by Julie Berry
“I have a mission for you, Friend,” the something said.
The ostrich could no more understand words than bake a cake, but a picture filled his mind of a person, short and scrawny. Like an ostrich chick, if one thought about it with a very small brain. He could see him. Hear his voice. Smell his smell.
“Find him. Keep him safe.”
Urgency. The ostrich felt it shooting through his long limbs. This human was his, now. He must find his man-chick. Never mind that this young ostrich had never yet found a mate, much less guarded a chick of his own. A father ostrich’s protectiveness now surged through him. He rose and spread his sheltering wings. He was ready to run and, if need be, fight.
The presence in the darkness was gone. The ostrich sensed its absence like a change in the wind. But the memory, the urgent call, remained.
Find him.
He stalked through the aviary, finding the gate to his pen and the door to the outside gardens both flung wide open. This was odd, but asking why was not his specialty. He roamed the grounds, ankle-deep in wet grasses, listening.
Time passed. Not finding what he sought made him ache.
Find him.
Then, something. His plume feathers prickled. What was it? What?
A scream ripped the night.
Danger! A jackal? A panther? A hunter? Some threat to his man-chick? The ostrich began to run. His mighty legs propelled him forward.
There, at the palace itself. Light spilled from a tall window. It burst open, and a form scrambled out. It tried to sidle away from the window on a narrow ledge but slipped and fell, only just catching itself with its legs dangling in the air.
But not too high. Just high enough for the ostrich to run to his man-chick and hoot at him reassuringly. The human screamed again and let go, landing on the ostrich’s back with his legs tucked under the great bird’s wings, as if some unseen hand had placed him exactly there.
“Yeaagh!” cried the man-chick. He clutched the long neck for dear life.
But the ostrich didn’t mind. He took off at a gallop, unbothered by the puny weight of his passenger. When he reached the palace gates and found that they, too, were open wide, the ostrich took off along the hard-packed gravel of the road. The twinkling lights of Lotus City, capital of the blessed empire of Camellion, beckoned below, but the ostrich skirted another way around the palace hill and took a dark path toward the countryside, with its comforting birdcalls and cricket songs. Astride his back, the human shrieked and moaned and shivered with fright.
The ostrich submitted patiently to the aggravation and pressed on through the night. He had his charge, and that was what mattered. Soon the poor thing would settle and sleep. There was all the time in the world for the youngling to learn that his papa ostrich would protect him.
4
A MILKMAID, AND HER WANDERING COW
A sunny morning, five days later.
“Alfalfa’s gone missing again, Begonia.”
Oh, that cow!
Their other cow, a crabby old lady named Cud, swished her tail in Begonia’s face while Begonia kneaded her udder with strong fingers. Cud splayed her hind legs a bit wider, making her milk-bag harder to reach. Begonia shoved her shoulder into Cud’s side and milked with grim determination.
“Did you hear me, Begonia? Mumsy said you’ll have to go find Alfalfa and bring her home. Grandmother Flummox is sick again, so Mumsy’s making her soup.”
The dairymaid sighed and faced her younger sister. “I hear you, Peony. My ears still work.”
Pink morning sun peeked through the slats in the barn wall. The spring air smelled of fresh morning dew and sweet hay and warm cow breath.
Peony stroked Sprout, Alfalfa’s new calf, along her soft side. “Mumsy says you’d better find her quickly,” she said, “before she eats another of Madame Lili’s pear tarts.”
“Find her yourself,” Begonia called. “And muck out her stall!”
Peony stuck out her tongue in reply and left the cow dung, as always, to dependable Begonia. Peony had probably never gotten cow poo on her boots in her life. Her black curls swished over her shoulders as she left the barn, though why a young dairymaid would wear hair that bounced all down her back was more than Begonia could figure out. Cows might just eat hair like that. Especially a cow like Alfalfa.
Alfalfa was a curious cow. It was true; once she wandered to the village temple and ate the priestess’s afternoon snack. It was odd, though, Begonia thought, for Alfalfa to roam now, with her calf so young and needing her milk.
“I shoveled and milked when I was nine,” Begonia muttered to the empty barn. “I’ve weeded the garden since I was six.”
