Page 20

Roosters and Blithibulls

Rumi

“We set up a bedroll for you,”

Jamie said and waved her into the small room.

He had informed her earlier that she was wearing his old clothes, but “it’s all right, ‘cause I’m grown.”

He looked to be Mbali’s age and it made her bruised heart spasm.

Sparse, homespun comforts decorated this room, like the rest of the house.

Dusty throws and knitted pillows rested atop the bunks that lined three of the four walls and only a small boarded-up window offered meager light to the space.

Dust seemed to get everywhere, here.

A threadbare rug that was nearly worn through in several places kept their feet from meeting the clay floors.

She pulled the sleeves of her shirt over her knuckles so the cuff would stop rubbing at the abrasions on her wrists, hesitating on the threshold.

It smelled strongly of men and sweat.

Exhaustion settled into her bones at the sight of comfort.

“‘S’all right.

Go ahead.”

He gestured to a small bed of blankets and pillows on the floor in the middle of the room.

It was nothing special.

Not nearly as comfortable-looking as her bed at home, but seeing a pillow and blankets laid out just for her cracked a fissure in her eye, and if she had not been so utterly spent, tears would have fallen.

She crawled into the bed, almost giddy at the weight of the fabric that settled over her shoulders.

He did not close the door, which was thoughtful of him, or perhaps they just wanted to keep an eye on her.

The slice of light speared right across her face.

She closed her eyes and imagined it was dappled sunlight piercing through the trees.

The memory of home kissed her cheeks with golden lips.

***

The sun was low on the eastern horizon when whistling woke her.

It was not a tune she recognized, if it was a tune at all.

A low noise, something like a frog’s croaking accompanied the whistle.

Then the smell hit her.

The scent was earthy and rich with unfamiliar spices, and oh, how her belly stirred at the aroma.

Sharp claws scratched the earthen floor, the croaking sound increasing in pitch.

“No, Charlie, this ain’t for you.

I’s for the girl sleepin’ in the bunk room,”

the voice was familiar—one of the men she had met the day before.

A groan accompanied her full-body stretch before her head lolled to the side, peeking through the crack in the door.

More than a little disoriented, Rumi sat up slowly.

Gratitude blossomed in her chest and warmed her blood.

She could feel her Ti’la still.

After such a long time of the poisoned food disconnecting her, it was so wonderful to feel the connection once more.

Life whispering to her soul.

She shifted into a cross-legged position, quietly whispering in the ancient language as she expressed her gratitude and spoke the traditional sun greeting.

Then she rose and left the room, following the strange croaking and unfamiliar scents.

Rumi followed her nose and opened the door to the kitchen.

A beast rushed her in a blood-red-necked frenzy of flapping feathers and cawing.

A man with a gap between his teeth and a straw hat on his head dove from the table, calling after the feathered fury.

At the sight of a charging animal, Rumi crouched low, her teeth bared in a snarl, her hands up to protect her face.

Such a brash beast surely would have had no qualms about slicing her up.

“Mister Charlie!”

the man’s voice cried, “Dat’s a girl—not gonna eat yer hens, unless ya don’t git back ‘ere.”

The creature turned sharply, flapping his way to the top of a cabinet.

He crowed mightily before hissing at the man and strutting along the top of the cupboards.

“What is that?”

Rumi asked warily, straightening and sidling along the wall toward the dining table, never taking her eyes off “Mister Charlie.”

“Dat’s Charlie, my rooster,”

the man replied.

“Well, not ‘fficially, but he likes me well ‘nough.”

Rumi scoured her brain, trying to remember what Weston had called the funny man, as he reached his arms out to the rooster the way he might have to a child.

It warbled a warning in response.

“Rooster…”

Rumi repeated, the shape of the word unfamiliar in her mouth.

“He has more spirit than the blithibull,”

she observed, settling onto a chair at the far side of the table, the small expanse of wood between herself and what could only be the relative of a bird giving her some semblance of safety.

The rooster hopped off the cabinet, falling gracelessly to the dirt floor with an indignant squawk.

