The Goose
The sound was horrific. It was so loud, and immediate. Right outside the window, somewhere near but out of sight.
The children had just left, packed off to school. His wife had seen them to the bus, then left for work herself. The house was quiet this time of day, he was left to his coffee and his work. The 8am sunlight streaming through the high attic window of his studio, warming the desk where he read the news, and waited for caffeine to start its work so he could start his.
Then suddenly, a loud thump, right outside. An incredible racket of scratching on the roof tiles, the dry splashes of huge wings flapping, and the blaring honk of a car horn choking on a toad.
He turned his coffee over on the floor springing to his feet in surprise. His head hit the pitched ceiling of the attic causing him to cry out. Hard enough to hurt and shock, but not enough to do any damage. He stooped quickly to pick up the unbroken mug and cast around the room for a towel to mop up the mess. Finding none he grabbed at an old shirt tossed over the chair across his desk. All the while, sounding less dire now, the noise persisted outside.
Leaving the shirt to soak up his spilt coffee he went to the window to find out what the hell was going on. Apart from a few soft feathers floating by the glass there was only the front yard and the neighborhood beyond in view. The noise stopped as soon as he neared the window, like a switch was thrown. He stared out for several seconds before grabbing the old wood sash and wrenching the ancient thing open.
No sooner had he raised the lower panel than an absolutely massive goose strode out from around the dormer eve and straight at the window. Instinctually he stumbled back (later wondering why he hadn’t just shut the damn thing), and a cold gust of morning air immediately preceded the goose blasting in through the open window.
It flapped its impressive wings a few times as it landed lightly at the floor. He backed up further, completely dumbfounded, eyes sweeping the room for some sort of defense. The goose did not seem surprised, but raised it’s wings wide, stretched its neck directly toward him and bellowed out an ear-splitting honk.
The sound went on and on, and he covered his ears while catching sight of a short electrical cord lying on the floor by the wall. He was just moving to grab it, wondering what kind of weapon would fend off a goose, when the sound suddenly resolved itself into a HOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNN-ELLO…
The later part of this he heard in his head, as the sound emanating from the obscenely gaped beak faded to silence. The goose sat down.
Looking back at this creature, he saw that it staring placidly at him, without apparent fear or malice. It was backlit in the yellow morning light, its snowy feathers taking on a golden hue. It was the size of a retriever, with none of the warmth. Instead of a happily wagging tail, there was black tipped feathers pointing straight back at military attention.
“Holy hell,” he thought to himself. The goose responded assertively, “indeed.”
His jaw physically dropped open. He stared in confused silence, unsure how to even begin to address this.
“You can, talk?” he asked out loud. But the goose didn’t move it’s beak, only cocked its head slightly to the side and replied “well, in a way.” The sound was all happening in his own mind. He asked back, but this time without speaking, “but how is this possible?”
“It just is,” said the goose, in his dry voice. It was a bit of a raspy mid-Atlantic intonation. The stilted cadence of old movies and radio programs from the 40's.
“But why are you here?” he asked.
“Only to speak with you for a short while,” said the goose. “I’ve a message to impart to your kind. You must hear me out, then spread it wide.”
“To my kind? You mean to humanity? Why me though?” He was feeling untethered, the room seemed to pitch hard to one side and then drift back around.
“Not exactly, by your kind I mean those empathetic enough to understand. Not nearly enough of humanity could bear it.” The goose was speaking with some urgency now, maybe a bit impatient with the line of questioning. “You,” it continued, “because you are just the sort of person who could take to heart what I have to say, and one who has the skill set and knowledge to disseminate the message.”
He perked up at this. Specially selected for some sort of supernatural mission because of his ability to understand and technical know-how as a communicator to help others to understand as well? If he wasn’t so bewildered by the sudden presence of this goose, this really magnificent creature, sitting like a wise and fluffy Buddha inside of his office window; he might have wondered that those were the exact characteristics he’d always internally strived to be recognized for. But as off-kilter as he was, this fact was instead a bit of reinforcement for his mind-state.
“Who sent you?” he asked, hoping for an answer he could believe in.
“I am a messenger, one of many, for those forces in the world that seek to right ancient wrongs, to lift the fallen, and restore the balance of justice to the side of the helpless.” The goose then bowed its head, humbly, eyes closed. When it looked up again there seemed to be an aura of peace surrounding it.
“Please,” he urged on, “deliver your message”.
“Your world is coming undone. It is most difficult to deliver this news, though I believe you have known this for a while. It felt like there was once a time to right the wrongs, but it now seems so far gone. It seems to be sliding away faster all the time.” The goose spoke in sad tones now, its words seemed to echo in his head.
“There is an evil that has infected so much of humanity. It spoils nature, it clutches riches to itself, it pounds its chest and consumes. There are so few who have not succumbed to the disease. I think, we think, you are one of them.” The goose straightened its neck at that. It seemed larger as it’s head lifted, but endlessly sympathetic.
“The delineation has never been more clear between the righteous and the corrupt. Those who seem unaligned have really sided with evil visa-vis their banality. At this point if they haven’t become convinced that acceptance is the path to righteousness, there is little hope for them.” The goose said this stoically, a natural nobility rang through it.