Hay, Cud’s calf, mooed in reply. Hay and Sprout had heard Begonia’s song of woe before.
“She should go find that foolish cow,” Begonia went on over the shooshing of milk in her pail. “Mumsy should make her.”
But Peony was too young to wander over hill and dale in search of a vagabond cow, and Begonia knew it. Mumsy—more precisely, Chrysanthemumsy—would never hear of such a thing. The way Mumsy spoiled Peony was maddening, but there was no getting past those curls and dimples.
Begonia made a mental list of what to do next: find a hat, fill a canteen, pack a slice of bread and maybe some cheese. Hunting for Alfalfa could take time. This wasn’t the list she’d wanted for today. She had planned to spread manure over the vegetable beds, hoe the soil, and water her indoor seedlings in their pots, after feeding her chickens and gathering eggs. A much more satisfying schedule.
She hefted her bucket of milk and turned toward the door. She’d barely taken a step, though, when something hard struck her bottom with the force of a cannonball. She toppled forward in the straw, landing face-first in a new puddle of creamy milk.
Her pail lay on its side, and Cud chewed her—well, her cud—with the placid contentment of a cow whose kick has met its target.
Begonia climbed to her feet and shook milk from her hair. She swallowed a few choice words for Cud. Why waste breath on an ill-tempered beast? It was her own fault. She’d let herself be distracted. Begonia surely knew better than to pass behind those kicking hooves. Not that she would pardon Cud’s meanness anytime soon.
She rubbed her sore bottom, then headed for the house and went inside.
Catnip, the cat, lay snoozing in a windowsill. Mumsy looked up from kneading bread dough at the empty pail, then at her daughter’s face. “Did Cud have one of her moods again?” She chuckled. “Silly old cow.”
Begonia scrubbed her milky, dirty face with a wet cloth. “Silly? That silly old cow has given my bottom a bruise that may never recover.”
Mumsy pushed her own hair out of her face with a floury hand. “Good thing, then, it’s hidden where the sun won’t shine. Stir the pot, will you, Begonia?”
Begonia stirred with one hand and rubbed her sore bottom with the other. “And she knocked over all the milk.”
Mumsy waved this away. “There’s always another day and another pail. Besides, you got a nice yield from Alfalfa this morning before she left for her little stroll.”
Begonia scowled. Easy enough for Mumsy to sound unconcerned, but Begonia knew they needed that milk. If they couldn’t sell their cheese and butter at the weekly market in Two Windmills, they would have nothing else to live on. Her garden wouldn’t begin producing vegetables for months yet. Except for lettuces, and they couldn’t live on lettuces alone. They weren’t rabbits.
Peony climbed down the ladder from the sleeping loft with a hairbrush in her hand. “Brush my curls, Mumsy?”
“In a minute, baby,” their mother answered.
Baby! Combing curls. Tchah. Begonia didn’t envy Peony. Not exactly. She wouldn’t want to be her flouncy, spoiled sister for a hundred silver buckles. She’d much rather be a strong farm girl than a porcelain doll. But sometimes the festival of adoration between her and Chrysanthemumsy was hard to take.
“I’ve got to get this dough rising, and I still have lots of chopping
to do for the soup. Poor old Grandmother Flummox! Her cold is taking days to mend. But that’s what happens when you grow old.”
Begonia leaned over the dirty water bucket and wrung more milk from her own uncurly hair, then snatched a dry heel from last week’s bread, smeared it with soft butter, and gnawed on it. She knew it was right and proper of her mother to take soup to their elderly neighbor. More than right and proper, it was something Mumsy’s generous soul could never overlook. But Begonia wished, in her secret heart, that Mumsy wasn’t always so busy. If she weren’t, or if Peony could help look after the farm as a girl her age should, Mumsy could come along on the stroll to find Alfalfa, and what a treat that would be.
“Peony could chop your vegetables,” Begonia told her mother.
“Oh, I’ll just do it,” Mumsy replied. Begonia looked away. Once again, Peony was spared any effort.
Chasing Alfalfa might be just the change of scenery Begonia needed today. And maybe, if she was gone long enough, Peony would be forced to dirty her sweet little hands and do some work. Though she doubted it.