The man rushed to the floor, collecting the bird in his arms and clicking his tongue as he wrestled the obstinate thing.

“I think he’s missin’ his girlfriends.

Wanna come with me t’ da henhouse?”

He stood, securely holding the struggling rooster across his chest.

“M’name’s Fynten, but friends call me Fyn.That includes you.”

Ah, yes.

Fynten.

He had been standing beside the colonel.

She stood smoothly, keeping a wide berth of the rooster’s sharp beak, and followed Fynten into the main room, pausing at the threshold.

The blinding sunlight slashed along the living room floor just beneath the front door and Rumi could already feel the heat.

At her hesitation, Fynten grinned.

“Nothin t’worry ‘bout,”

he assured her.

“I know yer a bit shy.

That’s fine.

You’ll like tha hens.”

He began stroking the leathery red skin on the rooster’s neck and the odd bird croaked in contentment.

“Eat some chick-killer.”

He gave her a broad toothy grin and jerked his head to the small plate resting on the seat of the rocking chair she had apparently claimed as her own.

Her eyes traveled to the plate of strange-looking meat and a white lump.

Before she could object, her stomach growled loudly and she winced.

“Got it hot jus’ fer ya,”

Fynten—Fyn—declared proudly, stroking the comb above Charlie’s head.

The rocking chair creaked loudly as she sat down, her mouth salivating.

Fyn and Charlie had a conversation consisting of clicks and warbles, murmurs and screeches while Rumi watched, chewing on the smoked meat, marveling the entire time at this strange man—could he actually speak to this animal? Did he have magic that allowed him to do so?

Just as she finished eating, Charlie strutted toward her, head held high, his scarlet neck like a suede stocking matching two more that covered his toes and climbed his legs.

He briefly fluffed his feathers for her, cautioning her with a subtle murmur.

“I’m thinkin he likes ya!”

Fyn called brightly.

“Take a shot of water and eat that salt cube afore we go outside.

I’ll help ya wrap up.

We can ask Melba if she’s got gloves for ya.

But first, da henhouse!”

Rumi looked quizzically at the small cube of salt, then looked up to Fyn.

“The meat is already seasoned.

Why should I eat this?”

Fyn chuckled a little before answering.

“Well ya see, you was out in the sun for a long while, and with nothin’ but a jacket to keep the sun offaya.

Ya got cooked, missus.

And whenever sometin’ gets cooked, it needs salt.”

He guffawed a little at his own joke, but as she continued to look at him, he cleared his throat and said, “The sun’ll cook the salt right up outta thea body, and wit’out it, ya die.

This here’ll top ya’off nicely.

Now, to thea henhouse!”

And out the door he went.

Rumi noted the glass of water on the floor near the empty plate but did not reach for it, rather warily observed the bird, eventually offering her hand for him to sniff.

Did roosters sniff? He warbled a croak, bobbed his head and then scuttled after Fyn.

She downed the water, the liquid a blessing in her throat, and wiped her mouth with her hand before tossing the “salt cube”

into her mouth and following after the two.

She was quiet and curious when she entered the room where Fyn had laid out some long, wide strips of fabric.

“I ‘magine it’s strange t’ have t’ wear so many layers when it’s hot like it is,”

he explained as he began to wrap a long length of fabric around Rumi’s neck.

She stiffened at his nearness, baring her teeth.

She caught his wrist—whatever he was doing, she had not invited it.

“…but the sun’s a killer ball of fire in the sky,”

he finished, not attempting to release himself from her grip.

His eyes jumped from the heap of scarves to her.

“Ya look confused.”

“Why do you do this?”

she demanded.

“It’ll protect yer skin from the sun.”

“This is how we would prepare the dead.”

She dropped his wrist and looked at the wrappings in disgust.

Did he plan to kill her then?

“Waddaya mean?”

He tipped his head, genuinely curious, it appeared.

“When we send the dead to Behiba, they are wrapped like…this.”

She gestured to the strips of fabric.

“What is a Beh…hee baw?”

