“Hello,” he said. The deer just glared back.
“Hello, my tasty one.” It was the coyote who answered.
Gomor shivered. “Um, hello, sharp tooth. Uh, what brings you both to the Vulture Field?”
The coyote was exceedingly old, and it seemed an effort for him to offer a reluctant answer: “I suppose it could be said that it is the daily guarantee of a bountiful feast that brought us here. . . and keeps us. However, I must admit that tomorrow holds nothing. Eh, Sephel? Easy here for us today, but tomorrow is meaningless. What say, old friend?”
The deer moaned and shifted. “I would admit there is much truth to what you say, Cago, much truth. But I say tomorrow be damned. Ones as old as we cannot claim much of a tomorrow bearing these withered forms. At least here we can be friends, you and I. I worry not for your teeth, and you lust not for my flesh. Free at last from the bonds that have held us for so long.”
The coyote laughed. “Little ones, come rest with us for a while. All you must do to be cared for is to lie down. No announcements needed. The vultures will bring you food.”
“We don’t need the vultures to care for us; we are only here passing through,” said Harlequin. “We have a home.”
“Oh, pretty one,” said Sephel, “from here, you will certainly be upon a circular journey. Your path will lead you back to this place one day, by your own will or not.” And with this the coyote and deer both laughed darkly, then fell into an easy silence, returning to their chewing.
The quail and rabbit alike shivered. Then Cormo said to Gomor, “Let’s leave these two alone. They are past insane.” Neither Gomor nor Harlequin argued.
The three went back to the main group of animals for a while as the vultures had brought in hay from the fields near and also branches covered with late berries. Some of the berries had soured. Only the elders were allowed these, and they brought much happiness to the mind and body. Too many of these soured berries and the eater would become dizzy and mindless. The young were not privy. Harlequin sat down to eat beside Cotur Mono. The leader of the quail had consumed a few of the sour berries, but not too many. He was sentimental. They talked of the day and of the dealings with the vultures. They spoke lightly for a bit, then Cotur Mono narrowed his eyes upon the younger.
“So, my little one, which of your suitors has caught your eye?” he asked her.
“Oh, Grandfather, I can admit to none!” she said. “All are but chicks, and I love only one. You know that! Only you.” She toyed with him.
He smiled back. “My love, you are the joy of my life, just as your grandmother was before you. Your grandmother. I do miss her.”
Sadness overtook the younger quail. “I miss her also. From early waking light until darkness of sleep I think of her. And with the closing of dusk I dream of her.”
Cotur Mono sighed. “Of all my children—let me tell you a secret—of all my children, you are my dearest. I see so much of her in your heart.” He saw that Harlequin was crying.
Harlequin’s eyes twinkled with the love she felt for the strong, wise bird. “Grandfather,” she said, “there is one whom I have caught within my heart, and I do feel I am within his.”
“Oh, your whispering heart! I believe I do know of whom you speak, my pretty. You speak of your old friend? The grand chick of Cotur Ada? By name, Ysil?”
She laughed. “Oh, Grandfather, why do you jest with me? He is too much a friend to be within the space of my heart! You only pretend not to know. I speak of Monroth!”
The old quail’s feathers quivered a bit, as if a breeze had arisen, but there was no wind. He stared at her for a passing instant then went on. “Oh, yes, surely he is strong and full of wit. Fine young bird, yes, fine.” He coughed, and for a moment, Harlequin thought her grandfather had breathed in a moth.
Gomor and Cormo were eavesdropping behind them, close enough to hear her speaking, and when she mentioned Monroth they looked at each other in amazement. So she did hold a place within her heart for Monroth! This was a bit of a shock, but most of all Gomor considered this to be a sad thing. For even though Ysil had never said it aloud, the rabbit knew his friend held her within his heart. The two then moved a bit away where they could speak freely.
“Monroth! What a shame,” said Cormo. “Monroth bears more cowardice beneath his wings than Ysil will ever leave with his droppings.”
“You speak the truth, bird,” said Gomor. “Were I a quail, I would likewise be holding a place within for her.” He looked around to see for sure the others were too far to hear. “Let us go away now. On the journey here I sighted a hollow log, empty and huge. We could make it there by nightfall and spend the dark hours within. Then, come morning, we could hurry home. Far ahead of the rest we would be. What do you say, bird?”
It did not take Cormo long to consider. “Yes. Let’s do this,” he answered.
And with this last word the two stole away. And none saw them leave except Harlequin, who had noticed them conferring and looked after her friends.
