by J.P Jackson
*
A smoldering fire greeted Taylor at dawn. He combed a hand through his hair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Bull was awake and throwing sacks over his shoulder. Mesha crouched at his feet, covering her ears from the ominous blaring of the horn. She blocked out the sound but it was coming all the same.
Taylor lurched up, rubbing his temples to ward off a migraine. "Give it here," he said, snatching the end of a sack.
Bull nudged him off and when Taylor reached again, Bull growled and flung him back. Taylor's shoulder cracked the clay wall outward. Crumpled and stunned, he threw up his arms and waved the white flag. "This is your house, mate. Do what you have to do."
Mesha ran to hold open the door, shaking with fear as her husband stomped passed. She followed him out to a scant pile of sacks in the centre of the village. All the men, women and children were present, fearing the worst as the caravan trundled into their hamlet.
A hooded priest sat at the reins of the lead wagon, with the yellow bird nestled beside him. Close behind, donkeys pulled a burdened cart of fat sacks while the cage brought up the rear.
Again, Taylor observed from behind the water pot. With no plan, he decided to wait for inspiration. The avian creature, dressed in gold coloured garments, appeared more interested in the silver ledger on his lap than the workers cowering around the wagon. With his stiff posture and studious eyes, he looked like an accountant rather than a conqueror.
Village priests lowered their heads and approached the caravan with stretched out hands and grovelling theatrics.
Several of the cloaked men in wagons shook their heads when they noticed the modest collected of sacks. They climbed down and huddled together to discuss the situation. Having arrived at a conclusion, they turned to the waiting crowd and began singling out the largest and strongest men from the village. One specimen in particular caught their eye.
"Fuck," Taylor hissed, biting his nails as Bull was ushered to his feet.
The priests groped his biceps and chest, slapped his fleshy thighs and inspected his teeth and gums. Bull was then ordered to the wagon and standing tall, he nodded and Mesha screamed, grasping Bull's wrist and tugging him back. Bull and Mesha wept together while impatient priests unfurled whips.
Bull pressed his cheek against his wife as a violent snap ricocheted through the air. He cried out and slumped to his knees as the flesh was lashed from his back. As the priests curled their whips and prepared to strike again, Mesha draped herself, and her unborn child over her husband.
One toothless priest threw down his whip, reached deep into Mesha's hair and pulled. Her feet kicked out and she writhed as the hair was torn from her scalp. Bull roared from the pit of his stomach and clutched the priest around the throat, squeezing the man's trachea. The other priests set upon him and the yellow bird raised his eyes at the commotion, appearing confused yet intrigued by the scuffle. The priests whips tattered Bull's skin while he lunged at them, fracturing jaws and shattering bones.
Taylor's heart thumped painfully in his chest, his torch glowing.
"Calm down!" he hissed, gasping in and blowing out. "Think! Get a hold of..."
Taylor glanced down at the water pot and stopped, suddenly unable to catch his breath. There were words scratched into the terracotta. A message written in English! Taylor ran his hands over the words as he read them aloud: "Ham, don't do the magic trick!"
When the priests held a knife to his wife's swollen belly, Bull's resolve disintegrated and he threw up his hands. The priests then struck him repeatedly as they pushed him towards the cage.
Taylor shook his head to break the spell of déjà vu. Taking a sharp breath, he stepped out from behind the pot, dug two fingers into the sides of his mouth and blew.
Everyone: priests, workers and bird, turned to look at him.
"Aye, that's right!" Taylor yelled, rubbing a pain from his neck as he waved. "Everybody get a good fuckin' look!"
The priests gawked. The yellow bird dropped his ledger and bent his head to one side.
"I'm volunteering to take the place of these men," Taylor added, addressing only the bird.
"My name is Ham Taylor, and you'll want to hear what I have to say!"
The yellow bird paused before waving it's hand toward the waiting cage. Priests captured Taylor’s arms and threw him down next to Bull. He grimaced as a forearm pressed around his neck. Taylor didn't fight or resist, but Bull did, hoisting the priest assaulting Taylor over his head, tossing him like a rag doll. More came at him, including the yellow bird, who weaved through the approaching priests to reach Bull, where he promptly pinched Bull's shoulder with his lanky fingers, snapping his collarbone like a dry twig. Bull howled before he sagged to the ground, landing on top of Taylor, who gasped for breath as the huge man's weight incapacitated him. The bird then dusted his hands and bent his beak to touch Taylor's nose.
"Seriously invading my personal space," Taylor spat, pushing against Bull's limp weight.
The bird's dark eyes came to life as he studied Taylor's torch. The expression on the bird's face mirrored the same déjà vu Taylor had felt reading the message on the pot. The bird took a shocked step back, folded his arms then said in perfectly enunciated English. "You are a long way from home...meddler of time."
The bird tapped a leathery knuckle against Taylor's temple. The darkness took him immediately.
