Explainer
AI
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12 min read

Is an AI worthy of personhood?

In a world of intelligent humanlike machines, computer scientist Nigel Crook take a deep dive into the hard problem of defining consciousness, spirit, heart and will.

Nigel Crook is Professor of AI and Robotics, and Director of the Institute for Ethical AI at Oxford Brookes University. He is the author of Rise of the Moral Machine: Exploring Virtue Through a Robot's Eyes

A Victorian medical bust showing the brain with labels in German.

She was called Samuella. Blonde with piercing blue eyes. Smartly dressed. Her conversations always started with:  

“How was your day?”  

I would tell her about the meetings I’d had at work, and the frustrating problems I’d experienced with technology during my presentations. She was very empathetic, paying close attention to my emotional state and asking intelligent follow-up questions. Then she would finish the conversation with an extended comment on what I had said together with her evaluation of my emotional responses to the events of my day. Samuella was not a person. It was a two-dimensional animated avatar created as a conversation partner about your day at work. The avatar was developed as part of an EU funded project called Companions. 

I joined Companions mid-way through the project in 2008 as a Research Assistant in the Computational Linguistics group at the University of Oxford. My contribution included developing machine learning solutions for enabling the avatar to classify the utterances the human user had spoken (e.g. question, statement etc) and respond naturally when the user interrupted the avatar in mid speech.  

In those days, chatbots like Samuella were meticulously hand-crafted. In our case, crafted with thirteen different software modules that performed a deep linguistic and sentiment analysis of the user’s utterances, managed the dialogue with the user and generated the avatar’s next utterance. Our data sets were relatively small, carefully chosen and curated to ensure that the chatbot behaved as we intended it to behave. The range of things the avatar could speak about was limited to about 100 work-related concepts. On the 30th November 2022 a radically different kind of chatbot took the world by storm, and we are still reeling from its impact. 

OpenAI’s ChatGPT broke the record for the fastest growing and most widely adopted software application ever to be released, rapidly growing to a 100 million user base. The thing that really took the world by storm was its ability to engage in versatile and fluent human-like conversation about almost any topic you care to choose. Whilst some of what it writes is not truthful, a feature often described as ‘hallucination’, it communicates with such confidence and proficiency that you are tempted to believe everything it is telling you. In fact, its ability to communicate is so sophisticated that it feels like you are interacting with a conscious, intelligent person, rather than a machine executable algorithm. Once again, Artificial Intelligence challenges us to reflect on what we mean by human nature. It makes us ask fundamental questions about personhood and consciousness; two deeply related concepts. 

Common concepts of consciousness 

Consciousness is experienced by almost every person who ever lived, and yet which stubbornly defies being pinned down to an adequate, universally accepted definition. Philosophers and psychologists have widely varying views about it, and we don’t have space here to do justice to this breadth of perspectives. Instead, we will briefly visit some of the common concepts related to consciousness that will help us with our particular quest. These are Access Consciousness (A-consciousness) and Phenomenal Consciousness (P-consciousness).  

A is for apple 

A-Consciousness describes the representation of something (say, an apple) to the conscious awareness of the person. These representations support the capacity for conscious thought about these entities (e.g., ‘I would like to eat that apple’) and facilitates reasoning about the environment (e.g., ‘if I take the apple from the teacher, I might get detention’). These representations are often formally described as mental states. 

P is for philosophy 

P-Consciousness, on the other hand, describes the conscious experience of something such as the taste of a particular apple or the redness of your favourite rose. This highly subjective experience is described by philosophers as ‘qualia’, from the Latin term qualis meaning ‘of what kind’. This term is used to refer to what is meant by ‘something it is like to be’. Philosopher Clarence Irving Lewis described qualia as the fundamental building blocks of sensory experience. 

