A Predator's Rights

by Anna Starobinets

  “My idea is that we make a pact with Nina Palna—that she won’t eat chickens anymore.”

  “And why would she agree to that?” asked Badgercat.

  “That, my friend,” said Badger, smoothing out his whiskers, “is the crux of the matter: how to convince Nina Palna. For starters we’ve got to find out two things: what Nina Palna loves most of all and what she’s most afraid of.”

  “How’re we going to do that?”

  “By putting the life of a member of the police at risk,” said Badger seriously. “But I think he’ll manage. He’s very capable.”

  “I’ll manage,” said Badgercat, turning a deep red under his fur.

  “What?” asked Badger, surprised. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  CHAPTER 5: IN WHICH THERE'S A MURDER

  A dense darkness had fallen over Hunting Farm, swallowing up the pink feathered clouds and the patchy wisps of fog that hadn’t made it to the horizon in time. The stars, cold and alert, like the eyes of nocturnal predators, already shone in the night sky when Chicken Four had finally reached her coop. Before entering, she looked around just to be safe—the whole way home the chicken felt like she was being followed by a wild animal, and she really didn’t want to lead it straight to her coop. But the coast seemed clear. She ruffled her chilled feathers and stepped into the coop.

  All the hens were fast asleep. Their husband, Brewster, was dozing on his roost. Those unsuspecting, naïve birds. Oblivious to what happens to them on Fridays in the kitchen.

  “Hey, ladies!” squawked Chicken Four. “Brewster! There’s been fowl play!”

  “Fowl play? Where?” The chickens woke up.

  A sleepy, grumpy growling came from Muxtar’s doghouse nearby.

  “Fowl play? How? Where? Fowl play? Who? Why?” trilled the chickens.

  “Something’s a fowwwwl,” crowed Brewster. “But what exactly?” he clarified, a bit calmer.

  “It’s Nina Palna,” sobbed Chicken Four. “She doesn’t love us. In fact, on Fridays…in her kitchen…she makes…chicken soup!”

  “Chicken soup!” crowed Brewster outraged. “On Fridays she makes chicken soup!”

  “Chicken soup! Chicken soup, chicken soup, chicken soup!” echoed the chickens.

  “Freedom to our coop!” crowed Brewster. “We’re not soup!”

  “Notsoup, notsoup, notsoup!” the chickens were getting nervous. “Freedom! The Coop is anti-soup!”

  “The coop is anti-soup!” Brewster proudly spread his wings. “Stop the soup!”

  “Stop the soup! Stop the soup! Stop the soup!” clucked the chickens.

  “Stop the soup!” Chicken Four chanted along with them. “Stop the soup! Stop the soup…” She froze, her beak wide open.

  A huge shadow loomed over her. The shadow smelled of death. The shadow had shallow, heavy breathing. Chicken Four watched in silence as the swaying black form slowly took on its predatory shape and opened its fanged mouth.

  “Danger!” the chickens clucked hysterically.

  “Danger,” silently mouthed Chicken Four.

  She slowly turned to face the source of the shadow. She wanted to see the face of her murderer. And before that initial squirt of blood, like the juice from a popped cranberry, before she was overtaken by complete and total darkness, before the clucks had gone mute, she had time to think, But I thought we were girlfriends now…

  And then the predatory jaws clamped down on the helpless chicken’s neck.

  “Murder!” the chickens began running around horrified. “Murder! Murder! Murder!”

  “Fox in the coop!” crowed Brewster desperately.

  CHAPTER 6: IN WHICH EVERYONE FEELS VERY SORRY FOR THE BIRD

  “Remember, you’re a chick now,” said Chief Badger. “Under no circumstances are you to take off this costume while you’re at Huntington Farm.”

  Starling jumped in place a few times and nodded. He liked the fluffy yellow chick costume. It had holes for his eyes, beak, and feet. Inside the costume, it was warm and cozy, like inside of a nest. Why would he ever want to take it off?

  “Try not to arouse any suspicion,” continued Badger. “It’ll be easy for you. Just repeat everything the chickens say and they’ll think you’re one of them. They’re too stupid to tell the difference between a chick and a starling.”

  “They’re too stupid,” repeated Starling.

