The original letters are faded, slightly stained, and accompanied by an obituary for Dr. Calvin J. Washburne, an obituary for Elizabeth Gallinari, the arrest record of a man named Arthur Reed, and a photograph.
***
May 28th, 1967
Dear Beth,
This is going to be a better opportunity than I had hoped.
The other graduate students and I finally had our orientation today, which felt long overdue. After my acceptance of the internship, I felt all I was doing was filling out stack after stack of paperwork, signing clauses and agreements and undergoing identity checks. All deeply boring, as I’m sure you’re aware, but I understand the necessity. The Smithsonian Museum of Natural History has some of the rarest, most incredible artefacts and specimens in their collection, and I’m sure they don’t want some thief swooping in to sell it to wealthy buyers. Or some schlub to waltz in and break something.
Anyway, today was amazing. Our orientation began with a tour. I have to say, walking into the rotunda and seeing the elephant, preserved as if in a pose of triumph, took my breath away. I felt like I was in Africa, standing before a living, moving animal. The rest of the museum remained just as stunning. Taxidermized big cats seemed to stalk museum-goers, landscapes painted by the best artists of our time lined the halls, and there were endless displays of precious gems, fossils, anthropological artefacts, and other treasures of scientific study. Truly, Beth, it was once-in-a-lifetime, and when you come to visit me here in Washington, I will make sure you can see it all, too.
At the end of the tour, we were paired off with our mentors. Several students left with biologists and anthropologists, but I was left by myself until a disheveled-looking fellow came rushing in. He was a great deal younger than many of the other mentors, and seemed a bit frazzled, but I didn’t mind. Great minds tend to be a bit strange.
“Arthur Reed?” He asked, and without waiting for my reply, he continued. “I’m Dr. Calvin Washburne. I’m the lead ornithologist here and I’ll be serving as your mentor for the next few months. Come with me.”
Bemused, I followed him down a long, dark marble staircase into a back wing of the museum that was closed to the public. He walked at a brisk pace down a hallway crowded with crates and half-articulated skeletons. Finally, he used a key to open a set of steel doors, and with little fanfare, said “This is where we will be working for the next three months.”
It was huge. There were endless rows of creamy beige filing cabinets, tall enough to nearly brush the ceiling. The cabinets were arranged in a mazelike configuration, so close together that they formed rooms and passageways, so thickly packed I could not see where this space ended. I knew, logically, that the museum had much more room than what guests were permitted to view, but I was not prepared for the vast claustrophobia of the collection storage.
“You’re going to help me catalogue the birds,” Dr. Washburne said.
“The birds?”
“Look,” he said. Each filing cabinet had thin, long drawers, and Dr. Washburne took the opportunity to open one. Inside were a dozen beautiful, delicate, taxidermized birds-of-paradise. Each specie scarcely seen in their native jungle, let alone a museum on the other side of the world. They were lined up, posed straight, wings at their sides, feathers still so vibrantly green and orange and red that they looked to be merely asleep.
Dr. Washburne gestured to the rest of the basement, “They’re all filled. With birds. The ornithology intern’s job is to help us make sure each specimen is accurately tagged and catalogued. Some of them haven’t even been formally discovered. Are you up for it, Mr. Reed?”
And Beth, I’ll tell you what I told him. I’ve never been more up for anything in my entire life.
With love,
Artie
***
June 4th, 1967
Dear Beth,
I hope you are well. I find myself thinking of you more and more these days, as the weather gets warmer and the days get sunnier. Each cheery day reminds me of your smile. Not to sound ingrateful, but I’ve been wishing that my internship allowed me the opportunity to go out into the field. It feels like a waste to be inside when the weather is so pleasant. It gets stuffy down there, in that place with dull cabinets and dull walls and dull carpets. I don’t even see Dr. Washburne, much, outside of inquiry on certain species. Someone else could be down here with us and I’d never know.
He likes me anyway, I think. Hopefully he’ll be a good reference when I apply to research institutes after the completion of my doctorate. It impressed him when I was able to correct a few mislabeled passerines. Dr. Washburne is not as interested in songbirds as I am, though- he considers himself to be more of a raptor man.
Yesterday, we were busy sorting the wet specimens. These aren’t like the dry, taxidermy animals that are posed, like the kind whose head may hang in a hunter’s lodge. Wet specimens are kept in glass jars filled with a clearish liquid called formalin. Remember the kitten in your grandmother’s cabinet, the one that always frightened you? They’re like that. None of the ones here have cats inside, obviously. Most of them have small birds, or nestlings too delicate to skin for dry preservation. I found one that was strange, though. Inside the jar were a pair of talons, claws large enough to wrap around a skull. The label was too faded to be legible, so I brought it over to the doctor.
“Where did these come from?” I asked him. “A dinosaur?”
He laughed, then replied, “Just about. These are the feet of Harpia harpjya. The harpy eagle. One of the largest species of birds on earth.