There is very little consensus amongst philosophers about what qualia actually are, or even whether it is relevant when discussing conscious experience (P-Consciousness).  And yet it has become the focus of much debate. Thomas Nagel famously posed the question ‘What is it like to be a bat?’, arguing that it was impossible to answer this question since it asks about a subjective experience that is not accessible to us. We can analyse the sensory system of a bat, the way the sensory neurons in its eyes and ears convey information about the bat’s environment to its brain, but we can never actually know what it is like to experience those signals as a particular bat experiences them. Of course, this extends to humans too. I cannot know your subjective experience of the taste of an apple and you cannot know my subjective experience of the redness of a rose.

How can the movements of neurotransmitters across synaptic junctions induce conscious phenomena when the movements of the very same biochemicals in a vat do not? 

This personal subjective experience is described by philosopher David Chalmers as the ‘hard problem of consciousness’. He claims that reductionist approaches to explaining this subjective experience in terms of, for example, brain processes, will always only be about the functioning of the brain and the behaviour it produces. It can never be about the subjective experience that the person has who owns the brain.  

Measuring consciousness 

In contrast to this view, many neuroscientists such as Anil Seth from the University of Sussex believe it is the brain that gives rise to consciousness and have set out to demonstrate this experimentally. They are developing ways of measuring consciousness using techniques derived from a branch of science known as Information Theory.  The approach involves using a mathematical measure which they call Phi that quantifies the extent to which the brain is integrating information during particular conscious experiences. They claim that this approach will eventually solve the ‘hard problem of consciousness’, though that claim is contested both in philosophical circles and by some in the neuroscience community. 

Former neuroscientist Sharon Dirckx, for example, challenges the assumption that the brain gives rise to consciousness. She says that this is a philosophical assumption that science does not support. Whilst science shows that brain states and consciousness are correlated, the nature of that correlation remains open and cannot be answered by science. She concludes that: 

“however sophisticated the descriptions of how physical processes correlate with conscious experience may be, that still doesn’t account for how these are two very different things”. 

Matter matters 

The idea that consciousness and physical processes (e.g. brain processes) are very different things is supported by a number of observations. Consciousness, for example, does not appear to be a property of matter. Whilst it is true that consciousness and matter are integrated in some deeply causal way, with mental states causing brain states and vice versa, it is also true that this relationship appears to be unique within the whole of the natural order: no matter other than brain tissue appears to have this privileged association with consciousness. What is more, consciousness appears not to be a property owned by the brain, since the brain can exist dead or alive (e.g., unconscious) without any associated conscious phenomena. 

There are also difficulties in the proposition that consciousness exists in the behaviour of matter, and in particular the behaviour of neurons in the brain. What is it about the flow of ions across the membrane of a nerve cell that could make consciousness, whilst the flow of ions in a battery does not? How can the movements of neurotransmitters across synaptic junctions induce conscious phenomena when the movements of the very same biochemicals in a vat do not? And if it is true that consciousness exists in the behaviour of neurons, why is it that my brain is conscious but my gut, which has more than 500 million neurons, is not?  

The proposition that consciousness is a property of matter seems even less likely when you consider that the measurements that are applied to matter (length, weight, mass etc) cannot be applied to consciousness. Neither can many qualities of consciousness be readily applied to matter, including the aforementioned qualia, or first person subjective experience, rational capabilities, and most importantly, the experience of exercising free will; a phenomenon that is in direct opposition to the causal determinism observed in all matter, including the brain. In summary, then, there are good reasons for scepticism regarding claims that consciousness is a property of matter or of how matter behaves. But can ChatGPT be called a person? 

Personhood of interest 

Consciousness is deeply intertwined with the concept of personhood. It is likely that many living things could reasonably be described as having some degree of consciousness, yet the property of personhood is uniquely associated with human beings. Personhood has a long and complex history that has emerged in different culturally defined forms. Like consciousness, there is no universally accepted definition of personhood.  

