The summer of the pale young gentlemen had begun like any other London summer. The weather maintained a comfortable temperature while it hurried through the streets, keen to the everpresent possibility, not to say likelihood, of rain. But rain was as much a part of London life as the Thames and the traffic and the tourists, and rarely did anyone have cause to raise an eyebrow at any of them. Few raised an eyebrow at the pale young gentlemen who appeared that summer, with a suddenness noted only after the fact—the fact being the behavior that brought them forcibly to the attention of the general public, when they were noticed for more than simply their peculiar demeanor and manner of dress, which was common to them all. They dressed in short pants and tank tops, a sort of swimming costume, or type of athletic attire for sprinters and the like. It was odd to see chaps dressed in such a manner striding along the bustling streets of London. They wore very grave expressions on their faces, which, to a man, were thin and pale and sharp-featured. Their eyes seemed to take in every detail of their surroundings without dwelling on any particular one. Certainly they never made eye contact with another Londoner for any longer than their eye might rest upon a corner dustbin, a twin-level, or a pigeon. But Londoners are a busy lot, with little time for troubling themselves over young blokes with peculiar manners and attire—after all, they'd seen far more peculiar through the decades.
Then came the day when the pale young gentlemen gave Londoners, and anyone else who happened upon the story and accompanying snapshots in the London Gazette, a rather compelling reason to pay them some attention. On that late Saturday afternoon, near Battersea Park, and just south of the Chelsea Bridge, in full view of street urchins, bench-warming codgers and pram pushers alike, a handful of the pale young gentlemen suddenly, in perfect unison, as if in obedience to some internal clock common to all, set to the exact same moment, hopped neatly onto the river wall, and without preamble of any sort, dove into the Thames. At least, that is what, to all bystanders, it appeared they were about. Imagine the surprise of those bystanders when, instead of watching those lithe, springy figures vanish beneath the wall and hearing the multiple splashes of their immersion, beheld those figures not descending and vanishing beneath the wall, but to the contrary, ascending with outspread arms and, well, for lack of a better term for there really is no other way to say it, flying round like birds in the air above the Thames.
What a show they put on that day for those who were out and about to see! They flew high and low, soared and swooped and looped round and round and up and down, threading the London Eye, circling Big Ben, whooshing past Buckingham Palace without so much as a bow or curtsy, and dropping back down to zip beneath the Tower Bridge as though it were a feat no more taxing than kneeling to buckle a shoe. After entertaining gaping onlookers in the vicinity with this unprecedented aerial display for an approximate hour, and some claim it was precisely one hour, the Birdmen (for such they have been dubbed) of one accord rocketed northward, leaving London transfixed and rubbing her incredulous eyes.
Then came the day when the pale young gentlemen gave Londoners, and anyone else who happened upon the story and accompanying snapshots in the London Gazette, a rather compelling reason to pay them some attention. On that late Saturday afternoon, near Battersea Park, and just south of the Chelsea Bridge, in full view of street urchins, bench-warming codgers and pram pushers alike, a handful of the pale young gentlemen suddenly, in perfect unison, as if in obedience to some internal clock common to all, set to the exact same moment, hopped neatly onto the river wall, and without preamble of any sort, dove into the Thames. At least, that is what, to all bystanders, it appeared they were about. Imagine the surprise of those bystanders when, instead of watching those lithe, springy figures vanish beneath the wall and hearing the multiple splashes of their immersion, beheld those figures not descending and vanishing beneath the wall, but to the contrary, ascending with outspread arms and, well, for lack of a better term for there really is no other way to say it, flying round like birds in the air above the Thames.
What a show they put on that day for those who were out and about to see! They flew high and low, soared and swooped and looped round and round and up and down, threading the London Eye, circling Big Ben, whooshing past Buckingham Palace without so much as a bow or curtsy, and dropping back down to zip beneath the Tower Bridge as though it were a feat no more taxing than kneeling to buckle a shoe. After entertaining gaping onlookers in the vicinity with this unprecedented aerial display for an approximate hour, and some claim it was precisely one hour, the Birdmen (for such they have been dubbed) of one accord rocketed northward, leaving London transfixed and rubbing her incredulous eyes.
Multiple reports agree that the London Birdmen joined up with another contingent of their kind just north of York, numbering as many as fifty all told, and from there all together, as a single body, flew off over the North Sea. Witnesses watched their extraordinary cruciform figures pierce the sky until they grew vague and indistinct, indistinguishable from any other winged creature (though they themselves lacked wings), and finally disappeared completely. They left as suddenly and mysteriously as they had arrrived, and to our knowledge, were never again seen by human eyes upon the Earth. Perhaps the Birdmen had come to teach us that truly anything is possible, and that just because we have never seen or imagined something, doesn't mean that it might not one day become a reality that leaves us forever changed, seeing the world from that moment on with new eyes.
D.E. Sievers
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