He sat wordlessly a long while, puzzled.

      An idea came to him from nowhere. He recognized it as an idea because it fit the description of ideas that Dubykky had given him. Junior pointed at himself and smiled. “Junior,” he said, and the crow said so too. Then Junior pointed at the bird, smiling, and said, “Jurgen.” “Jurgen,” agreed the crow. Junior dropped his hand, relaxed the smile from his face, waited a minute, never taking his eyes off the bird, and then pointed once again without smiling or speaking. After a lengthy pause, the crow said in a diffident rasp, “Jurgen.” Junior pointed at himself. “Junior,” said the bird with a shade more assurance. “I am” and “you are” turned out not to be necessary, despite the examples given by the book and Dubykky. It was confusing that language contained unnecessary words.

      Nevertheless, an agreeable satisfaction spread through Junior and with it a strengthened will. The boy liked the bird, wanted him near, wanted to hear him speak, and was glad that Dubykky had left him. He understood that Jurgen, Junior, and Dubykky fit the idea name, although in different ways. There was no similar agreeable sensation attached to the name Junior, no sensation at all in fact, yet there was to Jurgen. And the name Dubykky? Junior repeated it, pondering. He found he wanted to be in Dubykky’s presence again even though the name evoked a different sensation, a mixture of agreeableness and something else. Something that suggested Dubykky would not stand next to him and speak to him as did Jurgen. More than that, there was something that hinted Junior should not want him to. A basic difference divided Jurgen and Dubykky, besides shape.

      Junior paged through the book considering the different animals in it and the words describing them—fat, clever, white, bold-faced, dreary, gay, sweet—until he came to a page showing an angular, black bat:

      Bat, Bat,

      Come under my hat,

      And I’ll give you a slice of bacon.

      And when I bake

      I’ll give you a cake

      If I am not mistaken.

      The bat reminded him of Jurgen. It was smiling happily as it hovered over the head of a boy doffing a high-crowned cap and holding a rasher. At that point Junior perceived a truth entirely on his own, a truth that Dubykky had not discussed, and the power of it pierced Junior. It made his whole body vibrate. The truth was that Junior liked to have a bird; Dubykky liked to have a bird; and Dubykky had given him the bird, and the bird was happy on his shoulder. Dubykky had given him the bird to like, which is to say, passed on the agreeable sensations of having a bird and having a happy bird. That put Dubykky in a perspective. It was as if the man were still nearby, albeit not physically. Junior liked having something to like from the man who had liked it. Junior concluded that Dubykky liked him, and so he felt likewise.

      Next the sound sequence Matthew Gans sprang to mind, which the book lady had assigned him. Dubykky had used it. Junior sensed that it too was a name. What sensation did its sounds carry? He let his mind wrap around Matthew Gans, drift among the sounds, pry them apart to feel out each, rearrange them, and then steep in them, while staring fixedly at Jurgen, who fell asleep in the silence. The sounds did evoke something. It lurked at the very edge of his mind as in a haze, and what there was of it did not seem agreeable. Not Dubykky-like. Definitely not Jurgen-like. Nor were the names Gosse, Gonzales, and Garrison.

      When morning was well advanced, Junior decided that he and Jurgen should find food and water. These things he understood even before Dubykky had explained. Junior’s body was now asking for nutrition. As for the crow, he answered Junior’s inquiry about food with “Junior!” From that, the boy surmised that the crow was like him. Hungry. Dubykky had taught him to use his breathing to find food and water. He was to breathe in through his nose. If his body liked an odor, Junior could eat or drink from its source. With Jurgen on his left shoulder, Junior left the shack and walked away from the dirt road and through the sagebrush flats, stopping occasionally to inhale deeply. The day was warm but not hot. Light gusts blew by from time to time, causing Jurgen to tighten his claws on Junior’s shoulder, which produced a mixture of prickling and tickling that the boy found, on balance, agreeable.

      “I like Jurgen,” he declared.

      The crow cocked his head and answered, “Hickory dickory dock!”

      The Hawthorne dump lay just a mile away from the shack over a long slow rise and down a steep slope into a wide ravine. It was one of the innumerable ravines in Nevada, the primordial relicts of deluges, windstorms, and the relentless shifting of sand and rock. Junior paused at the top of the slope and inspected the dump. A gravel road led to it from town and stopped at a turnaround. Along its edge rose hillocks of garbage. Even a hundred yards away the stench was strong. Junior didn’t mind. One smell was much the same to him as another, providing that he didn’t put the source of some into his mouth. Off one side of the turnaround in a small clearing of its own was parked an old shepherd’s trailer. Painted white with blue trim, both colors faded, the trailer had a rounded roof and flat ends, at each of which was a small curtained window. Another window, even tinier, was on the narrow door at the right-hand end. At the other end a rusty stovepipe stuck up.

      An old man was sitting on his usual chair by the door in a little parallelogram of shade. His arm resting on a folding card table, he did not move. His chin was on his chest. He wore dark glasses.

      Junior waited a full five minutes for the man to move. In that time, Jurgen roused himself, ruffling his neck feathers. He murmured a polite caw to Junior, spread his wings, and glided to the ground. Two adult crows were nearby, standing in the shadow of a large sagebrush and pecking listlessly at the carcass of a lizard. Jurgen hop-walked over to them, squeaking obligingly, but they were unfamiliar and not welcoming. He stopped five feet away and cawed, hoping for an invitation. They ignored him. Jurgen was not discouraged. He was experienced enough to expect strange crows to respond from a limited repertoire: chase him away, flap around him to play, settle next to him to caw in his ear, or let him join them. Eventually. They would not ignore him for long.

      As for the old man, his name was Hans Berger, and he was the watchman

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