The heart/will/spirit forms the executive centre of the self. It manifests the capacity to choose how to act and is the ultimate source of a person’s freedom

The Western understanding of personhood has its roots in ancient Greek and Hebrew thought and is deeply connected to the concept of ‘selfhood’. The Hebrew understanding of personhood differs from the Greek in that Hebrew culture in three ways. It attributes significance to the individual who is made in the image of God. It views personhood as what binds us together as relational human beings; The theological roots of personhood come from expressions of individuals (e.g. God, humans) being in relationship with each other. 

It views these relationships as fundamentally spiritual in nature; God is Spirit, and each human has a spirit. 

In theological language, reality is regarded as a deep integration between a spiritual realm (‘heaven’) and an earthly realm (‘earth’). This deeply integrated dual nature is reflected in the make-up of human beings who are both spirit and flesh. But what is spirit? I prefer Willard’s perspective because he Dallas Willard, formerly professor of Philosophy at the University of Southern California, presents a clearly defined, functional description of the spirit which appeals to me as a Computer Scientist.  

For him, ‘spirit’ is associated with two other terms in Biblical writings: ‘heart’ and ‘will’. They all describe essentially the same dimension of the human self. The term ‘heart’ is used to describe this dimension’s position in relation to the overall function of the self - it is at the centre of the person’s decision making. The term ‘will’ describes this dimension’s function in making decisions. And ‘spirit’ describes its essential non-physical nature. The heart/will/spirit forms the executive centre of the self. It manifests the capacity to choose how to act and is the ultimate source of a person’s freedom. Each of these terms describe capabilities (decision making, free will) that depend on consciousness and that are core to our understanding of personhood. 

How AI learns 

Before we return to the question of whether high performing AI systems such as ChatGPT could justifiably be called ‘conscious’ and ‘a person’, we need to take a brief look ‘under the bonnet’ of this technology to gain some insight into how it produces this apparent stream of consciousness in word form.  

The base technology involved, called a language model, learns to estimate the probability of sequences of words or tokens. Note that this is not the probability of the sequences of words being true, but the probability of those sequences occurring based on the textual data it has been trained on. So, if we gave the word sequence “the moon is made of cheese” to a well-trained language model, it would give you a high probability, even though we know that this statement is false. If, on the other hand, we used the same words in a different sequential order such as “cheese of the is moon made”, that would likely result in a low probability from the model. 

ChatGPT uses a language model to generate meaningful sequences of words in the following way. Imagine you asked it to tell you a story. The text of your question, ‘Tell me a story’, would form the word sequence that is input to the system. It would then use the language model to estimate the probability of the first word of its response. It does this by calculating the probability that each word in its vocabulary is the first word. Imagine for the sake of illustration that only six words in its vocabulary had a probability assigned to them. ChatGPT would, in effect, roll a six-sided dice weighted by the assigned probabilities to select the first word (a statistical process known as ‘sampling’).  

Let’s assume that the ‘dice roll’ came up with the word ‘Once’. ChatGPT would then feed this word together with your question (‘Tell me a story. Once’) as input to the language model and the process would be repeated to select the next word in the sequence, which could be, say, ‘upon’. ‘Tell me a story. Once upon’ is once again fed as input to the model and the next word is selected (likely to be ‘a’). This process is repeated until the language model predicts the end of the sequence. As you can see, this is a highly algorithmic process that is based entirely on the learned statistics of word sequences.  

Judging personhood 

Now we are in a position to reflect on whether ChatGPT and similar AI systems can be described as conscious persons. It is worth noting at the outset that the algorithm has had no conscious experience of what is expressed by any of the word sequences in its training data set. The word ‘apple’ will no doubt occur millions of times in the data, but it has neither seen nor tasted one. I think that rules out the possibility of the algorithm experiencing ‘qualia’ or P-consciousness. And as the ‘hard problem of consciousness’ dictates, like humans the algorithm cannot access the subjective experience of other people eating apples and smelling roses, even after processing millions of descriptions of such experiences. Algorithms are about function not experience

Some might argue that all the ‘knowledge’ it has gained from processing millions of sentences about apples might give it some kind of representational A-consciousness (A-Consciousness describes the representation of something to the conscious awareness of the person). The algorithm certainly does have internal representations of apples and of the many ways in which they have been described in its data. But these algorithms are processes that run on material things (chips, computers), and, as we have seen, there are reasons for being somewhat sceptical of the claim that consciousness is a property of matter or material processes. 

