“Stop crowding me!” Valma squawks. The twins’ laughter redoubles.
“Be quiet, the lot of you.” Aurora reaches up, snatches the straw, lifts the heavy brown lass back onto her cushion. “You been using this to torment Val while she’s sleeping, Jolene?”
“She snores like the devil,” the oracle announces, head tilted at a haughty angle. “It’s the only way to shut her up.” The twins nod their agreement, clucking, “It’s true, it’s true!”
“You’re a pain in my backside, that’s what you kids are.” Aurora turns back to Valma and says, “Open wide,” then tucks a mint beneath the old woman’s tongue—both to still her complaints and to reward her for putting up with the other chooks’ crap. Ignoring the jealous looks Jolene and the twins shoot her way, Valma hums with satisfaction.
“I ain’t got time for this now,” Aurora says. “But I will deal with you—mark my words.”
It’s enough to have Rey stirring shit in here, she thinks as she walks away. Without the seers getting in on the pranks as well.
H, I, J, K—there’s a gap in the rows, a small crossroads separating the double-digits on the left from the triple on the right, bookshelves and chooks on all four sides lit by a series of crazed skylights above—L, M, N, O . . . Aurora’s pace slows. She passes through mote-filled beams of light, reluctantly moving into the shadows beyond.
The space where Minnie used to sit is still littered with ragged feathers. A lavender-scented blanket lies twisted like a snarl across the cushion. Red is splashed on both where the other lasses had drawn blood defending their shelfmate. Even now the air stinks of fear, smeared straw, and gore.
“Calm down, ladies, gents,” Aurora says, barely audible above the oracles’ shouts.
“It ain’t fair, Rori—”
“—where’s my goddamn bird? What’s my future?”
“Hush now,” Aurora urges. The hens keep yelling, their scratchy voices repeating the argument she and Reynard had had in front of them last week.
“I can’t take it no more, this bird telling you secrets—”
“—shitting out eggs filled with god-knows-what each week—”
“—unnatural stuff what keeps you looking like you was twenty-five—”
“That’s enough,” Aurora says.
“Stay away from her, Rey—”
“—put her down!”
Minnie’s neighbours lunge at her vacant pillow, as if Reynard were still trying to throttle her. Meanwhile, the lasses on higher and lower shelves mimic the trickster’s pleas, his accusations.
“—you said you’d stopped using!
“—and I ain’t got no magic yolk to keep me fresh—”
“Enough,” Aurora repeats.
“—I share my magics with you all the time, but things ain’t even between us—”
“—ain’t my fault I’m different from you—”
“—Am I even in that future she shows you?”
“Shut up!” Aurora’s chest heaves, her pulse races. That’s twice now she’s lost her temper in this very spot; twice her words have brought the bickering to a halt. Life ain’t even, she’d hollered a week earlier, walloping her husband’s pointed ear. The blow had saved Minnie, but not before the prophet’s little face had turned blue, neck purple from the crush of Reynard’s frustration.
It took a sedative tablet to keep the oracle from flapping herself into an early grave; a lavender-scented blanket draped over her shivering body had helped soothe her into a doze. Such measures wouldn’t cut it now. Faced with several dozen anxious birds, Aurora’s patience is stretched. “I don’t want to hear any more of that talk, you got me? Either look forward like you’re meant to, or shut the fuck up.”
Apart from a few sniffles, a couple squeaks of dismay, the hens do as they’re told. Hands shaking, Aurora reaches up to wipe tears away from P43’s blue eyes. The chick’s nose is red from crying, its tip curved exactly like Ida-Belle’s.
“It’s all right.” She pushes damp feathers away from the white Delaware’s freckled cheek, adjusts the red coronet so that it sits straight on her head. “Everything’s okay.” She offers two Tic Tacs; the chook gobbles them up. Holding a third just out of the hen’s reach she asks, “What’s your name, hun?”
“Ellie.”
Aurora pops the mint into Ellie’s mouth. “Good girl,” she says, tracing the grey barring on the ends of the bird’s hackles, wings and tail with a finger. Smoothing the feathers down; settling the hen’s nerves along with her own. “Did you hear what Ida-Belle needs?”
