What the Flock

Now I may be done poor, but I ain't stupid.

Maybe it is I don't know how to read and write, all proper, but I can make the sign of cross and my signature on paper's same as anybody else. The important part, see, is that I understand—and that, more than I let on.

When they tapped me on the street, the Mi'lady and Lord, wanted only that I's should be capable to adequately sign, with scratch marks like so, X.

In the anonymous old traditional way that signifies a living soul was present: Here.

Mi'Lord, he says emphatically, that t'aint necessary I know my spelling, I need only make that universal slash slash on that line right there. See?

Well, I says shrewdly, I don't have my specs, and this to buy me some time to look over the contractual of it, short and to the point as it is, while I sees Mi'Lord give a loving turn of the mouth to the Mi'Lady, as he pats my shoulder and says warmly the "document" signifies that I am entitled to some quick income and free meal, for a short stint, I need only X on the line below, to show that I agree to attend the funeral banquet of the honorable VIP from nth O'clock for no more than one hour or so...

so long as I partake fully in the offertory meal.

I maybe street urchin, but I weren't born yesterday.

I says, affably, where do I sign? squinting at Mi'Lady as she points with plump gilded nail. Bumbling, I make my chicken scratch, signifying anonymous witness, nameless, faceless— all ready, willing and able—to be plucked off.

The dearly departed is to be buried in a fine plot on Ackers Point, they cheers in chorus, the service painstakingly called a Plein-Air. And they lift a noble finger, over the hill just yonder, can't miss it and don't be late, as it starts in a few minutes. Ta tah!

The offertory meal I know is the supposed rightin' of wrongs indulged in by the deceased, dame or bloke. And I as human supplicant am to eat this anti-waffer so that excess Sin may be forgiven.

Twasn't enough Jesus died and rose again.

Twasn't enough the sinner went to church, for show, and tell, at Confession.

This here contract, that I can read well enough, mumbo jumbo, says I will take upon myself, this hungry body, the food and loathing that would otherwise weigh down the soul and keep it from eternal rest. The Sins worth measured in flour. I wonder something about the yeast of evil, and the unleavened, and turn to the hill.

You'll note, I signed.

My tethers, reassuring Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady that I am well qualified, needy and charitable. What they don't knows is that I have even in these rags, pockets and folds sheltering vermin, and they have overlooked, as snobbery does, the feathered cohort that perches on my shoulder.

Dismissed as dumb blackbird of a batty old lady, soon to die as well.

We arrives timely. My feathered companion's well organized socially and signals his compatriots with a few good kracks and kows.  We go to our work. I breaking bits quickly and scattering them, among bird, rat and mice. It takes a good while for anyone to catch on. Minutes, but tis enough. For us it's short work, the birds are flying in steady, five, seven, in patches, hoards altogether... Peppering the ceremony.

There is fear and a consternation.

The same Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady are rushing aghast to my seated person and shooing at the flock that's gathered.

"What the Devil are you doing?! a person must eat this food, not crows!!!"

I know, and I spread my open hands broad and empty...

Like I've no idea what's going on here...

Then I make a show of picking my yellow jagged teeth with a sharp black quill.

I says: "Maybe somebody with better tooth or bigger stomach could take over... " ?

The flock, heavy with feed, rises, menacing beaks and blimp bellies. And Mi'Lady shrieks, Mi'Lord grabs his gun to stop the offertory from getting away...

She is sobbing: "But... We don't eat crow, we don't eat crow...!"

I know.