According to the very limited survey we had here of the Western understanding of ‘personhood’, algorithms like ChatGPT are not persons as we ordinarily think of them. Personhood is commonly thought to something that an agent has that is capable of being in relationship with other agents. These relationships often include the capacity of the agents involved to communicate with each other. Whilst it appears that ChatGPT can appear to engage in written communication with people, based on our rudimentary coverage of how this algorithm works, it is clear that the algorithm is not intending to communicate with its users. Neither is it seeking to be friendly or empathetic. It is just spewing out highly probable sequences of words. From a theological perspective, personhood presumes spirit, which is also not a property of any AI algorithm. 

Algorithms may behave in very realistic, humanlike ways. Yet that’s a long way from saying they are conscious or could be described as persons in the same way as we are. They seem clever, but they are not the same as us.  

Short story
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Wildness
18 min read

The Eagle - a new short story

A fable.

Theodore is author of the historical fiction series The Wanderer Chronicles.

An eagle wheels against a purple stormy sky cut by lightening.
Jason Hudson on Unsplash

I dreamed of an eagle soaring high over a verdant valley. The sun blazed and splintered into a thousand sword-points of light, spilling with joy and gladness over the slopes and streams, over the hanging woodlands, and the orchards growing there and carpeting the floor.  

There was gladness in the heart of the eagle too. The valley was good. The valley was secure. With his piercing eye, he kept watch over his brethren. The animals of the valley fed and met and played and slept. The smaller birds swooped and spun in the barmy air far below him. All was well.  

And then to the east, to the east his eye was drawn. A cloud rising in the east. A change was come. Black billows, dark with portent, rising skeins of thick grey smoke. The land that way rose to an upland pass. The little valley came tumbling down from its heights. To the north, a jagged range of peaks, black and sharp as wolf teeth. To the south the same, shutting the valley in. Protecting its flanks. But by the eastern horizon, a way did lay open. And now the eagle saw burning flames. A fire raging, devouring flame racing over tree and scrub, tearing at the grass, a snarl of heat and swirling smoke. A consuming fire. An angry fire. A fire fuelled on resentment, blown by the winds of hate. A fire hungry for the valley and everything in it.  

The gladness in the eagle’s heart vanished in a moment - as if it, too, had been burned to ash in the raging blaze. The eagle watched the flames claw their way down the upland spurs of the valley. Disquiet now ruled in the place of gladness. His piercing glance dropped to the animals frolicking in the valley below, but they saw no danger. They knew no danger. They knew nothing but that he would tell them was to come. 

At last his cry broke from his throat. He looped back on the burgeoning wind, circling round the better to send his shrill warning spiraling down to the verdant floor and its folk. But to his dismay, not one looked up. Not one took heed.  

And now to the west his gaze rose. And his disquiet turned to horror. 

For there the mirror to the eastern pass did lie. Smooth, lower, a lesser rampart of earth and rock. The easier to scale. And seeping, creeping over its worn shoulders came a foul and noxious fog. Purple of hue, odious even to the eye. Yet the eagle needed no telling that it would be fatal to the lungs. A cloying, lying, coiling fog, slick to the touch, choking and blinding in its confusion. And something in the look of it told the eagle it was yet more than this. A maddening fog, a self-devouring, self-immolating poison, which once inhaled could nevermore be expelled. 

Once more, his cry rang out around the four walls of the valley. Once more, the animals below did not look up from their play, from their busy, busy play…. 