Ellie says, “I think so,” but her expression is uncertain. Aurora takes another mint, places it in the flat of her palm.
“The girl wants babies. Will she have them?”
The oracle licks her lips, looks up like she’s consulting the heavens, though her gaze has turned inward. A moment passes, then with a confident, single nod she says, “Yes. Sure will.”
As if on cue, the instant Ellie’s prediction is voiced the other oracles begin gossiping about her technique; critiquing her accuracy; commenting on how much better they would have done in her place. Aurora rewards the young lass with another sweet; waits until she has stopped crunching it before asking, “Any chance you can give her something to speed it along?”
Big smile. “I reckon.”
Ellie inches her hindquarters over the back of her green pillow, which is heavily speckled with white. Throat vibrating with the force of her clucks, face crimson, pearl teeth making semi-circular dents in her full lower lip, the oracle pushes.
Grunts.
Pushes.
A throat-tearing squawk. A sound like a marble rolling across a wooden table. Sweat beads Ellie’s forehead. Her colouring returns to normal and her breathing steadies. She grins sheepishly as Aurora reaches beneath tail feathers to poke around through the straw and moult. Pride gilds her features as she sees what Aurora digs up.
A bright red egg, displaying Ida-Belle’s name in silver cursive, sits large and shiny in the cradle of Aurora’s hands. Congratulations roar out from all sides, deafening, as the oracles in rows P and Q compliment Ellie on her first delivery.
“You’re in luck.” Aurora places the egg, still warm, onto Ida-Belle’s lap. “She was feeling talkative.”
Confusion creases the girl’s brow. She picks up the egg, turns it over. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
The older woman lights her pipe, takes a long pull. Sweet smoke fills her mouth and drifts out her nose, temporarily replacing the lingering scent of fowl. She lifts her hat to wipe the sweat and feathers clinging to her forehead and says, “What do you think? Crack it.”
“D’you got a bowl or something I can drop the yolk into?”
Aurora shakes her head. “Just crack it as is, Ida. On your knee.”
Ida-Belle is only half-successful at keeping the sneer from her lips. She looks down at the egg, then at the clean culottes she put on special for her visit to Aurora’s. Such a clever design—she’d stitched them herself. Grey cotton patterned with orange and red pansies, they look like smart pants when she’s sitting, and a skirt when she’s standing. But they won’t look nowhere near as stylish with yolk dribbled all over.
Hesitant at first, then more forceful when she sees how tough the shell is, Ida-Belle strikes the egg against her kneecap. With a crunch, fractures appear across its red surface, spreading out from a circular indent. She digs her thumbs in, waits for the white to ooze out. Her hands remain dry. Small fragments break off as she splits the shell in two; it separates with a sound of twigs snapping, and releases its furry contents onto her lap without mess.
Three miniature bunnies, perfectly proportioned, each one no bigger than a lamb’s eye. All white with beige patches, velvet ears, and pink noses twitching, they roll across Ida-Belle’s thighs and snuggle into the warm space where her legs press together. Blinking, they look up at her; sprigs of parsley, chives and garlic tied like bows around their necks.
“Good work,
Ellie.” Aurora’s voice startles Ida-Belle from her inspection of the rabbits. “You got three chances to get it right, thanks to your generous lass. Now, tell me. How does Jimmy like his stew? Beef? Lamb? What’s his favourite?”
“Lamb’s cheapest,” Ida-Belle says, slowly.
“Of course,” Aurora says. “You got some ready for cooking back home?”
Ida-Belle nods.
“Good. Seems clear what you’re meant to do.” Aurora picks up one of the bunnies, raises it to the level of her eyes, tries not to think of it in a roasting pan. It stares back at her blankly. “You gots to pop one of these here baby-makers in with your dinner tonight—Jimmy like chives and ’taters with his meat?”
Again, Ida-Belle nods.
“All right then, use this one first.” Aurora reunites the chive-necked bunny with its brothers, places a hand on Ida-Belle’s shoulder. “Chop him up good and small so’s Jimmy won’t notice it. That’s real important: it’s got to be kept secret, you hear? This ain’t nobody’s business but yours.”
