THE PEARL DIVER
THE TANG OF iron hit the buzzard’s nostrils as he soared over the highway, bringing him to lazy circles in the sky. It wasn’t long before he saw it: a car in reverse with blood on its hood and a sizable dent in its bumper. The buzzard watched with near apathy as the car sped away, leaving a mangled corpse in its wake. Blood trailed across the asphalt like an arrow, leading his eye from the lane to the shoulder where the corpse had come to rest. The buzzard circled down towards it, slowly. He was in no rush. He would not go hungry tonight.
His talons clicked sharp against the asphalt as he landed, already looking over his dinner. It was a buck, young enough that his neck and shoulders were slender, a few white spots still fading out of his hide, now stained a deep, dripping red. His belly had burst in the impact, still-warm blood oozing out from the wound. The hint of pink innards peeked from the unnatural window. Just big enough for a beak, and the skin easy enough to tear away for easy pickings.
What luck, thought the buzzard, to stumble upon such a fresh meal. With that, he ducked his head to eat.
“Wait!” came a breathy cry, “I’m not dead yet!”
The buzzard leapt back, his wings spread and feathers on end in momentary surprise. The buck had opened his eyes, wild and glazed with the shock and pain of his injuries. He had lifted his head to look at the buzzard, and that was obviously an immense amount of work, his chest heaving, every breath noticeably labored. The buzzard had been so focused on his meal; he hadn’t noticed how fresh it truly was. He calmed himself, stepping closer. Dinner had never yelled at him before, but he didn’t see a reason to change his plans. The buck would die soon, that was certain.
“I see,” he said, his voice monotone. “I suppose I will wait, then.”
The buck laughed bitterly as his neck gave out and his head hit the asphalt, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth.
“So, what, you’re just going to sit there? What a funeral.”
The buzzard wished the buck was quieter, like every other dinner he had ever had. He didn’t have patience for the living. “What do you want me to do, sing you a dirge?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.” The buck sighed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the idea. “You’re a bird, aren’t you? Don’t birds sing?”
“I beg your pardon!” The buzzard’s feathers ruffled at that. “Presumptuous little . . . Not all birds sing, I’ll have you know.”
“Well then, tell me a story or something. I don’t wanna die in shit company.”
“What does it matter?” the buzzard scoffed. “Why should I bother? You are going to die and I—”
“And then you’re going to eat me, right?”
The buck had lifted his head again, his breaths coming in quick huffs—of pain or anger, the buzzard couldn’t tell, but the buck’s eyes were full of something the buzzard had never seen. Call it desperation, or hate, or passion, whatever it may be, it was a feeling the buzzard had never experienced himself, but it wafted off the dying buck in waves. The buzzard stood quietly as he took it in, only the passing cars on the highway filling the silence.
“Is that really too much to ask? Just tell me a fucking story. Then you can eat.” His voice was still full of scorn as he spoke, frustrated by the buzzard’s noncompliance, and maybe something else, too. “By then I won’t care.”
Yet again, the passing cars filled the silence, so thick the buzzard wasn’t sure he could break it. He swallowed, then finally, whispered, “All right,. I will tell you a story.”
Once, there was a fox who fell in love with a silver vixen. Every night, he watched her as she danced on the ripples of the lake, begging him to join her. Every night, he would refuse, afraid of the water’s edge, but dreaming of dancing with her. Eventually, his longing became too strong and overwhelmed him. He leapt into the water without a second thought.
But alas, the silver vixen was not there. She had gone down, deep into the lake. Once again, she begged him to follow, only the glint of her perfectly white tail to guide him. Down he swam, deeper and deeper until it was nearly pitch black, save for the glowing light of a pearl, perfectly round and perfectly white.
‘I will take this as a gift for my love,’ he thought, as he took the pearl in his mouth.
He began to rise back to the surface, only to realize with shock and terror, he had been down too deep for too long. His vision blackened as he struggled to return to the surface, the silver vixen dancing once again on the waves, and he realized with a bitter ache what she had been all along. He had fallen in love with the moon on the lake.
Too late now to break the surface, he drowned, wondering how he could have been such a fool to fall in love with something that never was.
The buzzard finished his tale and looked to the buck, who remained silent. The buzzard was about to take him for dead, when finally, he spoke.
“What was that? Some kind of sick joke? That’s the story you tell me?” The buck spit the words with the blood from his mouth, nearly choking on them. “This is the best you could pay me for what I’m about to give you? Fuck you.”
The buzzard was once again taken aback. Pay him? What was he paying him for? He was about to die. And hadn’t the buzzard done what was asked of him? His confusion quickly turned to annoyance.
“You wanted a story, did you not? Well, there, I’ve done it. You’ve had your story! You’re welcome!”
The buzzard waited for a response, waited for the buck to thank him, to apologize, to explain what he meant and why he was so bitter about his request. He waited for anything, but nothing ever came.
The buck was dead.
The buzzard felt a pang of remorse in that moment, a sense of loss. He had never wondered before about the dead he ate. They had never been vocal or real to him, all just dead and gone and rotting. Nothing more than a meal. But now, he wondered about the life of the buck. What he had been through. What he had been chasing that left him in such a sorry state. The buck had understood what the buzzard would do the minute he arrived. He understood what it meant for him. He had accepted it, however angrily. All he had asked for was a thank you in return. The promise of a small comfort, to sell him the idea that maybe this was not the end.
But the buzzard wasn’t a salesman, simply a lucky passerby. Even he understood that, in time, something else would grow from his flesh when he had no more use of it. It was the natural order of things.
The buck had been presumptuous, rude, even. He was not owed anything. None of us are at the end. None of us, the buzzard thought, struggling to convince himself of this simple truth. But the buck’s last words took root, drowning his mind with a single question: Will the flora that grow from the buzzard’s remains know the gift they have been given?
He swallowed down the mirror feeling, the question an unanswered dinner prayer as he ducked his head to eat.