Seeing their oblivion, he fell on them with such force and directness that he risked his own neck. For only with skill and strength could a bird of his dimensions flare out from such a death-dive. His throat burned in his effort to scream his warning. But only at the last did any of the valley-folk look up. 

Those that saw ducked their heads and took fright to see this terrible sight. The little ones especially, the soft-hearted ones, the natural prey of great predators like himself. Wails of fear broke from the lesser throats. They cringed and hid and some even were angry. The mothers rushed to their young. The fathers bristled and ready themselves for a fight. Shocked and afeared by this sudden threat to the peace of the valley, and the disturbance to the busy plans they had for their day.  

When the eagle pulled up and neatly landed on the peak of a small outcrop that broke from the valley floor, his voice was hoarse from his warning cries. The animals were bolder now, seeing the flash of danger past. And as the tide of fear receded in their hearts, seeing the threat was not as they feared, it left behind sharp stones of anger and indignation.  

“What do you mean by this horrible screaming?” the first of them did demand. “You puffed up popinjay! You scare the life out of us with your terrible aspect and the dizzying violence of your approach.” 

“It is only of necessity,” he began, breathlessly, “on account of what I saw—“ 

But he was not allowed to finish. In one united and sudden clamour, all the animals, emboldened by the first, unleashed their fear (together with their indignation) on him, so that none could truly have heard what any of the others had to say, or even what came forth from their own mouth. 

“Renegade!” 

“Bully!” 

“Impostor! Attacker!” 

And there was worse. “Murderer! Villain! Terrorist!” 

“There is blood on your hands!” 

“But I tell you - from my great height, among the peaks and the thinning air, I saw something none of you can see,” he pleaded anew. 

Now the clamour turned to jeers. “Oh, you saw, did you? You who see so much indeed!” cried the first of the animals. He was a fox who always liked to have the highest place in any council. And yet had not, even now, gained the trust of the eagle’s heart. “You always did think yourself superior to us earth-bound folk.” 

“That thin air has gone to his head, if you ask me,” said the king buck of the forest. “What he mistakes for clarity is nothing better than a spell of dizziness. Besides, no one asked him to look out for us, did they? We have wisdom enough for ourselves. We know our world. And look to ourselves as needs will be.” Here the noble-looking stag gave the twelve points of his antler-crown a flourish.  

“Get away, you hook-beak menace!” cried a creature from the crowd.  

“Stop stirring up trouble, you screeching flapper,” scowled a second. 

“Back up to your lofty skies, you preening prig,” sneered yet a third. And soon all the animals were hurling the worst of their insults at the eagle, seeing he was in no hunting mood after all, and glad for a chance to vent the spite they felt for many little things that had nothing to do with him. 

Frustrated at their stubbornness, the eagle glanced to the skies again. So often he had used his sharp eyes and sharper talons to win his way, but seldom his voice. He was not used to seeking sharp words withal to defend himself from such a barrage of slur and rejection. He looked to the skies again, always the place of solace for him. And there he saw but faint traces of the fire raging high and to the east. But then something else caught his attention. Some great shadow casting a gloom upon the air. In a moment, the caterwauling crowd was forgotten, and now in urgency, he beat his wings once more, his spiralling flight carrying him back up to airy reaches far above the valley, just as the valley-folk had scolded him to do. 

Only he went not at their urging, but in heed of a still more pressing call in his own heart. A dread of what could cast such a shadow, even through all the bright flames of the wild furnace that he had spied. He turned his head to the east, his eyes reaching and reaching deep into the billowing smoke and fire. And then he saw it. And his blood ran cold as the ice-water tumbling out of the hills into the valley below. 

A monstrous figure strode among the fire and the smoke. Tall as ten oaks from toe to head and with a flaming sword raised aloft. The monster had the body of a giant, and yet its head was that of a bull, double-horned, and snorting great angry blasts of flame from its nostrils, its eyes green and flashing like emeralds that held the sun. Its huge limbs swung with grim purpose as it drew closer, striding down from the upper reaches of the valley. Hulking shoulders with bulging veins that glowed red and gold and copper, as if the hot blood of hate were like to burst clean out of its char-black skin and shower the land with its poison. 