“Yeah, all right—”
“And don’t go spilling to Loretta, neither.” Aurora gives Ida-Belle a hard look, gestures for her to stand up. She collects the eggshells for compost, and helps the girl tuck the rabbits into her purse. As Aurora walks her client to her truck, she gives final instructions. “Some magics is quieter than others, and this here’s one of them. Understand? You keep them creatures out of sight until it’s time they get ate. Like I said, you gots three chances—your lassie said you’ve got babies coming, and this here’s how you’re going to get them. All right?”
“So we just gots to eat them? That’s it?” Ida-Belle turns to unlock the car door, keeping her back to Aurora to hide the hope shining in her eyes.
“That’s it.”
“Thanks, Rori.” The girl spins on her heel, flings her arms around Aurora’s shoulders, then quickly steps back for fear of crushing the bunnies. Her face is flushed. “How much do I owe you?”
With a sniff, Aurora considers the collection of boxes stacked in the tray of Ida-Belle’s pickup while the girl digs into her purse for some money. “How’s business going with that lot?”
Ida-Belle looks up, sees what’s caught Aurora’s attention. “Buy ’n’ Save’s just ordered another two crates—they say ladies drive all the way from Overton to get our creams. Can you believe it?” She burrows beneath the trio of rabbits, snags another two-dollar coin.
“Do they really work?” Aurora wonders if lanolin by-products will smooth her face as well as the pure stuff does Ida-Belle’s hands; if they’ll be even half as effective as Minnie’s fortunes.
“Well, I ain’t going to shit you, Rori. Not after today.” Ida-Belle reaches into the cab, opens a box and pulls out a jar of homemade moisturiser. “You gots to use a fuckload of it to see results—but, yeah. I ain’t heard no complaints.”
Ida-Belle offers a handful of change, all she can muster from the bottom of her handbag.
“Keep your money,” Aurora says. “Give me a couple jars of that night cream you got there, and maybe some of that SPF stuff too. However many you think’s fair for a bellyful of wee ones.”
Buy ’n’ Save’s order is one carton lighter when Ida-Belle’s truck backs down the gravel driveway. Aurora rests the box on the ground, straightens to wave goodbye. Halfway up, she comes eye-to-eye with a fox poking his scruffy head out of the long grass across the lane.
Aurora’s heart leaps.
She’s so glad to see he’s back again, that he’s still okay, she takes an eager step forward—but is brought up short by the box at her feet. Happiness turns sour as she takes in what he’s reduced her to. Using products to replicate the youth Minnie gave her every week; the clear skin, the deep auburn curls. She snorts. Next she’ll be relying on chemicals to dye her hair! It just ain’t natural.
Hefting the carton, Aurora spits in the fox’s direction. Heart pounding, she snaps, “Bugger off!” The tail dangling from her hatband bobs in time with her retreating steps as she makes her way up the drive, trying to appear unruffled as she enters her lonely cabin.
In the brush, the fox yips after her. He waits a moment, but she doesn’t give him a second glance. Reluctantly, he slinks out of sight, convinced that progress had been made.
Yesterday she wouldn’t even talk to him.
“C’mere, Rori,” Reynard had called from the kitchen. “I got a surprise for you.”
“Just a minute,” she’d replied, rinsing the rest of the soapsuds out of her thick red hair, scowling to find strands of grey. The water scalded, filled the bathroom with steam. She’d stood under the shower until she could hardly bear the heat any longer. She’d hoped it would wash away the guilt that had clung to her since she’d lashed out at Reynard that afternoon, guilt that even a three-hour walk into town and back hadn’t alleviated. Hoped he’d forget about their fight, and what caused it. Hoped they’d be okay. Her skin reddened.
Faucets squeaked into the off position. Aurora had grabbed her plaid housecoat, wrapped it around herself, tied it. Her feet left wet prints on the scrubbed wood floor as she collected the pile of clothes she’d shed on the bathmat. She’d looked at the closed bathroom door, hesitated.
“I’ll just be a second, hun,” she’d said, crouching down to open the cabinet beneath the sink. Shifting spare rolls of toilet paper, boxes of tampons and half-empty bottles of mouthwash and shampoo, Aurora had reached all the way to the back to grab a quilted makeup bag—one Reynard thought was filled with cotton balls. Sitting back on her haunches, she’d unzipped it; released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding until the tension in her lungs eased.