COTUR ADA WALKED with the stride of one who knows his fate and, though saddened by it, is nonetheless fearless to face what is to come. Ophrei watched his approach with trepidation.
“You are a fool, Cotur Ada,” said the rook. “You are a fool to be in this field today.”
“He watched the whole of the Reckoning,” said Banka. “He admitted this to me and certainly will to you likewise.”
The old quail walked up to Ophrei and, shaking his feathered bonnet with gathered resolve, stared directly into the listener’s eye. The General stood very close, watching the rook for any sign.
“Though the certainty seems evident, I must ask: Is what Banka says true?” asked Fragit.
“Wisdom is in deed, not tongue,” answered Cotur Ada.
“Why are you here?” asked Ophrei. “Why have you come to be a witness of this most sacred rite? To what purpose do you defy the decree, old bird? You know the cost of such insurrection, yes? This deed of yours is not of wisdom but of folly.”
“My deed is clearly understood by some, and most surely not seen by you, rook, not for now. But there may come a time,” said Cotur Ada. “I have chosen as my life’s last endeavor this intrusion. That with my sacrifice, perhaps your hearts will hear. Now, before you make your judgment on me and pronounce my fate, I ask that you, General, and you, Ophrei”—he looked around the murder, every bird scowling and quiet—“and all of you! I beg you, hear my warning plea!”
“We will hear no plea for mercy, quail,” said Fragit. “We are crows. We offer no mercy when the order has been broken. Your fate is already chosen.”
“I seek no reprieve, General. What I ask is only for your ear, and I ask that you listen with your hearts, all of you. That is, if you have the heart to open.”
Ophrei quaked in anger. “What is your plea, then, Cotur Ada, you who are numbered with the damned?”
“I beg of you to send an envoy over the river. To the place where Pitrin the hawk keeps his home. Beg of him to return.” He looked around the field. “Who of you remembers when the wolves were here? Not I. I have heard the tales. Rook? You remember?”
“Aye, I do. Was a dire time,” said Ophrei. Then he laughed, darkly. “Of what consequence is that? And why would any desire a hawk to return here?”
“I had come to believe that the strength of King Crow Mellori and the order he commanded held a balance here.” Cotur Ada turned to General Fragit. “General, what was the claim Sintus made as he fled? Did he not claim to make his return with a battalion of coyotes and foxes? I fear it will not be only coyotes and foxes with which he returns.”
The murder began a murmur.
“Of what nonsense do you speak?” asked Ophrei.
“I beg of you, send an envoy over the river. Beg Pitrin to return. Tell him”—and with this Cotur Ada trembled visibly—“tell him his father sent you.”
“His father.” Fragit laughed. “And who might that be?”
Cotur Ada, the eldest of the quail, low
ered his head. “It is I,” he said.
HIDDEN AWAY, YSIL and Monroth took in the words of the old quail. What could his grandfather mean: the father of a hawk? Out in the field Cotur Ada stood, his head lowered. The crows around him were laughing and murmuring at his ridiculous words. Ysil gaped in wonder at the feather his grandfather had given him. He must be planning some trick. But what? Ysil thought it a vastly dangerous thing his grandfather was doing, and though he struggled to find such, he could grasp no understanding of it.
Below, Cotur Ada, the eldest of the quail, began a song. With the first note, every crow froze silent. His voice was childlike and sweet at times, at times dark and full of warning. And as his melody rose, it settled the wind, and all listened intently, those upon the field and the watchers from their hiding place.
The Invocation of Cotur Ada
Long sung since time has passed
This song of golden field,
And here I’ve spent my weary life
To pick through meager yield.
I am known as Cotur Ada,
The eldest of the quail,
Now lend your ear and hear my plea
And hearken to my tale.
Do you recall past hungry days?
The dreadful worried nights?
When fearful quail would rise up meek,
To seek come morning light?
Every rabbit nibbled cautious,
And badger horded food.
Though mole he worried not a lot
For sleeping buried brood.
And jay gave early warning quick
A twitch of wing then gone.
And golden finch kept to her nest
With warning sounding song.
But we were hardly sheltered safe
By hiding in the brush,
When out we sneaked come morning light
None would watch o’er us.
That pale winter she daily came
And with no protection.
Starvation pushed us from our nests;
She took her selection.
She fell upon our number’s kind
And on my loved ones dined,
The slower and the older ones,
The younger left behind.
But we were choiceless in those days,
For we must seek the grain,
Winter holds no greater bounty
Save what we store away.