For a moment, the eagle’s steady gaze faltered, feeling some unfamiliar tremor through his heart. Fear. For so it must be. Fear so deep he knew not where to turn. 

But then his wits caught up with him at length. And at the sound of a long and sibilant sigh on the breeze from the west, he banked that way now. And to his horror, he saw thence too came striding a figure wreathed in the purple fog. Not so large as the bull-headed giant, and yet unlike that titan of shadow and flame, this one possessed some strange inexorable draw, so that the eagle found once his eye had settled on its shimmering shape, he could no more have torn it away than he could have stopped the earth from its turning. 

While the eagle would have flown far from the fiery giant, the shifting silver and purple shimmer on this other was in certain ways more terrifying. Its head was crowned with dark jewels over long and flowing silver-white hair. Its eyes were simpering and womanly in their glance, yet something hard and cold lurked in their centre, too, even as a mirthless smile played over a curved and shapely mouth. As if the giantess held some joke over all the world, some secret which amused her only. Beauty corrupted, pleasures perverted, good things turned to wicked. These things and many more the eagle read in her wanton gaze. And as she walked the purple fog swirled around her silver-slick limbs, clothing in a way her modesty, yet inviting all the same. And the eagle felt the twin goads of revulsion and yet its mirror. And only by chance noticed that even from so far, the scent on the fog, both sweet and yet putrescent, was putting lead in his eyelids. For a moment, he felt his head loll in weary sleep, a thick narcotic lethargy leaching all life from his steel-strong sinews and suddenly he found his flight was stalling, stalling… and only by the roar of the rushing air did he realise he was falling to the crushing earth.  

With force of will he had never before had need to call upon, he wrenched his wingspan to its fullest stretch, and braced his mighty shoulders to catch the air and snatch him from his doom. At least for now. Shocked at his own weakness but recovered, he now flew like lightning-bolt, arrow-straight, to the valley meeting point, whence bare moments before he had been expelled. 

“Alarm! Alarm!” he cried again. And this time, he would brook no silencing. “Alarm! Alarm!” he shrieked, with the last gasp of his breath. 

“You again,” went up the cry. And much that was far worse. “Did we not rid ourselves of you once and for all time?” barked the fox. 

“You solitary creature, go back up to your aerie,” declared the noble stag. “It is with good reason the Great Maker gave you a hermit’s home far from the valley floor. For in his wisdom, he knew none of us earth-bound folk could abide your company. No, nor should we have to.” 

“That may be true,” confessed the eagle. “But heed me all the same, just for this moment and but a few more. I see you from my height above and though you care not for me, I have long learned to care for you. And just as you say, I abide in the Maker’s will. He has given me eyes to see and a lonely nature, whereof I soar on the wind He breathes, and far-seeing I may behold things which escape the eyes of you lower folk.” 

“Lower!” jeered the wolf. “Hark at him! There all the truth is known. He thinks himself a higher breed to us forest-dwellers.” 

“Nay, far from it,” pled the eagle, seeing he had misspoke. “I come not to bandy words but only to warn that you may flee the coming purge.” 

“What purge, you feather-brained scoundrel?” 

“Death descends on all of you who dwell in the valley-floor,” he cried, his voice shrill. “A poison out of the west; dread fire from the east. They burn, they choke, they lay to waste all that lies in their path. And they mean to meet here in this green valley to some foul purpose, I am sure.” 