A deep blue egg, her name inscribed bronze in its thick shell, sat perfect and whole at the bottom of the case. She’d saved it for two days.
Despite what Reynard thinks, Aurora thought, I have been trying to cut back on taking Minnie’s fortunes. I really have.
But today had been too much to cope with; the new shoots of grey in her hair were proof enough of that. Muffling the sound with a washcloth, she’d gently tapped the egg against the basin, spinning it deftly between her fingers.
Tricksters like him have their own ways of dealing with things. Aurora shook her head. Not that it mattered. So far, the fates simply hadn’t laid a Reynard-faced chook in her coop. There was nothing she could do about that.
A piece of shell flaked off, landed silently in the sink. Aurora snapped away shard after shard, until only the base of the egg remained. Perched in its curve was a three-tiered fountain, decorated with peacocks, ferns, and doves. At the very top, a nymph balanced on the tip of a finial, her arms stretched to the sky. From each of her fingertips, a jet of water arced into the air then collected in a pool at the bottom of the shell.
Aurora had leaned into the spray, dousing her face with its rejuvenating waters. She’d felt the skin tightening around her eyes, the laugh-lines smoothing from her cheeks, the shrivel of her lips puckering, the sag of her chin straightening. Wiping steam from the mirror, Aurora looked at her youthful features. Satisfied, she raised the fountain in silent salute to Minnie, then tilted her head back and drank it dry. By the time she’d towelled her hair, the troublesome greys had disappeared.
“Close your eyes,” Reynard had said, when she’d stepped out of the bathroom. Actions following words, he’d swept her into his arms, used his furry hands as a blindfold, then danced her in the dark across the kitchen.
She’d smelled the feast long before she’d seen it. Aromas of roasted onion and garlic, fresh bread and warm butter, gravy and boiled potatoes; the scent of wine mulling with spices; an apple pie cooling on the counter—all combined to make her heart lift, and to curve her mouth into a smile.
“Ta-da!” Reynard unveiled his surprise, arms flung wide. Tears had sprung to Aurora’s eyes as she’d taken in the spread laid out before her. Reynard had set the table with their finest crockery—most of the plates and bowls actually matched. Her grandmother’s silver cutle
ry lined the place settings, arranged just the way Aurora liked it. Casserole dishes heaped with food covered the table, so many it was hard to see the fine linen cloth beneath. Occupying the place of honour, in the centre, was a roasting pan covered with aluminium foil. Aurora’s smile had widened.
Reynard only wooed her with treats like this when he wanted to apologize.
“Thanks,” she’d whispered, sliding her arm around her husband’s waist. Unlike her, he’d dressed up for the occasion: a sport-coat over his denim shirt, ears tucked beneath slicked-back hair, and sideburns plastered down with so much pomade he almost looked tame. Only his tail hung free, swinging out beneath the rough hem of his jacket.
She’d kissed him, scratched her nails up and down his back until he purred. Giggling, she’d said, “Why don’t you shift into something more comfortable?”
Reynard chuckled and licked her cheek. Soon his nose lengthened, as did his ears. Rusty fur spread from the top of his head across every inch of his skin. His limbs retracted, leaving a puddle of clothes around his black paws. Lifting his head to look up at Aurora, he leapt onto one of the kitchen chairs and yipped in delight. Instantly, night replaced day. “Take a seat,” he’d instructed, humming the moon into the sky, frosting the room with its blue light.
“For you,” he’d said, and pulled the aluminium foil off the roast with his teeth. “Carve it up, love.”
“With pleasure,” Aurora had replied, reaching for the carving knife.
Her hand froze in midair. Looking up at her, amid a bed of garnish, was her own face in miniature. Minnie’s face; body plucked and stuffed, basted and glazed with spiced butter.
Aurora had sat, paralysed, staring at her oracle while Reynard stood, muscles tense, staring at his wife.
Outside, a rooster hopped onto the sill of the kitchen window, pecked at his reflection in the glass. The sound fractured the silence, the shock that had held Aurora in thrall. Springing to action, she’d snatched the knife and, so quick as to have been done without thinking, brought it whistling down on the tabletop.
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