She nested high up in the fir
And that year tended young;
We damned their cursed sharpened beaks,
With feasting bloody tongues.
High on his roost sat old King Crow
In council with the wind,
Sleepy and fat on robins’ eggs,
Stinking of shed snakeskin.
We gathered up all true and brave
And told the King our fear.
He frowned and preened his dirty wing,
His murder roosting near.
Incanta spoke not one lone word
But wept before his feet:
Her dear babe chick taken away
By hawk’s strong spiked beak.
A worn and angry old grey squirrel
Petitioned to the King:
But as he spoke the murder laughed,
Their cawing deafening.
“You’re wise and brave, Your Majesty,
Please make this hawk to leave!”
But old King Crow fell fast asleep
And did not hear our pleas.
And eager Nijra went ahead
As younger quail will go,
And down upon him came the hawk,
Her talons clasping low.
She lifted him up to the sky
And brought him to her nest.
She fed her screeching babies’ mouths
Upon bird’s opened chest.
So back we trudged with heads hung low,
Our spirits sunk in hate,
For now our numbers were but few
(So many dead of late),
Back to our brambly hidden home,
Where sad all night we cried
And prayed that with the coming morn’
The hawk be satisfied.
And early I did rise to seek,
As seeking’s what we do,
The little grain and winter’s feed
To carry the day through.
With fearful heart I crept to field
’Neath hungered, desperate skies
And hoped to find a spot of green
And not death from on high.
And there beneath the sleepy sun
Just near a mouse’s lair
A feathered form fought to set free
Its wing from man’s sharp snare.
And in amazement I drew close
To see who was entwined.
In shock I found the murd’rous hawk
Entangled in the line.
I drew in close to see if she
Were too bound to break free.
She turned up quick with dying gasp
And set her eyes on me.
Red blood was flowing from her wing,
A gash deep in her side.
Her fury spent, she lay there, weak,
So bound up, neatly tied.
I looked to her and said, “Well now,
You’ve met untimely end.
Your bones we’ll scatter ’cross this field,
Your feathers to the wind.”
She stared at me and from her mouth
There came a saddened cry.
She said, “I ask you hearken to
My begging ’fore I die.
“I implore you heed my memory,
Barely out of my nest,
When quail in number were but few
With hawks’ and wolves’ contest.
“We had no food for weeks on end—
My brothers, sisters dead—
Wolves gorged fat on the dwindled quail
And ravaged rabbit’s bed.
“And when the squirrel and dove were gone
And on wild feeding stopped,
The wolves grew brave and preyed upon
The lazy pasture stock.
“And man was pricked by this offense
To find his cattle slain,
And shot and killed the wolves until
There was but one remained . . .
“A young gray wolf, so fast and proud,
Into the forest ran
And once again a prayerful calm
Settled on the land.
“These times I’d say none can recall,
’Cept turtle—mute and still—
When man our common enemy
Did all the strong wolves kill.
“And if you were to let me die
And rot into the ground
Who then would feed my babies’ mouths
With mother not around?
“But set aside my final beg,
And take great warning: Heed!
I only take so many now
Because I’ve mouths to feed . . .
“And beak and talon are but trite
When held to claw and teeth,
Should I pass on there may return
The wolf to gain this keep.
“Fly, I beg you, bless my babes
And feed their bellies good.
It won’t be long they’ll learn to fly
Their purpose understood.”
“And whom to them will we then feed?
Our young, our old, our weak?
Shall I tear my child’s precious flesh?
And push it to their beaks?”
Weak she gasped a slow reply:
“Feed worms or grubs or flies.
It won’t be long they’ll need your care,
Their nature realized.”
And as she talked all gathered round,
Our figures small and frail.
The dove, a badger, mole, and rat,
The rabbits, mice,
and quail.
Still we watched in silence deep
As, witness to her weeping,
We viewed her tortured suffering,
’Til death did claim it’s keeping.
We left her there and went our way
And danced until the night
And through the dark, we shut our ears
To starving babies’ cries.
The next night the cacophony
Of weeping was still there,
But not as loud, as surely some
Had died without her care.
The foll’wing day but one still wailed
From there within the nest
I pressed my wings tight to my ears,
Prayed, “Babe, give up contest!”
But then the next night still it cried
And I had made my will
To fly up there, and in the nest,
The screaming infant kill.
But when I looked upon its form
So frail and near-death weak,
I scraped the bark and found a grub
And pushed it to its beak.
Lupus Rex Page 7