  “Your mission is to infiltrate the coop under the guise of a chick and gather information about Nina Palna. This is called ‘working undercover.’ Okay?”

  “Working undercover. Okay.”

  “We want to know what Nina Palna loves most of all and what she’s most afraid of.”

  “What Nina Palna loves most of all and what she’s most afraid of,” echoed Starling.

  “We also need information about the murder of the chicken. You’ve got to carefully question the witnesses. But don’t blow your cover.”

  “Carefully question the witnesses,” said Starling.

  “As soon as you’ve gathered the information, return to the Far Woods,” said Chief Badger, patting Starling on the head. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Good luck at Huntington Farm, Starling!” said Badgercat.

  “Happy to be of service to the Far Woods Police,” said Starling brightly.

  “All right, it’s time,” said Badger, his whiskers twitching nervously. “Off you go.”

  “Off I go,” squeaked Starling and soared off into the sunrise.

  “Since when can he speak for himself?” asked Badgercat, watching the yellow blob in the sky. “‘Off I go,’ and ‘I’m happy to serve.’”

  “Not sure,” said Badger. He, too, was looking after the yellow ball of fluff, which had now become a tiny black dot. “He must’ve heard it somewhere.”

  “He sure is talented,” nodded Badgercat.

  “Rrrrruuuuufffff!” Suddenly came a now familiar enraged bark.

  A second later Muxtar emerged from the bushes. His tongue hung out of his mouth, trembling and dried out from his brisk run, his scruff was standing on end, his nose was wrinkled menacingly, and his furry chin was covered in burrs.

  “You woodland animals really are beastly!” he roared.

  “How so?” Chief Badger stared at Muxtar blankly.

  “How-how-how—” Muxtar stammered furiously. “How so? Your fox murdered our chicken after all!”

  “Chicken Four?” whispered Badgercat.

  “Fox? Impossible!” said Chief Badger.

  “It’s possible all right,” snarled Muxtar. “The other chickens witnessed the murder. And each and every last one of them confirm that the murderer was a fox. The rooster confirmed it too. Hand over the fox immediately!”

  “Bring in Fox for questioning, and snap to it,” Badger ordered Badgercat. “I’m sure there’s been some mistake.”

  “I can’t bring her in,” admitted Badgercat. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday, when Doc Hawk was reviving the chicken. Afterward, Hawk looked all over the woods for Fox. He wanted to prescribe her some calming berries to help combat her aggression and predatory instincts, but she was nowhere to be found. Not in her den, not in the thicket, not in the clearing—nowhere. Apparently, she was last seen at the Tree Knot Tavern. She drank three mothitos and ran off without paying.

  “Holy claw!” yelped Badger.

  “I’d say,” growled Muxtar. “Now I see that you have absolutely no control over your fellow animals, Chief Badger. I’m declaring a Hunt on the Far Woods.”

  “Wait, is she…I mean the chicken…is she definitely dead?” asked Badgercat, a bit hopeful. “Maybe she was just slightly strangled, like last time? You know, chickens are very resilient—”

  “The chicken is definitely dead,” interrupted Muxtar. “We have the body. And footage from a security camera. I’ve brought it here as evidence.”

  “Poor bird!” sputtered Badgercat. “She laid an egg for us. We shouldn’t have let her go…”

  “Footage,” said Badger,
concerned. “We have a bit of a problem. The thing is, it’s very hard to connect modern farm technologies to our Far Woods’ root tube system. Our specialist, electric Ray, can probably figure it out, but it’ll take him some time—a month and a half or two, at least. Is the footage on a tape, a disk, or a flash drive?”

  “I don’t know any of those words,” said Muxtar, catching himself cocking his head reflexively to one side, trying to understand what was being said. “You, Badger, must think of yourself as mighty smart.” He shook himself off. “Don’t try to confuse me with your fancy words. I just ripped the security camera off the tree, bit through the cables, and dragged it here. It wasn’t light either. I left it there, in the bushes.”

  “Oh good,” sighed Badger, relieved. “Since there’s a piece of cable, Ray can connect it to the roots in no time and we can watch the footage on the root tube at the station.”

  CHAPTER 7: IN WHICH UNDERCOVER WORK BECOMES DANGEROUS

  “Look, darling,” said Pence. “There’s a starling wearing a chick costume flying overhead.”

