by Cailín Frankland
Sir Solomon Swallow wore his finest suit to the Convention—a two-tailed slate grey number that accentuated the darker tones of his feathers, with a matching top hat to mark the occasion. Slipping a delicate pair of black dress shoes over his clawed feet, he checked his reflection in the mirror of the creek. Perfect, he thought to himself smugly. Now that puffed-up Cuckoo will know I mean business.
It was not Curtis Cuckoo whom Solomon saw first when he reached the clearing, however, but the Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose. She roosted heavily on a wooden bench seemingly constructed for the purpose, her greying feathers tucked neatly under a white linen dress and crown shielded from the midday sun with a pale pink bonnet. Her drooping eyes brightened with recognition as Solomon landed—a respectful few feet away, but well within chirping distance.
Solomon cleared his throat and called out: “Your Grace, a fine noontime, is it not? And you are looking well.”
Shuffling to her feet, Gertrude let out a chuckling honk. “I most certainly do not look well, Sir Swallow, and you know better than to say as much. I am not long for the flock, I fear, and my gaggle know it as well as I do. There have already been a fair few spats among the gander over my succession.”
“The disrespect!” Solomon squawked in indignation, trying not to let his mind flit to the ugliness that followed his own father’s death. Titles were not easily won among well-to-do gentlebirds, least of all by second broods—Solomon had never fully disclosed his path to power to the other delegates, and mercifully none had ever inquired.
“Speaking of disrespect…” Gertrude clucked disapprovingly, her gaze fixed over Solomon’s shoulder.
“Sir Swallow! Your Grace! How positively featherful you both look on this most unprecedented Convention!” Curtis Cuckoo’s cloying call echoed across the clearing, its volume ever-increasing as he hopped closer to the group. “Or have you not heard the news?”
Solomon pivoted to face the Cuckoo, finding him dressed in a deep tan trench coat and leather riding boots. A black top hat perched on his head, slightly taller than Solomon’s own. As if his presence was not insult enough!
“Count Cuckoo! Always a pleasure,” Gertrude called in response, ever the actress, “And you bring news? Glad tidings, I hope!”
Finally close enough to his colleagues to twitter, Curtis practically whistled in self-satisfaction. “I just found out the news myself, so worry not about its delay in reaching you. I suppose the pigeons just thought I ought to be the first to know!”
Solomon and Gertrude exchanged a knowing glance as Curtis continued, “Well here it is: the Robins will be represented by a new Delegate at this Convention!”
Solomon’s beak dropped wide open. “Do you mean to say,” he managed to croak in reply, “that the Reverend is no longer among his Round?”
“May he fly in open skies,” Gertrude gasped, crossing herself with weathered wingtips.
Noticing the shock on his colleagues’ faces, Curtis slightly changed his tune. “Such a tragedy, is it not? And so young too! The poor Reverend was practically a fledgling. Fortunately, his dear Rosalind hatched an egg before his passing, and the youngster has taken on his titles, including that of Delegate. He should be arriving imminently.”
“A chick?” Solomon squawked incredulously, “How could he possibly manage to—”
A loud crash interrupted his thought, making all three birds shriek in surprise. They watched in stunned silence as a thin wooden hoop rolled out of the thicket behind Solomon, slowing to stop before falling over on the grass. A young robin tumbled out of the thicket after it, tuk-tuking in excitement.
Regaining his composure, Curtis twisted his beak into a smile. “And here he comes now! My esteemed colleagues, may I introduce the new Delegate Robin, who no doubt will earn the Reverend honorific soon enough. Tell us, Master Robin, what is your given name?”
The hatchling craned his little neck to look up at the group—Curtis grinning under the brim of his top hat, Gertude peering down at him with pity in her eyes, Solomon staring in disbelief at the sheer smallness of the so-called Delegate before him—and promptly began to cry.
“Oh no, the poor chick is overwhelmed! Come here, sweetling, and sit on my bench for a moment.” Gertrude picked up the hoop and ushered the robin away from the others, cooing and coaxing with every step. Solomon whirled around to face Curtis, his coattails swishing behind him.
“What in the fresh Oven are you trying to pull here, Cuckoo? That child is not old enough for clothes, never mind a Convention.”
Curtis chortled in reply, “Oh, as if you were so attached to the Reverend and his precious reforms. Do you not see how we can use this situation to our advantage? The hatchling will go along with whatever we decide today, and the goose will do what the goose always does. With them out of the way, you and I can talk turkey. Unless you would prefer another Winter?”
Solomon shivered at the thought.
“Exactly,” Curtis trilled, then turned to address the group: “Shall we begin?”
* * *
“With the power vested in me by the Avian Administration, I call this Meeting to order,” Curtis began, pulling the Convention Bylaws from his left coat pocket. “I am Count Curtis Cuckoo, Junior Ranking Member. Delegates, please identify yourselves.”
“Sir Solomon Swallow, Delegate.”
“Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose, Senior Ranking Member.”
The group turned to the young robin, visibly calmer and now perched on the right arm of Gertrude’s bench.
“My name is Rocky.”
Curtis jabbered on, “We are gathered here today at noontime on the Spring Equinox to conduct our Annual Draft of Nature’s Seasons, over each of which exactly one of us will preside. In accordance with tradition, our Senior Ranking Member will make the first selection, after which the order of selection will be determined by random draw. Your Grace, which Season do you select on behalf of Goosekind?”
Gertrude shuffled forward, lifting the hem of her dress to avoid tripping. Solomon caught a flash of her copper feet, gnarled under the weight of her years. She must truly not be long for the flock, Solomon thought to himself, if she can no longer wear shoes for a single day once a year.
“I, Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose, select the Season of Autumn on behalf of Goosekind,” Gertrude announced, then added, “And quite frankly, I cannot bring myself to stand through the rest of these proceedings. I trust that you gentlebirds have things well in wingtip, so I shall take my leave.” She fixed her wizened gaze directly on Solomon, “I expect Convention Bylaws to be respected to the letter under the close supervision of Sir Swallow, in whom I place my greatest confidence.”
With that, the old goose tottered pondward, her bonneted silhouette shrinking until a particularly large tree eclipsed it entirely. Solomon stole a wary glance at Rocky Robin, now happily engaged in a game of throwing his hoop across the clearing and chasing it down before it landed.
Curtis flipped through the Bylaws to one of the Appendices, tittering to himself as he skimmed through the text, “Four-point-three, four-point-four… Here it is! Appendix C, Amendment Four-Point-Five: Any Delegate who is not in attendance for the entirety of Convention proceedings may have their rights and responsibilities rescinded by Delegation leadership. As the most senior Delegate in attendance I hereby release the Duchess and all descendants of her post as Senior Ranking Member, and assume the position in her stead.”
Solomon could not believe his ears. “Cuckoo!” he squawked, his hackles rising in indignation, “This is beyond the pale, even for you! The Duchess has done nothing but serve her gaggle with the utmost respect for all Goosekind—nay, birdkind! She is infirm, and you know as well as I do that those old Bylaws are outdated—”
“Ha!” Curtis slammed his copy of the Bylaws shut with a self-satisfied snap, “If the Bylaws are so outdated, somebirdy should have revised them. The old Goose told us herself to follow them to the letter. And quite frankly, I could not give the slightest hoot about her physical condition. If she cannot meet the basic requirement to attend the entirety of the Convention, she is unfit to serve and should have retired several Seasons ago.”
“But you cannot possibly—”
“I can, and I just did. You would do well to stop spitting feathers about it, Solomon, and accept my congratulations. You are the new Junior Ranking Member. Or would you rather the post go to…”
Both birds looked over to Rocky, now making a tightrope of the narrow back of Gertrude’s wooden bench.
“Yes, I thought not,” Curtis cawed, “And now that you and I are the Ranking Members of this Delegation, I have a proposition for you.”
“There is no way in Oven that I would be man-brained enough to endorse a proposition of yours, Cuckoo.”
“On the contrary, Solomon. You would be man-brained not to endorse it. As Senior Ranking Member, I hereby move to amend the Season selection order such that all selections are made in order of seniority. And in a show of good faith, I shall make my intentions clear. Should the Junior Ranking Member second my proposition, I plan to select the Season of Spring on behalf of Cuckookind.”
For the third time in a matter of minutes, Solomon felt his bill gape wide open. “You would give me Summer?” Solomon’s memory of his last Summer fluttered before him—sun-kissed feathers floating on the June breeze, long July days dissolving in the slow simmer of August. How long had it been? His bones hardly remembered the warmth of an evening sun—his beak ached for the crunch of a damselfly against the snap of his jaw. Why would the cuckoo offer him such a prize?
“Summer is of no interest to me, Swallow,” Curtis warbled on, as if reading Solomon’s mind, “Our kind can only take so much heat. And the humidity! The air practically sticks to my feathers—I can hardly get anything done. I far prefer Spring.”
“But you chose Summer last year!”
“Only to ensure that upstart robin would not have it. Now with him out of the way and no Goose grousing on about tradition, I see no need to act like Summer is a three-horse race when I can guarantee myself Spring and secure an alliance with you, Sir Swallow. So, the question remains,” Curtis cawed, “Will you second my motion?”
Solomon gulped. As much as he hated to admit it, the cuckoo was right—he would be man-brained not to seize Summer while he had the chance, not to mention improving his chances for years to come. Shaking the seeds of doubt from his wings, he cleared his throat.
“I second your motion, Count Cuckoo.”
Curtis let out a trill of sheer glee. “Well, there is hardly a need to vote with a Delegation of three. Motion carried!”