He perked at this idea. He’d felt all of that at various times. If ‘they’ really couldn’t see the damage and pain that was being caused, weren’t they really just as bad as those causing the pain? The aggrieved shouted their agony, yet they were ignored, or called to question. To look at the urgent pain in their faces and doubt its sincerity was really a form of aggression, was it not?
He was now sure it must be. He has suspected it before, but now hearing it described with such morbid sadness in his own head seemed to solidify it.
The goose began to talk faster now, with more passion. It talked of love and support, it talked of empathy. It talked of revolution.
The goose’s words were electricity coursing through his mind. It was quick to describe a feeling so completely that he felt it. It was descriptive enough to build a scene that he could walk through in his mind. He began to get restless.
“What is the next step? And the step after that? How do we begin?” He asked impatiently.
“You’ll begin subtly. You’ll use your art to create imagery, and together we’ll shape words to create action.” The goose was excited now too, rustling its feathers and leaning forward. He fed off of the energy. “We’ll start slowly at first so we don’t alarm anyone, but we’ll become direct in short order, we’ll not tarry long.”
Here he saw a flash in his own mind of compassion through strength. A strong hand lifting a weak one. He felt that strength shoot through him.
“And how will we initiate action?” He was speaking with urgency, his pulse picking up pace.
“Our initial efforts will quickly reveal who is the compassionate and who is the aggressor. We’ll call them out, urge everyone to do the same. Force them all to pick a side, and call each other by name,” the goose replied.
Now another image flashed in his mind. A smile, a strong hand, then a broad white wing. I sad looking woman lying on the ground. He felt an urge to help her, to protect her, to cradle her, to stroke her hair. to feel her skin. There was heat in his face, and he clenched his fists in righteous anger.
“Once they’re sorted,” the goose continued, “we’ll initiate a harvest. We’ll put the aggressors aside and usher the down-trodden to the fore.” The goose swelled now with the pride of this vision. It was magnificent, it was so full, the curve of its neck was nothing short of art. My God, it didn’t seem to be a goose at all, but a swan. He had to admit to himself, that he didn’t really know the difference. Perhaps it was a swan all along? In fact, he was sure it was, only he was too thickheaded to know better. He felt shame now, and a need to give deference for this stupid mistake. A need to give his allegiance and energy to the swan, who spoke of love and change.
Nearly blinded by the radiance of this noble being, he tried to focus on the plan. The plan was his best path to please the swan, to give himself to the cause. To prove himself as one of the compassionate, as more than some dummy who didn’t know the difference between a goose and swan. He shuddered at the thought.
“And the aggressors? What will we do with them? How will we fix them?” he asked in a a pleading voice.
“Fix them?” The swan replied, mocking. Its voice now a cavernous boom that shook his mind. “The down-trodden will ‘fix’ them. They who have felt the lash of ignorance will ‘fix’ them. They who have built internal worlds around the rage for any who would not accept them for who they are, as they are. They will ‘FIX’ the rest.”
Fear shot through him. He wanted only to be on the good side, on the side of the righteous. He hoped he had been accepting enough to qualify. He lowered his head in supplication to the towering swan. He closed his eyes.
The swan was approaching the woman. caressing her hair, tracing the curves of her form with an outstretched feather. She lay motionless, but a troubled look passed her face. He felt such jealousy. He wanted to touch her, but he knew that the swan was king here. Was god here. The swan mounted the sleeping woman.
“They will all come to understand strength, real power, when those who have been shunned may reap. When those who have been cruel are sown,” the swan hissed.
“And the children?” he asked timidly. “What becomes of innocent?”
“HAH!” the swan barked so loudly he could not tell if the house was shaking or only his head. “There are no innocent in life. The children are born with all the wrongs we seek to right. Those that are obviously compliant will serve. The rest will feed the soil. They are easy enough to replace.” The swan cackled. It was a hideous sound, devoid of joy. He shut his eyes against it.
The swan had its way with the sleeping woman. As it continued she changed to another woman, then another, then a man, then another older woman, then a much younger one. Then the shapes shifted so fast he could not discern them, only see that they were shifting. The swan cackled in his vision as it had in his mind back in the studio.
“That’s not true,” he blurted out quietly. The room became still.
He thought of his children; of teaching them, bathing them, keeping them fed, keeping them safe. He thought of the love and joy he and his wife poured into them. They were completely irreplaceable.
Then he thought of his neighbor’s children. He hadn’t particularly gotten along with their father, but he had seen the same tenderness between them. Then he thought of them ‘feeding the soil.’
“What?” the swan asked, and the word cut through his mind like a dagger.
“That’s not true,” he repeated, and stretched his own neck forward.
“How dare…” the swan began.
“THAT’S NOT TRUE,” he cut in, his words just as sharp.
And just like that, the room was filled with the honking clatter of a goose, a fucking goose throwing a fit. It began to flap its wings as if to fly at him. He lunged for the electrical cord next to the wall, and as the goose sprang forward he swung it over his shoulder. The end of the cord wrapped hard around the beast’s neck, and he pulled.
There was a sound and a feeling of a large crack, and the thing went limp. Its mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. It died there on the floor at his feet. It looked so small suddenly, just a goose.
His own voice returned to his mind, “holy shit,” was all he said. He laughed out loud at this, then he laughed harder at the sound of his own laugh. Then he stomped hard on the goose’s neck, just to be sure.