Are you familiar with the Taung child? Miners in Africa discovered a skull that archaeologists determined belonged to one of our distant ancestors. It was probably only around six years old when it died, and its face and eye sockets are crisscrossed with wounds that lay deep in the bone. Researchers believe it was a bird, an eagle, that killed it. Babies are quiet when they see something overhead, on instinct. Protection from ancient predators that would circle overhead looking for an easy meal. If they were silent, and still, maybe they would stay safe. Unfortunately for the Taung child that doesn’t always work.” Dr. Washburne was quite animated as he relayed this to me.
It’s easy to imagine something like the talons of this eagle being more than capable of tearing someone apart. I was more than unsettled. The imagery stuck with me as I continued my sorting, parsing through musty wings and tiny bodies, lights buzzing dimly overhead.
Once in a while, the specimens aren’t worth keeping. They get too moth-eaten, or rotted, or broken in some way. I found a little bird the other day that looked as if it had been soaked in brownish water. This was supposed to be a dry specimen, so I haven’t got a clue about how it happened. I just know that it smelled rank. I transported it to its final resting place (the trash can) with a twinge of sadness. It was just a white-throated sparrow, so no great loss for science, but it didn’t feel good throwing it away. It had once been alive, and man had captured it and killed it for its use in study. What a waste.
Then I thought about the harpy eagle, and what Dr. Washburne had said about babies. I felt less guilty after that. Sure, the sparrow was no predator, but perhaps this was just a little karma. The clade of mammals versus the clade of birds. No doubt as to who won the evolutionary arms race.
Keep an eye out for Ronald and Alex- tell them I say hi if you see them. I haven’t got their address.
With love,
Artie
***
June 21st, 1967
Dear Beth,
Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find a new species. I did find something nearly as exciting however, as I was working. A species that is now extinct.
Like the sparrow, it is a little sad, in ways. I recognized the rusty plumage before I even read the tag. Ectopistes migratorius, the passenger pigeon. There were two, side by side, dark wings drawn tight against the body. Billions used to migrate across North America every year, darkening the sky, and this is all that was left. I never thought I’d see one. I know, logically, that the museum taking these individuals specifically didn’t cause the extinction of the entire species, but it still brought me down a bit. Someone collected these birds just to bring them here to rest among uncounted others. Someone took them just to take.
It may just be this place, though, bringing me down. There aren’t any windows, and I feel like the hours crawl by without any frame of reference other than opening more cabinets and entering deeper into the collection. Sometimes I close my eyes and all I see is that damned beige.
The further into the basement my work takes me, the worse off the specimens seem to be. More of them are damaged, crushed, unsalvageable. Wet.
“They’re just old,” Dr. Washburne said, when I brought it up. “Who knows what could’ve happened?”
Some of these birds are dripping wet when I pull them out of storage. The rest of the drawer is always fine, but the one ruined one will be practically melting in my hands with rot. And it’s not water. It’s something else. No matter how many I show him, the doctor doesn’t seem to care.
The silence is playing tricks on me, too. Without any stimuli the brain works very hard to fill in the gaps. I hear rustling, where there isn’t any, or a drawer closing behind me when I know Dr. Washburne is giving a tour on the ground floor. I get jumpy, anticipating something happening. I don’t like thinking about who might be here with me when I’m supposed to be alone.
I know, I’m being silly, but it just, gets under my skin. All of it together. Earlier today, I was working on a table next to Dr. Washburne while we were pinning some feather displays, and I heard something, loud. A flurry of beating wings a few rows behind us.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Hmm?” Dr. Washburne was barely paying attention, focusing instead on using a needle to stick a flight feather onto a framed corkboard.
“That sound, just now. There’s no way you missed it.”
Dr. Washburne flipped his glasses to the top of his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t hear anything,” he replied, not even turning to look at me as he spoke.
“Guess I imagined it.”
“Guess so.”
I don’t want to push things. I need this if I ever want to work professionally as an ornithologist. I can’t imagine a more prestigious institution to work for. It’s just- the more I’m here, the more something feels wrong. These endless rows of perfect little mummies seem less like they’re at peace, and more like they’re holding their breath. Like they know something I don’t.
It eats at me, Beth.
With love,
Artie
***
July 16th, 1967
Dear Beth,
There’s no-one else here and I can’t shake the feeling of eyes on me. I think Dr. Washburne knows something is going on, because whatever is happening is getting bolder and there is no way he can believe any of this is normal.
When we arrived, yesterday morning, there were a set of wet footprints soaked into the carpet that smelled so strongly of rubbing alcohol my eyes began to water. Security came and looked around, much to the protest of the doctor, but didn’t find anything out of place. ‘Old pipes,’ was their explanation. Old pipes!
