Melito’s Story—The
Cock, the Angel, and the Eagle
“Once not very long ago and not very far from
the place where I was born, there was a fine farm. It was
especially noted for its poultry: flocks of ducks white as snow,
geese nearly as large as swans and so fat they could scarcely walk,
and chickens that were as colorful as parrots. The farmer who had
built up this place had a great many strange ideas about farming,
but he had succeeded so much better with his strange ideas than any
of his neighbors with their sensible ones, that few had the courage
to tell him what a fool he was.
“One of his queer notions concerned the
management of his chickens. Everyone knows that when chicks are
observed to be little cocks they must be caponized. Only one cock
is required in the barnyard, and two will fight.
“But this farmer saved himself all that
trouble. ‘Let them grow up,’ he said. ‘Let them fight, and let me
tell you something, neighbor. The best and cockiest cock will win,
and he is the one who will sire many more chicks to swell my flock.
What’s more, his chicks will be the hardiest, and the best suited
to throwing off every disease—when your chickens are wiped out, you
can come to me and I’ll sell you some breeding stock at my own
price. As for the beaten cocks, my family and I can eat them.
There’s no capon so tender as a cock that has been fought to death,
just as the best beef comes from a bull that has died in the bull
ring and the best venison from a stag the hounds have run all day.
Besides, eating capons saps a man’s virility.’
“This odd farmer also believed that it
was his duty to select the worst bird from his flock whenever he
wanted one for dinner. ‘It is impious,’ he said, ‘for anyone to
take the best. They should be left to prosper under the eye of the
Pancreator, who made cocks and hens as well as men and women.’
Perhaps because he felt as he did, his flock was so good that it
seemed sometimes there was no worst among it.
“From all I have said, it will be clear
that the cock of this flock was a very fine one. He was young,
strong, and brave. His tail was as fine as the tails of many sorts
of pheasants, and no doubt his comb would have been fine too,
save that it had been torn to ribbons in the many desperate combats
that had won him his place. His breast was of glowing scarlet—like
the Pelerines’ robes here—but the geese said it had been white
before it was dyed in his own blood. His wings were so strong that
he was a better flier than any of the white ducks, his spurs were
longer than a man’s middle finger, and his bill was as sharp as my
sword.
“This fine cock had a thousand wives,
but the darling of his heart was a hen as fine as he, the daughter
of a noble race and the acknowledged queen of all the chickens for
leagues around. How proudly they walked between the corner of the
barn and the water of the duck pond! You could not hope to see
anything finer, no, not if you saw the Autarch himself showing off
his favorite at the Well of Orchids—the more so since the Autarch
is a capon, as I hear it.
“Everything was bugs for breakfast for
this happy pair until one night the cock was wakened by a terrible
row. A great, eared owl had broken into the barn where the chickens
roosted and was making his way among them as he sought for his
dinner. Of course he seized upon the hen who was the particular
favorite of the cock; and with her in his claws, he spread his
wide, silent wings to sail away. Owls can see marvelously well in
the dark, and so he must have seen the cock flying at him like a
feathered fury. Who has ever seen an amazed expression on the face
of an owl? Yet surely there was one on that owl in the barn that
night. The cock’s spurs shuffled faster than the feet of any
dancer, and his bill struck for those round and shining eyes as the
bill of a woodpecker hammers the trunk of a tree. The owl dropped
the hen, flew from the barn, and was never seen again.
“No doubt the cock had a right to be
proud, but he became too proud. Having defeated an owl in the dark,
he felt he could defeat any bird, anywhere. He began to talk of
rescuing the prey of hawks and bullying the teratornis, the largest
and most terrible bird that flies. If he had surrounded himself
with wise counselors, particularly the llama and the pig, those
whom most princes choose to help guide their affairs, I feel sure
his extravagances would soon have been effectively though
courteously checked. Alas, he did not do so. He listened only to
the hens, who were all infatuated with him, and to the geese and
ducks, who felt that as his fellow barnyard fowl they shared to
some extent in whatever glory he won. At last the day came, as it
always does for those who show too much pride, when he went too
far.