Fyn asked, lifting the fabric and offering it to her instead.

She took it with some hesitation.

“The Mother goddess who watches over our souls when our mortal bodies pass on,”

Rumi told him.

“So, d’ya need help wit’yer death shroud?”

Fyn responded, and while his tone remained sincere, Rumi quickly realized he was being facetious.

He had a disarming charm that dissipated any irritation that may have turned to offense, and instead, she found herself amused.

He spoke again, “Maybe one of the hens could be called that ‘Beehabo’—what was it again?”

“Behiba,”

she said, a slow, cautious smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

She lifted a bit of the cloth and began to wrap it over the places where her skin was bare.

“And what is your name?”

Fyn asked.

Rumi’s lips tightened, her eyes drifting to his before returning to the wrappings.

Fyn held his hands in the air in a gesture of forfeit.

“I am excited to meet your ‘hens.’ Are they like Charlie? Squawky and capricious?”

Fyn bent at the waist, adjusting the scarf to cover her pointed ears and nose, and loosened a fold to arrange it over her forehead before assessing his handiwork with a sharp nod.

“Lookin’ good, Lil’ Miss.

Ya ready?”

He opened the door leading outside, and the fluffy bird charged into the light.

“C’mon, keep up!”

Fyn held the door wide for Rumi to pass through.

Raucous noise bounced down the rocky trail leading behind the little farm house as Rumi darted after the rooster, her bare feet scrambling over the hot dirt, though she hardly noticed the heat through her calluses.

A throaty laugh fluttered from her lips as she dashed toward the pen where a flock of white-chested birds gathered at the fence, awaiting their rooster lover.

“Shoes!”

Fyn said slightly under his breath when he caught up with them.

He crouched against the fence beside her, the clucking chorus rattling against the gate.

Charlie flapped over the fence in a flurry of feathers and croaks, sending two fat hens dancing toward a little hut in the corner of the pen.

She pressed her fingers to the fence and clicked and clucked, imitating the little creatures with a wide grin.

She had not felt herself smile like this in so long…The chickens strutted and scratched, dutifully ignoring the male in their midst.

Animals were so much like people.

Several minutes later, a tall shadow fell over Rumi and the hens, and a heavy thunk hit the ground by her feet, followed by another softer one.

“An old pair o’ Melba’s.”

Weston wore a large sun hat that shaded his entire face.

He motioned to a pair of boots lying in the dirt next to Rumi.

“You should wear ‘em so your feet don’t burn.”

With his hands on his hips, there was no room for argument.

“Stockin’s first.

Then boots.”

He gave Fyn a friendly nod and returned to the house, leaving Rumi staring after him.

Why was everyone being so nice to her?

As directed, Rumi slipped the stockings onto her feet, followed by the boots.

They were a bit big, but better than nothing.

Though her feet carried heavy calluses from a lifetime of going without shoes, they were red from the heat, which she now felt more intensely.

“The hens do not seem to be as happy to see him as he is to see them,”

she observed, gesturing to the flock.

“Them hens on the ropes, they broodin’.

That means they be sittin’ on eggs.

I needa collect them eggs,”

Fyn gave her a wry grin.

“Have ya had a chicken egg ‘fore?”

“Eggs, yes.

Chicken eggs, no.

There is a creature similar to these, though much larger and…meaner.

They lay eggs bigger than my head.

We go out gathering twice a moon cycle, and one is enough to feed a full family.”

She stood and followed Fyn through the gate as he opened the pen and waved her in.

Rumi looked around, really taking note of her surroundings for the first time.

Dry, cracked, red-tinted ground stretched almost as far as she could see, the view interrupted by sloping hills and the occasional skeletal shrub with bristly leaves, accustomed to the harsh heat and very little water.

The “forest”

she had traversed was hardly a forest at all.

Just rows and rows of spiky corpse-like pillars that reached upward, begging for rainfall.

The desolate land and bleak peaks left a deep sadness in her chest that had her rubbing it away with her wrapped fist.