  Petunia looked up at the sky with difficulty. Unlike her husband, who was a rather trim and sporty miniature pig, she was a large, portly hog whose stiff neck was swimming in fat.

  “It’s true, my dear,” she said. “A sign of rain, I reckon. The sky looks foreboding.”

  “I don’t mind rain. What I worry about is getting slaughtered.”

  “You’re right, dear,” sighed Petunia. “It’s a dog eat dog world.”

  “You’ve got to lose weight my darling,” said Pence anxiously. “You’re gloriously obese, but better to sacrifice your beauty than be slaughtered and eaten. You know what Nina Palna does to the fattest, most beautiful pigs—she stuffs them with nuts, apples, and honey, and roasts them. I won’t survive if that happens to you. I’d rather love the skinny version of you.”

  “I’m trying, dear, but I haven’t been able to conquer my natural beauty just yet,” Petunia nuzzled up to her husband with her whole body, almost knocking him over. “We’ve got to cherish every moment we have together. Apart from Nina Palna, now there’s a killer fox roaming Huntington Farm!” The pig switched to a whisper. “And, by all accounts, this fox is a real maniac. She murdered a chicken last night for no reason at all. She didn’t even eat it—just left it in the yard!”

  “There’s something you don’t know about the murder. What I mean is—you only know what you’ve heard from the chickens and dogs. But you didn’t see anything for yourself because you sleep so soundly, darling, just like a newborn. You sleep so well because your soul is innocent and pure. And you snore so sweetly, just like—”

  “Weren’t you asleep too?” Petunia was so surprised she didn’t even let her husband finish complimenting her. “You saw what happened in the coop?”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well, darling. I keep thinking about your extra weight and the apple-nut-honey stuffing… So, yes, I saw something. Something very strange.”

  And he proceeded to tell his wife everything he saw.

  “It’s a dog eat dog world!” squealed Petunia after he finished. “You can’t trust a soul.”

  “Oh, look, darling, the starling wearing a chick costume flew right into the coop.”

  “That poor bird! They’ll peck him to death—they don’t like wild birds.”

  “They won’t. They’re too stupid. They’ll think he’s a real chick.”

  Petunia followed the starling with her beady eyes. Pence loved looking into them on sunny days—the sunrays made them sparkle like tiny gemstones.

  “Hey, Pence. You don’t think that starling is a spy, do you? Why is he flying into the coop dressed as a chick anyway?”

  * * *

  Starling was indeed worried that the chickens would sense an intruder and immediately peck him to death. But when he flew into the coop, Brewster, the hens, and the chicks were all chanting “stop the soup,” “chicken murder,” and “chicken slaughter,” and Starling joined the chorus and no one noticed a thing.

  “Chickens are murdered!” crowed Brewster once more.

  “Chickens are slaughtered!” clucked his wives and children.

  “Who murders chickens? Murders chickens? Murders chickens?” asked Brewster. “Who slaughters chickens? Slaughters chickens? Slaughters chickens?”

  “Fox murders chickens! Nina Palna slaughters chickens!”

  “The terrible Fox!” sang Brewster. “The maniacal Fox!”

  “Fox isn’t a friend!” one chicken’s voice suddenly stood out from the chorus. “Fox’s face is motionless! Fox’s grimace is terrifying!”

  Starling gaped at the screaming chicken. She looked exactly like all the others. The starling didn’t have a knack for remembering faces, so all the chickens in the coop looked identical to him. He did, however, have quite a knack for remembering voices—and he would’ve recognized this voice out of a million others. It was Chicken Four. The same one who ate all his nuts at the police station. The same one who’d apparently been murdered by Fox.

  “Fox’s face is motionless?” repeated Starling in the chicken’s voice, but with the intonation of a question.

  Actually, Starling was capable of speaking for himself, he just didn’t do it very often. Because his grandfather, Starling the Elder, once explained to him (and these words were permanently etched in his memory) that there was no better way to find something out from an animal than to repeat their words back to them. That way, the animal thinks they’re talking to themselves, and animals trust themselves wholeheartedly. So eventually the animal ends up spilling all their secrets. The main thing was to calmly and accurately repeat their key words.