“It was sunrise, ever the most
dangerous time for those who do not do well. The cock flew up and
up and up, until he seemed about to pierce the sky, and at last, at
the very apogee of his flight, perched himself atop the weathervane
on the loftiest gable of the barn—the highest point in the entire
farmyard. There as the sun drove out the shadows with lashes of
crimson and gold, he screamed again and again that he was lord of
all feathered things. Seven times he crowed so, and he might have
got away with it, for seven is a lucky number. But he could not be
content with that. An eighth time he made the same boast, and then
flew down.
“He had not yet landed among his flock
when there began a most marvelous
phenomenon high in the air, directly above the barn. A hundred rays
of sunlight seemed to tangle themselves as a kitten snarls a ball
of wool, and to roll themselves together as a woman rolls up dough
in a kneading pan. This collection of glorious light then put out
legs, arms, a head, and at last wings, and swooped down upon the
barnyard. It was an angel with wings of red and blue and green and
gold, and though it seemed no bigger than the cock, he knew as soon
as he had looked into its eyes that it was far larger on the inside
than he.
“‘Now,’ said the angel, ‘hear justice.
You claim that no feathered thing can stand against you. Here am I,
plainly a feathered thing. All the mighty weapons of the armies of
light I have left behind, and we will wrestle, we
two.”
“At that the cock spread his wings and
bowed so low that his tattered comb scraped the dust. ‘I shall be
honored to the end of my days to have been thought worthy of such a
challenge,’ he said, ‘which no other bird has ever received before.
It is with the most profound regret that I must tell you I cannot
accept, and that for three reasons, the first of which is that
though you have feathers on your wings, as you say, it is not
against your wings that I would fight but against your head and
breast. Thus you are not a feathered creature for the purposes of
combat.’
“The angel closed his eyes and touched
his hands to his own body, and when he drew them away the hair of
his head had become feathers brighter than the feathers of the
finest canary, and the linen of his robe had become feathers whiter
than the feathers of the most brilliant dove.
“‘The second of which,’ continued the
cock, nothing daunted, ‘is that you, having, as you so clearly do,
the power to transform yourself, might choose during the course of
our combat to change yourself into some creature that does not
possess feathers—for example, a large snake. Thus if I were to
fight you, I should have no guarantee of fair play.’
“At that, the angel tore open his
breast, and displaying all the qualities therein to the assembled
poultry, took out his ability to alter his shape. He handed it to
the fattest goose to hold for the duration of the match, and the
goose at once transformed himself, becoming a gray salt goose, such
as stream from pole to pole. But he did not fly off, and he kept
the angel’s ability safe.
“‘The third of which,’ continued the
cock in desperation, ‘is that you are clearly an officer in the
Pancreator’s service, and in prosecuting the cause of justice, as
you do, are doing your duty. If I were to fight you as you ask, I
should be committing a grave crime against the only ruler brave
chickens acknowledge.’
“‘Very well,’ said the angel. ‘It is a
strong legal position, and I suppose you think you’ve won your way
free. The truth is that you have argued your way to your own death.
I was only going to twist your wings back a bit and pull out your
tail feathers.’ Then he lifted his head and gave a strange, wild
cry. Immediately an eagle dove from the sky and dropped like a
thunderbolt into the barnyard.
“All around the barn they fought, and
beside the duck pond, and across the pasture and back, for the
eagle was very strong, but the cock was quick and brave. There was
an old cart with a broken wheel leaning against one wall of the
barn, and under it, where the eagle could not fly at him from above
and he could cool himself somewhat in the shadow, the cock sought
to make his final stand. He was bleeding so much, however, that
before the eagle, who was almost as bloodied as he, could come at
him there, he tottered, fell, tried to rise, and fell
again.