* * *
With the formalities concluded, Solomon began fanning out his wings for the flight home—they always ended up crushed under the silk of his suit, making him slightly less aerodynamic and much less comfortable in transit. His dress shoes were starting to pinch now, his three front-facing toes forced together at unnatural angles and the back-facing one bent upside-down and tucked underneath just to fit. He looked across the clearing at Rocky Robin, now attempting to wrench his precious wooden hoop out of a nearby tree branch, and felt a pang of jealousy at his nakedness, his indifference to the outcome of proceedings.
Adjusting his top hat, he called in Curtis’s general direction, “Are we adjourned?”
“Almost,” Curtis replied, “I just have one last motion to propose if you would care to second it. A matter of procedure, more than anything else.”
“Fine,” Solomon chirped back absentmindedly, his mind already on the boiled beetle broth waiting for him back at his nest, “Propose away.”
Curtis pulled out his copy of the Convention Bylaws again, opening it to the very last page. “Appendix F. Amendment Two-Point-Five. Following the first Draft under new leadership, the Senior Ranking Member may call a vote to abolish the Annual Draft of Nature’s Seasons, disband the Convention of Delegates, and make the newly selected Season allocations permanent.”
“You want to WHAT?” Solomon squawked, all thoughts of beetle broth banished from his mind in a flurry of pure panic. “There is no way the Bylaws permit such a thing.”
“Read it for yourself, if you wish.” Curtis feathered the papers over to Solomon. The pages were well-worn, folded at the corners with passages underlined and circled. Finding Appendix F, Solomon let his eyes drift down the page, hoping that he would not find—
There it was. Amendment 2.5: Following the first Draft under new leadership, the Senior Ranking Member may call a vote to abolish the Annual Draft of Nature’s Seasons, disband the Convention of Delegates, and make the newly selected Season allocations permanent.
Solomon shoved the Bylaws back into Curtis’s wingtips, trying to ignore the way his beak quivered as he piped back up, “Well, there is no way in Oven I will second your motion.”
Curtis widened his eyes in a mockery of surprise, “And why is that, pray tell?”
“Because the Draft is about fairness,” Solomon cried back, puffing up his chest in rage, “To give all birdkind a chance at all four Seasons, to promote balance and harmony across species! As much as I personally would love to preside over Summer every year, and never face another Winter, that would simply be unfair to any other flock who covets it. I, unlike you and your power-hungry Cuckoos, am a bird of principles, so you can consider your little coup a dead duck.”
Curtis smirked, “I thought as much. Fortunately for me, you are not the only Delegate in attendance with the power to second my motion.”
He hopped across the clearing to young Rocky Robin, still chirruping to himself at the foot of the tree where his hoop remained suspended among the branches. In one fell swoop, he dislodged the toy from its resting place and let it fall to the ground, much to the chick’s delight.
“There we are, young Rocky,” Curtis cooed softly, “What a beautiful hoop it is too. You must be a very good birdy.”
Rocky nodded his bill up and down emphatically.
Curtis continued, “Let me ask you a question, son. Do you like berries?”
The chick’s beak broke into a grin, “I love berries!”
“Well, your Uncle Curtis is trying to get more berries for you and your Robin friends. Would you like to help Uncle Curtis?”
* * *
Solomon, mad as a wet hen and chattering furiously to himself under his breath, was once again dusting off his coat in preparation to fly home when he felt Curtis’s wing on his back.
“Cheer up, Sir Swallow,” Curtis warbled in his ear, the stench of caterpillar guts heavy on his breath, “Thanks to me, you are a hero for your kind today. And you never know—this whole endless Summer situation could smooth some ruffled feathers back home.”
With a wink and flutter of feathers, the Cuckoo was gone.
Solomon shook his whole body, stretching out his full wingspan in preparation for flight. That sorry excuse for a bird, he thought to himself, gradually lifting his dress shoes off the grass with each beat of his feathers. Thankfully I can tell the stand that I had no part in his machinations, even opposed them on the record. And the Cuckoo was right about one thing, after all. For securing Summer permanently on behalf of his species, Sir Solomon Swallow certainly was flying home a hero.
Solomon did not look back down as he left the clearing—not at old Gertrude’s bench shrinking beneath his growing height, nor at the flowering trees carpeting the forest floor. He certainly did not look at young Rocky Robin, still chirruping merrily as he played alone in the clearing. The young bird’s song rang clear through the early afternoon breeze—its notes sweet with hope for berries, its singer blissfully unaware of his whole world undone.
* * *
About the Author
Cailín Frankland (she/they) is a British-American writer and public health professional based in Baltimore, Maryland. Their literary criticism has appeared in The First Line Literary Magazine, their poetry has appeared in Eye to the Telescope, and their flash fiction has appeared in Flash Frog Magazine (nominated for Best Microfiction), Black Hare Press’s Dark Moments series, and My Galvanized Friend. They live with their spouse, two old lady cats, a rotating cast of foster animals, and a 70-pound pitbull affectionately known as Baby. You can find them on X as @cailin_sm.