The Bird Max walked alone across the empty plains. His parents had been merchants, but they had passed on peacefully many years ago. Alone in the world, Max had determined that his life’s purpose would be to see as much of the sphere as possible before he too expired. Due to the persistent heat, he walked at night, maintaining a steady pace. Other humans spent their days scrounging for food, but Max found exploration a more noble pursuit and his empty stomach easier to ignore than his burning curiosity. He walked past the crumbling temples of inconsequential belief and the old house of records, it too now disintegrating. Both buildings were now half consumed by the landscape. Still filled with artefacts of forgotten lore, they were the last remaining vestiges of a world long gone, and an absent population devoured by sickness. One day, in search of a place to sleep, Max came across a clearing. It was a peculiar circular space, with great trees lopped off at their bases. Huge sections of earth had been scooped out as if by a giant hand, which made the ground look like an old battlefield Max had once seen in a book. What soil remained appeared chalklike and desiccated. At the centre of the space, there was a lake. It appeared to be filled with black, oily tar. Moving cautiously, Max noticed a small hut, composed of densely packed flotsam and jetsam. He approached the door and rapped upon it a few times. No response. Behind him, the lake of tar sprang to life, and bubbles rose to the surface. Soon, a shape revealed itself. Head. Neck. Arms and legs. Slowly it ascended from the muck.
It now stood a full seven feet tall. The slimy humanoid wiped the dark sludge from his face and revealed a large proboscis. It was a beak, like that of some giant prehistoric bird. If the sight of such a creature wasn’t shocking enough for Max, one could only imagine his surprise when it began to talk. ‘Come inside,’ he said, inviting Max into his tiny hut.
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at t h e ‘Thank you, sir,’ Max replied, discreetly noticing three-fingered hands concealed beneath densely feathered limbs. The interior of the bird man’s hut was a profoundly grim affair. Grimy, cluttered surfaces populated by dead plants and dust covered trinkets. The bird man offered Max a drink, but he politely declined, noting the foul state of his crockery.
‘Why have you come here?’ asked the bird man as he towelled off the residual oil from his body with a tattered rag. Now somewhat cleaner, Max could properly discern the strange man. He was covered in feathers head to toe, save for his scaly stick-like legs, which stood atop large webbed feet. Free from the tar, yet still jet-black, Max thought his feathers appeared pleasantly soft. ‘I’m a traveller,’ Max offered. ‘You’re the first person I’ve seen in a hundred days.’
‘A traveller,’ the bird repeated as he sat himself down on what remained of a broken sofa and discreetly began loading a bong. ‘I’ve barely even left this house.’ Striking a match, he placed his face upon the mouthpiece and inhaled deeply as the filthy bong water bubbled beneath.
Max watched with intense curiosity. ‘In the old world, it was called ganja. By my father, and his father before him.’
‘Been no ganja for some time now, boy. I’ve had to make do,’ the bird proclaimed as he exhaled a plume of putrid smoke. ‘With what?’
‘Everything. Everything smoked. Plants. Trees. Animals. Ground up and smoked to sustain my power,’ the bird intoned, his rich timbre resonant and masculine.
‘Power?’ asked Max as he sat before the bird, beseeching the giant ornithoid to impart his wisdom.