“Has it always been like this?”

she asked Fyn softly, blinking away the sting in her eyes.

The landscape blazed with an offensive mixture of ochre and crimson—even the sky seemed more a dusty cream than azure.

After a lifetime of deep verdant brushstrokes of lush foliage, this new, harsh, red place was making her head ache.

He made a grunt of affirmation.

“Fer as long as I remember.

Some sciencey folk in books say it must’ve been different way back, but I don’t think they be speakin’ truth—jus’ dreams.”

She nodded, watching as he gripped a canister, gave it a shake, and tipped it until a shower of dark wiggling specks fell to the reddish dirt like rain.

“Beetles,”

he called them.

The hen harem responded in a flurry of leathery red legs scuttling over the ground, red beaks surrounded by pale tan feathers leaving dust clouds where the insects had been.

“Strange,”

she whispered, watching the hens feast, their antics making her chuckle, before her mind drifted back to the desolate landscape.

“If this land is dying, why do you not travel elsewhere?”

“The land ain’t dyin.

Just the dry season, is all.

‘Sides, ever’where be like this.

Well, I s’pose not where yer from,”

he added with a grin that pushed wrinkles into the corners of his eyes.

“Wanna pet one?”

“They will not bite?”

she asked, wide-eyed, already kneeling to reach out and pet the feathered creatures.

“Ever’thing that’s got a mouth c’n bite.

Hold ‘em like this.”

He scooped one hen up as she chased after the tiny beetles.

Fyn tucked her against his body, placing a hand under her belly.

As Rumi watched, the small creature settled comfortably against him.

Rumi observed quietly before deciding on her prey.

She crept up to the little hen, her lower lip tightly tucked beneath her teeth, then she snatched it from the ground and hugged it tight.

Alarmed clucks soon subsided into wary croons.

“Ha!”

Rumi grinned, stroking the soft feathers on the ruffled neck.

She named her Ferra.

“They are…how do you say…cute!”

“Are there many birds where ya come from, Miss?”

“Not like these ground birds.

The birds in the forests are large and brightly colored, with feathers like this shirt.

Most are big enough to carry off a small child—some, a man.”

She chuckled and shrugged, watching him tuck them into the coop.

“There are also singing birds and the kind that strike their beaks into the trees hard enough to shake them.”

Rumi shared stories of colorful birds and other large forest animals as they collected eggs in two small baskets.

The eggs were indeed much smaller than the blithibull’s, but she expected as much.

It was no wonder they would need to gather all of the eggs that were laid.

They walked back into the house carrying on a comfortable and good-natured conversation, and Rumi felt herself opening up.

But when they walked inside, the tension was palpable.

Hunched over the table, the colonel and Weston glared at each other.

The former turned toward the door as they entered, scrutinizing.

Calculating.

Rumi met his stare with a dangerous glare of her own.

Weston’s face softened.

“How’re you feeling Little Lady? Any better?”

Rumi nodded, bringing two fingers to her chin in a symbol of respect.

“Yes.

Thank you for your kindness.”

She held out the basket with her gathered eggs as Fyn stepped to her side.

“We was just makin’ friends wit’ yer chickens in back.

Got the eggs for Melba b’fore I head out.”

The colonel stood, his chair scraping as he stared hard at Fyn.

“Where are you going?”

The question itself was not menacing, but the way the larger man strode forward, shadowing Fyn and Rumi, had her hand instinctively reaching for a knife she did not have.

“Jus’ t’ see my girl before I leave.

I didn’t have the chance afore we left.”

Fyn shrugged, unbothered by the colonel’s act.

“May I speak to you, outside, Fyn?”

The colonel’s tone indicated that it was not a request.

Fyn shrugged again and set his egg basket on the table as he followed the colonel out the door, leaving Rumi standing on the threshold with her basket in her arms.

“I can take that,”

Weston said, standing and strolling toward her.

“I’ll have Melba teach ya to make some bread.

All of us here earn our keep and my hospitality only goes so far.”

He spoke the last sentence with enough playfulness that Rumi found herself smiling.