I’m so tired of this terrible in-between space, but I’m cursed with a mind that wants answers. I can’t even bring myself to walk away because it would mean I would never know what’s happening here.
Today the smell of alcohol remained, although the carpet was dry. Cabinets rattled, lights flickered, birdsong seemed to churn out from behind blind corners. No song that I could identify, mind you, just a tuneless, joyless cacophony that faded into the buzz of fluorescence the minute I paused to listen. I was anxious, yes, but more than that I was beginning to get angry. This was the opportunity that was supposed to make or break my career, and it’s being twisted into some ugly, frightening thing.
It bothered me all day, actually. Dr. Washburne has been trusting me less and less on my own, so he was working near me when it happened. A drawer slammed shut on a filing cabinet in the next room over, hard enough I felt it with my legs. I didn’t even bother to say anything, this time. I just scowled at him.
The man sighed, “Arthur, it’s an old building, there’s drafts. These things happen.”
Instead of bothering to acknowledge such a lazy explanation, I tore away from the specimens I was sorting and hurried to the source of the noise. My lungs felt like they were hitching and the closer I got the more hairs on my body prickled as if to raise an unconscious alarm.
Broken glass littered the ground. Wet specimens and dry specimens were scattered everywhere, and several drawers hung open and empty. Some cabinets even had rake marks deep in the paint. My eyes burned; my mouth was slick with bile. Each breath I took was faster and deeper and then I heard someone very far away whistling a tune and-
A hand on my shoulder, centering me. Dr. Washburne was here, too.
“Look,” I told him, “Look. Someone did this.”
Dr. Washburne drew close, and the man put a hand on my other shoulder. He was facing me, and his eyes were piercing and filled with something dark. “There’s nothing there. Just something leftover from our research. Hardly anything.”
“But-“
“Arthur,” he said, emphasizing each syllable. “I didn’t hear anything. You didn’t hear anything. Do you understand? There. Is. Nothing. There.”
“I don’t-… don’t you want to find out?”
Dr. Washburne took a step back, eyes still searching mine. “Just clean it up,” he said, before returning to his work.
The rest of the day was uncomfortable. Footsteps followed mine, as I walked the halls. A shuffle that I only caught because it was a half-second too late.
When I turn I see nothing. There isn’t anywhere to hide so quickly. There isn’t a place for an unseen man to sit and mimic bird calls or throw my belongings on the ground the minute I step away. I miss you.
I don’t understand how he can act like everything is fine. The jar that held the harpy eagle’s talons sits empty. The eyes on me are not happy ones. I’m certain he feels them too.
See you soon,
Arthur
***
August 29, 1967
Beth,
I dreamt of it. The thing down here with me and Dr. Washburne. All flight and song and feather, a miasma of wings that pursued me in that unending basement. I ran, and it chased, falcons and doves, mothers and chicks, thousands and thousands of minds kept angry and dark and alone.
Sometimes I feel like it barely tries to hide anymore. Squealing and singing and gibbering day in and day out. I catch glimpses of it, while I’m awake, a flash out of the corner of my eye, maybe the end of a tail or the hook of a claw. Maybe it wants me to see, to take each clue and put the impossible amalgamation together and create in my mind the very predator stalking me. It’s patient enough to wait long enough for me to figure it out.
I think Dr. Washburne’s been sleeping here. He hasn’t changed clothes in a couple of days, and I keep arriving at the steel double doors to find him already awake and at work. I’m not even certain he’s even bothering to catalogue the specimens anymore.
Sometimes he just stands with his eyes shut, swaying slightly, whispering to himself. Sometimes he’s weeping so hard tears spill from his face and puddle on the floor. Once, I caught him pushing pins through his finger, wiping the blood off on the silver handles of the cabinets.
Dr. Washburne is afraid of it. Too afraid to look, to ask questions. Whatever it is, it wants us to be afraid. Well, I’ll ask questions, and then this thing will just be a skin out to dry with the rest of them.
-Arthur
***
August 31, 1967
Dear Beth,
It hates us. It hates us. Every one of us. It isn’t a person, or an animal. It’s not a thing at all, really. I was thinking about it all wrong. It doesn’t understand why we’ve put them here in this place, this mausoleum to dominion. I dreamt of it again and I dreamt the song into the museum and it let me see its face it just wanted to speak to me. it’s all of them together in agony.
I wept for them and they saw and they spoke to me and now I know. Today they told me it was time for Dr. Washburne to know how much it hurt when he pretended he couldn’t hear us crying. He didn’t want to look but it was his turn and his veins ran downy with feathers all up and down
all up and down our sweet wings.
Now they stretch and shake off the dust and methylpentan and I gave myself to them and t hey took now i
it feels warm and wet and lovely i will come back to you beth beloved the paths set in motion for thousands of years of ritual travel the paths set in the heart and stone- i will find you and you and your voice will join our voices and all of us will sing together and we will show everyone how beautiful it is