  “Fox’s face was absolutely motionless!” confirmed Chicken Four. “It was terrifying to see the stone face of a murderer!”

  “Fox’s grimace is terrifying?” clarified Starling in the chicken’s voice.

  “Yes, terrifying! More so than the first time, when Fox dragged me to the Far Woods. That time I didn’t even understand what had happened. But last night…I was sure my hour had come,” Chicken Four burst into tears. “When I looked into the murderer’s immobile eyes, I fainted!”

  “My hour had come,” repeated Starling, adding a sob, just in case.

  “Oh yes! Our poor, poor Chicken Five! Last night her hour had come! She was murdered by a monster! She was murdered by the crazed Fox.”

  “Chicken slaughter! Chicken slaughter!” clucked the others. “Chicken murder! Chicken murder!”

  “Nina Palna slaughters chickens!” said Starling. He wanted to lead the conversation toward what he needed to find out: what Nina Palna was afraid of and what she loved. “Nina Palna murders chickens!”

  All the chickens suddenly fell silent. They stared at Starling, their eyes narrowed in suspicion. Starling realized his mistake—he hadn’t repeated their words exactly—but it was too late. Evidently, the chickens had never said that Nina Palna murdered chickens, only that she slaughtered chickens.

  “What what?” Brewster hopped off his roost and made his way to Starling, his comb shaking. “What what, what what, what what? Nina Palna doesn’t murder chickens!”

  “Doesn’t murder! Doesn’t murder! Doesn’t murder!”

  “She butchers chickens!” he declared, coming right up to Starling.

  “Butchers! Butchers! Butchers!”

  Brewster stuck out his neck and roughly plucked at Starling’s wing with his beak. The chick costume split at the seam and the fluffy yellow fabric hung off to one side, revealing Starling’s dark brown feathers.

  “Fowwwwl plaaaaay!” cackled Brewster. He grabbed Starling with his scaly, yellow claw. “Intruuuuder in the coooooop!”

  “Starling…,” said Chicken Four, stunned. “Brewster, it’s Starling. He isn’t an intruder. He’s from the Far Woods. I know him.”

  “There’s a starling in the coooooop!” Brewster crowed shrilly. “A killer starling from the Far Woooooods! Muxtar! Polkan!”

  “They aren’t here, Mr. Br
ewster,” came a squeaky yap from the doghouse. “They went to the Far Woods.”

  “We’re under attack, and they’re in the Far Woods?” Brewster was indignant. “By the way, who are you?”

  “I’m the new dog,” a puppy came out of the doghouse and shook himself off. “I’m a purebred hunting hound.” The puppy had long ears and disproportionately large paws.

  “Are you the new Polkan? But you’re just a small fry!”

  “I’m not a small fry. I’m a puppy,” growled the puppy. “My name’s Count. When I grow up, I’ll take Polkan’s place. Nina Palna got me specifically to replace him. Polkan’s too old. He isn’t a good hunter anymore. He’s out of shape. But I’m a superbreed of hunting hound. I’m even pedigreed! I’m good for hunting wolves and foxes and any other animals—”

  “Well, since you’re such a hunter, why don’t you catch this killer starling,” Brewster shook the starling clutched in his claw. “Before he murders all of us.”

  “He’s not a killer,” protested Chicken Four. “I know him. He’s harmless!”

  “Is he as harmless as your friend Fox?” glared Brewster.

  “I think she’s right,” said Count, cocking his head to the side and examining Starling. “He really doesn’t look like a killer.”

  “You’re not supposed to think. You’re supposed to chase and retrieve,” scolded Brewster. “That is, if you are indeed a hunting hound and not just a lap dog.”

  “A lap dog? I’ll show you!” Count lunged awkwardly toward Brewster, grabbed the starling in his teeth, and bolted toward the house.

  “She’ll probably make soup out of him,” whispered Chicken Four.

  “Good. We’ve got to defeat our foes,” said Brewster. “The last thing we need is all sorts of filthy woodland birds milling about without punishment.”

  “Defeat! Defeat!” the other chickens started up. “Punishment! Punishment!”

  CHAPTER 8: IN WHICH A HUNT IS DECLARED ON THE FAR WOODS