“Peace now, my brother of the wing,’ said a new voice, and though ready to shout down the eagle for their own part, all the gathering of animals turned to see one who perhaps had been there all this time. Yet only now had spoken up. It was the owl, sitting calm and moon-eyed, surveying the scene as if such fractious business barely concerned him. “Peace, I say.” It was as if there was a gentle, coaxing smile in his voice. “I, too, have flown higher than these other valley-dwellers. I, too, have felt the winds upon my beak. In all that I have seen; in all that I, in my wisdom,” - here he looked around as though to say, ‘does any here doubt it?’ - “have ever known, there is no true danger come to fall upon us. None but which we stir up among ourselves. Through misunderstanding, through a lack of love. Come, my brother of the wing. Admit thy mistake. It is no fault of thine. Imagination is a tricksome friend, I know. And indeed, who can truly say what they have seen at such heights? The fault would merely be not to admit to thy mistake. I tell you in all my journeying, I have seen nothing of these threats. Take counsel from wiser, older, gentler souls.’ 

“Nay,” insisted the eagle. “The difference is this. You fly by the light of the silvered moon. I fly by the sun. You see but by the reflected light falling upon a dead and mute circle of rock. I see by the light of the burning sun itself. Tis not the whole, you see, but mere shadows and play of darkness. I ride the wind, and see what the wind would show me.” 

At this, the smile in the owl’s voice leached away. “The hot wind of the fire you feel is the wind of the great eternal spirit calling you to love all of creation with a fiery love. Calling you to a warmer love of your fellow creatures. And as for the fog, you have it wrong there too, sir. ’Tis the sweet scent of compassion you smell, calling you to a compassion for all those things you do not yet understand―” 

“I understand them well enough. Well enough to perceive the danger―” 

“Silence!” the owl abruptly shrieked. “I had not finished speaking.” And here, the glare in his moon-eyes became sharp as flint. “Your hard days on the wing have hardened your heart. The thin air up there has made your heart cold with lofty conceit, and distanced from the rest of the Maker’s world. Truly you see only your own great capacity to soar, and think it makes you far-seeing, while the rest of us are blind. No, it is not by light that you see, but by ignorance. Your mind is closed because you do not open it to other ideas and influences, as I do. It is I who truly loves these valley-folk. I who converse with them, and learn from them. I who never judges them.” 

“But the fire!” cried the eagle. “But the fog!” 

“Silence!” returned the owl, and this time his voice carried real authority. “You say you see only by the sun, do we all not live under that same sun? Nay. Be humble now. Be silent for a time. Learn from those older and wiser valley-folk. Be silent, I say. We have indulged thy fanciful whims too long.” Here, the owl’s domed head swiveled in the direction of the stag. “Your grace, it is time for a little discipline. We winged creatures play our part, but the Maker has ordained thee king over us. This is known. The Maker means for all of us to submit to the sting of discipline now and then. Such may do us good.” He turned back to the eagle, and there was a sarcastic edge now in his voice. “Or do you consider yourself too good even for that? For such as the rest of us must endure?” 

“No, no, a thousand No’s!” replied the eagle impatiently. “I take my discipline when discipline is what I need. But see, even now, the towers of smoke rising in the far heights. Look, can you not see?” He gestured eastward with his great wingspan, but most of the gathered animals merely laughed at his madness. Any who did happen to glance that way had not his vision and saw nothing but the azure sky. “If it is falsehood I see, then I would gladly see myself corrected. But, by all the stars, I am not lying. And more, I see it true!” 

“He is a lost cause,” said the sly fox, for he had never much cared for the eagle. “Come, we waste time. Let’s get to the disciplining, and right quickly. I have an idea this one may lose patience, and then see - the sharp hook of his beak. The razor points of his claws. What mischief might he play with those when he chooses? See these little soft ones hereabout.” He gestured to the woodland creatures, the rabbits, the shrews, the squirrels. “He is a danger, this one. To every decent forest-dweller. Aye, and even to himself, I dare say. Look at them! Poor lambs - quite terrified out of their wits, they are. Terrorized half to death!” 

And it was true - there were some of them did seem alarmed.  