“Don’t forget Alfalfa, Begonia,” Peony called to her. “Mumsy, have you embroidered my new hair ribbons for the emperor’s birthday ceremony tomorrow?”
Begonia banged out the door before she could hear the answer.
5
CURIOUS ENCOUNTERS, AND DUBIOUS GIFTS
It was the kind of fresh, sparkly morning that might make a young girl forget the milk oozing over her scalp and the ache in her bottom. Mist swirled over the blossoming grasses and clover, and birds twittered and chased one another in the hedgerows. Rising sunlight gleamed on spiderweb dewdrops. It ought to have been a day brimming with hopeful possibilities.
Chasing Alfalfa across the countryside was not on Begonia’s list of hopeful possibilities.
She started out in the direction of Alfalfa’s usual haunts and called out to a neighbor for help through his open window.
“Master Mapmaker, have you seen our white cow, Alfalfa? She got away again this morning.”
The master mapmaker poked his head out the door of his small house. He blinked through his enormous round spectacles, which gave him bulgy-looking eyes. Begonia bowed to greet him.
“Which flower are you, again?”
“Begonia.” Nobody could ever remember “Begonia.”
The master mapmaker’s braided gray beard hung in a pointy rope all the way down to the silver watch chain that stretched across his blue vest and round belly.
“I did see an errant cow earlier this morning, Maid Begonia,” the mapmaker said. “She was headed in a west-by-northwesterly direction, along this very road you’re traveling. White, you say? With a black mark on her forehead shaped like a compass?”
Begonia nodded, though she wasn’t sure about the compass. Mumsy said Alfalfa’s marking looked like a flower, but then, of course, she thought everything looked like a flower. Even her daughters. He must mean Alfalfa. What other white cow could it be?
“Then your Alfalfa cow passed by here not long ago, Maid Begonia. Perhaps half an hour. She tends to wander, doesn’t she? Are you sure you want to go after her alone?”
Begonia didn’t want to, frankly, but there was no point telling Master Mapmaker that, and as sure as flies in a cow’s eyes, Mumsy wasn’t going to change her mind and join her. “It’s no trouble,” she told him. She thanked him and turned to go.
“Wait!” the mapmaker cried. He shuffled through piles of parchments on his desk, then handed a smaller one to her. “Take this with you. In case you need it.”
Begonia studied the drawing in her hand. It was a map of the countryside around their village of Two Windmills (though now there was only one), but she herself had never seen a map. Why should she need a map for the very place she’d spent her whole life? She knew every house, field, creek, and tree for miles around. Yet this drawing made it look different somehow. Smaller and more curious, with each dwelling and barn and temple etched in intricate, colorful detail. The map lacked any writing or labels, but its pictures were sharp and vivid. There was the windmill by the waterfall in the creek. There were the remains of the broken one. The map even had animals sketched in, peacocks and cows and panthers and pigs. She would hang it next to her bed, she decided, and enjoy gazing at it. Though only a map, it reminded her of sacred paintings in the temple. She’d never owned her very own bit of art. It made her imagine things, and wish for some paints of her own.
“It’s only a sketch,” the mapmaker said. “Something I did to pass the time. But you never know when a map can be useful.”
“Many thanks, Master Mapmaker,” cried Begonia. She slipped the little scroll into her pocket and hurried off, west-by-northwest.
Half an hour of a cow strolling. How far was that? And how long should that take an energetic girl? She quickened her pace and admired the blue of the sky. If she had all the paints and inkpots and paper that Master Mapmaker had, she would try to paint a blue to match that sky, with shades of green for trees and fields.
Green was everywhere. Thank goodness cows weren’t green, or she’d never find Alfalfa. There were a thousand places something green could hide in the lush spring countryside. But a white cow shouldn’t be hard to spot.
Alfalfa the cow, however, proved very hard to spot.
The sun climbed in the sky, and Begonia climbed the long, steep hill that led toward the village center and the windmill by the creek. Chickens pecked and clucked in front of cottages, and skinny, tousled children toddled out into their front yards to gawk at her as she passed. There was something nice about roving about in the wider world, Begonia thought. A little freedom was so satisfying. Peony, for all her curls and kisses from Mumsy, didn’t get to see the world pass by as Begonia got to.