“‘Now,’ said the angel, addressing all
the assembled birds, ‘you have seen justice done. Be not proud! Be
not boastful, for surely retribution will be visited upon you. You
thought your champion invincible. There he lies, the victim not of
this eagle but of pride, beaten and destroyed.’
“Then the cock, whom they had all
thought dead, lifted his head. ‘You are doubtless very wise,
Angel,’ he said. ‘But you know nothing of the ways of cocks. A cock
is not beaten until he turns tail and shows the white feather that
lies beneath his tail feathers. My strength, which I made myself by
flying and running, and in many battles, has failed me. My spirit,
which I received from the hand of your master the Pancreator, has
not failed me. Eagle, I ask no quarter from you. Come here and kill
me now. But as you value your honor, never say that you have beaten
me.’
“The eagle looked at the angel when he
heard what the cock said, and the angel looked at the eagle. ‘The
Pancreator is infinitely far from us,’ the angel said. ‘And thus
infinitely far from me, though I fly so much higher than you. I
guess at his desires—no one can do otherwise.’
He opened his chest once more and
replaced the ability he had for a time surrendered. Then he and the
eagle flew away, and for a time the salt goose followed them. That
is the end of the story.”
Melito had lain upon his back as he spoke,
looking up at the canvas stretched overhead. I had the feeling he
was too weak even to raise himself on one elbow. The rest of the
wounded had been as quiet for his story as for
Hallvard’s.
At last I said, “That is a fine tale.
It will be very hard for me to judge between the two, and if it is
agreeable to you and Hallvard, and to Foila, I would like to give
myself time to think about them both.”
Foila, who was sitting up with her
knees drawn under her chin, called, “Don’t judge at all. The
contest isn’t over yet.”
Everyone looked at her.
“I’ll explain tomorrow,” she said.
“Just don’t judge, Severian. But what did you think of that
story?”
Hallvard rumbled, “I will tell you what
I think. I think Melito is clever the way he claimed I was. He is
not so well as I am, not so strong, and in this way he has drawn a
woman’s sympathy to himself. It was cunningly done, little
cock.”
Melito’s voice seemed weaker than it
had while he was recounting the battle of the birds. “It is the
worst story I know.”
“The worst?” I asked. We were all
surprised.
“Yes, the worst. It is a foolish tale
we tell our little children, who know nothing but the dust and the
farm animals and the sky they see above them. Surely every word of
it must make that clear.”
Hallvard asked, “Don’t you want to win,
Melito?”
“Certainly I do. You don’t love Foila
as I love her. I would die to possess her, but I would sooner die
than disappoint her. If the story I have just told can win, then I
shall never disappoint her, at least with my stories. I have a
thousand that are better than that.”
Hallvard got up and came to sit on my
cot as he had the day before, and I swung my legs over the edge to
sit beside him. To me he said, “What Melito says is very clever.
Everything he says is very clever. Still, you must judge us by the
tales we told, and not by the ones we say we know but did not tell.
I, too, know many other stories. Our winter nights are the longest
in the Commonwealth.”
I answered that according to Foila, who
had originally thought of the contest and who was herself the
prize, I was not yet to judge at all.
The Ascian said, “All who speak Correct
Thought speak well. Where then is the superiority of some students
to others? It is in the speaking. Intelligent students speak
Correct Thought intelligently. The hearer knows by the intonation
of their voices that they understand. By this superior speaking of
intelligent students, Correct Thought is passed, like fire, from
one to another.”
I think that none of us had realized he
was listening. We were all a trifle startled to hear him speak now.
After a moment, Foila said, “He means you should not judge by the
content of the stories, but by how well each was told. I’m not sure
I agree with that—still, there may be something in
it.”
“I do not agree,” Hallvard grumbled.
“Those who listen soon tire of storyteller tricks. The best telling
is the plainest.”
Others joined in the argument, and we
talked about it and about the little cock for a long
time.