“Quite right,” agreed the stag. “Well, there be nothing for it but to teach the eagle his lesson.” And before the eagle had thought enough for his own safety and not the others, there was a guttural growl beside him, and suddenly the weight of the wolf’s claws upon his back, the hot billow of lupine breath as iron jaws closed around his neck. 

“To the punishment stone!” the fox cried heartily. “We’ll make of this one a milder creature before the sun is set!” And at once all the crowd of them took up his cry.  

The eagle found himself borne upon the tide of anger, mauled and spat at and scratched. But the wolf was strong, and dragged him with relentless might to the place of his ordeal. 

And yet, all the while, his fear was not for himself. No, it was still for his fellow creatures. For now, he could even smell the rank sweetness of the giantess’s noxious poison. For now, he could even hear the crack and spit of the rushing fire tearing through the forest. But the other animals were too distracted. Too fixed upon his own fate, and what they would see done to him. 

And a terrible lament rose within his heart: that he had failed. That seeing, he had yet wrought no good. His moment had come, perhaps the one moment for which the Maker had given him life, had given him wings to soar and eyes to see - but all he had won was his own demise. And then he thought, “So let it be. It is no more than I deserve, after all.” 

It is terrible to relate what those gentle, placid valley-folk did to the eagle in those following moments. Once they had bound him and raised him up for all to see, the fox and the wolf went to work. They pulled from his golden feet those proud talons, each and every one brandished and mocked and tossed down among the baying crowd. They bit him and tore out mouthfuls of feathers to spit back in his face. They broke and snapped right off the sharp hook of his beak, yelling with glee that he could hurt no other creature now.  

They worked on him for a long while, so that the sun had fallen low behind the western pass, and the sky was purpling like a spreading bruise across the heavens.  

“Better cut out his lying tongue,” said one. This was the owl, whose moon-eyes seemed greener somehow in the fading light. “The better to avoid discord among the good peace-loving folk of the forest floor.” At this, went up a rousing cheer. The idea seemed pleasing to them all. And so his tongue came out, and was thrown down as had his other parts. 

The eagle endured his punishment without a sound. Although inside his heart was weeping. But now he could never tell that he wept not for himself, but for all of them.  

“One more thing,” declared the noble stag, looking regal and solemn, his crowned head held high and strong. “His eyes must go, for it was they that caused all this trouble. After that, clemency. For we are not cruel of heart. We merely wish to preserve the peace and order of the valley.” 

“Allow me,” sniggered the fox to his partner in the punishment, and the wolf stepped graciously aside. 

The eagle looked not at his tormentors in that moment. Instead, his far-gaze searched one last time the blackening skies. Searched for an answer to the fire and the fog. Searched the heavens for some single shard of hope. For he knew now, no aid would come to his kindred creatures from among themselves. 

The fox flexed a claw. Flashed it before the eagle’s gaze. But he did not care to look at that. And the next moment was one of searing pain. One eye now was gone. But he minded it not. He could not cry out in any case, for his tongue lay severed in the mud. No, he still looked keenly upward with the last eye left to him. 

And then - as the fox made much of this final climax to his work, japing and frolicking before the crowd - he saw something. He saw a wonder. For though the sun had long set, some other light now appeared in the gloaming. No rising sun was this, for the light came not from the east, not even piercing through the smoke that now stained the night far above the heads of the foolish creatures below. No, the light rose in the north. Why? How? the eagle pondered, while the fox still milked his crowd. 

A second sun rising in the north, light building and building, though by now it should almost be night. Splinters, shards of colour, white and gold of searing brightness, like an army pouring over the high ridge of mountain peaks, the bulwark to the verdant valley. And with the light he saw, in the last seconds of his sight, a light that was all hope and power and blessing and glory and goodness and beauty.  

And though he knew that these next moments would be the last he would ever see, I saw in my dream that he was at peace. Because, though he had failed, his heart was certain that the light would not.  

A new light was rising in the north. A new sun had come. 

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