A small barrow rattled by, wafting pungent scents. Peering around its sides was a short, wrinkly old woman wearing a magenta scarf, with wispy white hair escaping the bun at the back of her head.
Begonia bowed to the old woman. “Madame Mustard-maker,” she said. “I’m searching for my white cow, Alfalfa. She’s lost.”
“Flower girl!” the old woman cried. “You taste my batch and tell me, is it good?”
Before Begonia could protest, the bent figure had torn a bit of bread off a long loaf, whittled a slice of cheese off a fat wedge, and spread the whole creation with a brown and speckled mustard paste. Begonia had been raised too well to even think of declining this invitation from a respected village elder. Madame Mustard-maker was a beloved fixture in Two Windmills. Begonia took a bite.
Flames erupted in her mouth. Or so it seemed. Tears flooded her eyes. Manners or no manners, she opened her mouth and panted to cool her tongue.
Madame Mustard-maker watched her anxiously. Her eyes crinkled with worry. “Too spicy, just a tad, do you think?”
Begonia’s manners returned, just enough. “Oh, no,” she managed to say just before a thread of emergency drool escaped from her lower lip. “Ith deliciouth.”
Madame Mustard-maker beamed. “I knew today was a good day for mustard-mixing. I felt it in my elbows.”
Begonia swallowed hard.
Madame Mustard-maker took a small clay pot from somewhere in her barrow and spooned in her sticky brown mustard mixture until it was full. She stoppered it with a fat cork, then wrapped the whole jar in an old cloth. “For you, flower girl,” she said. “Keeps you healthy.” She pressed it into Begonia’s hand and wrapped her fingers around it protectively. “Your cow. The one with the spoon on her forehead. She marched right through town, not an hour ago.”
Begonia didn’t dare refuse the gift of mustard. She thanked the old woman, then knotted the mustard pot into her apron. Spoon? she wondered. An hour ago? She was losing ground. Alfalfa was winning this slow footrace, apparently.
The mustard-maker turned to leave, then paused and wound her own magenta scarf around Begonia’s slightly sticky head.
Begonia was so startled she forgot to offer thanks. The mustard-maker winked at her
and rattled off, pushing her cart. Begonia examined the scarf. Though a little worn, it was still the brightest thing in sight. The wind caught it and ruffled it out behind her like a kite’s tail as she headed down the road.
She reached the village proper, and hurried up and down its short, winding streets. No sign whatsoever of a wandering cow. She made her way to the grassy space at the center of town, where children played, grown-ups gossiped, and merchants sang about their silver, soups, and sandals. Conversation buzzed today, as Two Windmills prepared itself for the emperor’s twenty-second birthday celebration. Tomorrow would be a grand ceremony, and the following day, the birthday itself, there would be a feast.
But amid the bustle, there was still no hint of a cow. Yet Madame Mustard-maker had said she’d seen her. Begonia decided to ask once more.
“Excuse me,” she said to the Seller of Many Things, whose little tent sparkled with shiny oddments that twisted and turned in the breeze. “I’m looking for my lost cow, Alfalfa. Did you see her pass this way this morning?”
The Seller of Many Things hung a set of wind chimes from a tent rope and rubbed his round chin. “Do you mean a white cow with a violin-shaped spot on her forehead?”
By now, Begonia wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Alfalfa’s spot looked like a portrait of the emperor. She nodded.
The chimes tinkled as the Seller of Many Things answered. “I saw that cow pass through town today. Probably an hour and a half ago. She seemed like a traveler with a long road ahead of her, marching straight along. Not like your usual wandering cow.”
Begonia’s heart sank. How could she keep on losing ground to a cow? And where might Alfalfa be going?
She tried to think. This might turn out to be a much longer journey than she’d realized. It could take the better part of the day to catch up to Alfalfa and lead her home. She’d need food and water, or some money to buy them, and she had neither. If only she hadn’t barged out the door this morning before gathering supplies! But if she returned home now to prepare for a journey, then retraced her steps, Alfalfa would get ever farther away. There was no telling where the cow might end up. At least, thus far, she’d kept to the road. But there was no reason to suppose she’d remain on it.