by Susan Klaus
“You better stay out away from him,” said the guard. “The harpy was sweaty because he’d been flailing his wings at people all day. Mr. Simpson even gave up going in his cage for fear of getting struck. Did you see the man’s bruised face and throat? The winged devil nailed him and it’s killed three men. It’s mean.”
“I’ll take my chances, Harold,” George said and approached the cage door. “I don’t believe he’s mean. He’s just been mistreated. Mollie told me how Gus Simpson and his two pals tortured him. Well, Gus’s luck ran out when he hurt the wrong animal. Those boys got what they deserved, and the same goes for Bill Simpson.” He unlocked the door, and the harpy lifted his head out of his arms.
Harold stood up to watch. “You’re crazy. The harpy is going to knock your teeth out with his wings.”
George grinned and removed his false teeth. “Too late.” He walked to Shail, holding up the bottle. “Easy, little guy, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m giving you a drink.”
Shail arched his wings and hissed at the approaching man. Despite the man’s kind words, Shail didn’t trust him. He angrily rattled the chains and flung his hair.
George slowly moved closer. “Look. It’s only water.”
Despite Shail’s threats, the old man kept coming, coaxing him to drink from the bottle. Shail tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He stretched his neck, and the enticing water touched his parched lips. He took a quick, nervous sip before jerking his head back and curiously looking at the old guard. Shail’s judgment was clouded by hostility, and he sniffed the wrinkled hand to gain a sense of George.
“See, I’m just trying to help you.” George again offered the bottle.
Shail eagerly sucked down the water, but remained leery, unfamiliar with a man’s compassion. Even Doc had held a knife at his throat when treating his lazar biast wounds.
“You were thirsty.” George smiled and patted Shail’s shoulder.
Startled by the touch, Shail leaped back, snapped at the hand and raised his wing to strike, but hesitated.
“You’re a jumpy little guy,” George said and looked at the wing poised to whack his face. “Guess I can’t blame you.” Shail lowered his wing and tilted his head.
George left the cage and refilled the bottle. He went back into the cage and gave Shail a second bottle of water. “Good boy,” he said and slowly stroked the drinking harpy’s head. “See, Harold,” he called to the other guard, “he’s not mean, just misunderstood.” He stepped out of the cage and returned to his chair.
“You got guts, George,” said Harold. “I sure won’t go in his cage.”
George leaned back in his chair. “That harpy reminds me of an old stray cat I found. Damn, she was a bitch. She’d scratched me every time I reached for her, but she had been abused. A little nourishment and kindness goes a long ways with an animal. She learned to trust me and turned into a great pet. I miss that old girl. That’s the only thing wrong with the harpy. Those men turned him sour. If he were treated right, he’d be gentle.”
“A cat scratch is one thing, but that skinny winged thing can snap your neck like a twig. He took on Gus and those other two men and killed all of them in one sweep, and they were big tough guys. There’re not enough credits on Dora to get me in that harpy cage.”
* * *
In the morning Shail lifted his head when Bill and the rest of the employees returned to the range.
“How was he?” Bill asked Harold and George.
“He’s pretty tired from standing for twenty-four hours,” George said. “At tonight’s auction he might be hanging from those chains. It could hurt his price.”
Bill looked up at the harpy that softly seethed at him. “All right, here are keys to his chains. Loosen them, and I’ll let him rest this morning.” He handed the keys to George and turned to the animal handlers. “This afternoon hose him down and string him back up. I’ll get him worked up before the auction.”
George walked to the cage sides and slackened the chains, and Shail eased into the straw. All the men left the cage area except George. He reached through the bars to pet Shail’s head.
Shail watched the man’s hand come close. With the loose chains, I could easily kill him, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to attack George or even pull away. Shail lowered his head and allowed the older man to stroke his hair.
“You just rest now,” George whispered, running his hand through the silky, blond hair. “When I come back this evening, I’ll bring you some food.”
Perplexed by George’s kindness, Shail curled up in the straw and watched the sympathetic man leave the large room. George liked him and wanted to help him much like the young police officer that had stopped Bill from beating him. They were unlike the hundreds of hateful men he had encountered over the last few days. They are like a few grains of sand on a beach, very few men are worth saving, he thought. Soon the beetles shall come and my suffering shall be over. He wearily placed his face in his feathers and closed his eyes. He fell into a deep natural sleep not induced by tranquilizers.
* * *
A rap against the cage bars woke Shail in the afternoon. He leaped to his feet, dragging the noisy chains still attached to his wrists and ankles. Bill stood near the cage, but out of arm’s reach. “Damn harpy was tired,” he said to several men. “String him back up and tie down those wings. Roll the cage out to the range and give it and him give a good cleaning. I want him pretty tonight.”
The men pulled Shail’s chains from the outside of the cage and hoisted him off the straw. The six men entered the cage, and Shail beat his wings to strike, but they grabbed each wing and folded them into place. His wings tied down, Shail struggled in the chains and gnashed his teeth, but he failed to intimidate them. The men rolled the display cage from the building that had stale air and smelled of toxins and put it in the warm outside range. Shail inhaled the fragrant, humid air that once represented freedom.
The men washed and lathered Shail with soap, and he squirmed in his bonds and snapped at their hands. Holding him by his hair, they combed out the tangles and blew him and his wet wings dry. The experience was painless but degrading. Shail shook, trying to remove the perfumed soap scent. His cage cleaned and filled with fresh straw, the men moved it back inside the building.
Bill came out of his office and walked to the cage. “Doesn’t he look handsome?” He faced the men. “Go ahead and unload the chairs and set up the stage at the back of the room. While the harpy’s wings are tied, I’ll get him worked up for tonight.”
Bill unlocked the cage door and grabbed the shocking rod. Shail hissed and clutched his dangling chains, bracing himself for pain. The men left to unload the chairs from a truck vehicle and brought them in the front door.
“Time to fan the flames.” Bill grinned and stepped up into the cage. He hit Shail’s rib with a shock.
Shail leaped and twisted in his restraints. Each shock built his hate and desire to rip Bill to pieces. Soon his body ran with sweat, and he trembled from the stings to his side.
Bill stood back and Shail flung his wet hair from his face and seethed between panting breaths. “You’re almost there,” Bill said, “close to raving.” He held the rod on Shail’s rib.
Shail thrashed on the chains, but soon collapsed and hung. His heart pounded with exertion, and he shut his eyes, tossed his head back, exposing his throat, a clear sign when a harpy gives up.
* * *
Bill withdrew the rod. “Guess you’ve had enough. Don’t want a coward.”
The harpy regained his footing. He shook the wet hair out of his eyes and zealously stared at Bill. “A coward?” Shail said in a low, stalking voice. “I shall never be afraid of you. Like your brother, I vow to take your life.” Bill staggered backward, apparently unnerved by his words.
“You can talk,” Bill said with surprise.
“Your brother, too, spoke those words before I killed him.”
A chill went through Bill’s body while he stared into
the smoldering blue eyes. He collected his wits. “You’re the one who is gonna die.”
“We all die, but within two lights your death shall come. With your last breath, remember me and my promise.”
The harpy’s serene male voice resembled an eerie song, unhuman with a damning message. Bill moved away from the harpy and his back pushed against the cage door. He called across the room to the men who set up the wooden stage. “Come over here! The harpy can talk.”
Shail shook his head and his locks floated across his face, concealing his lips. “They shall not hear, for I speak only to the condemned.”
Bill opened the door, and without using the two steps, he leaped out of the cage onto the floor as the men hurried to him. “He can talk! I swear, the harpy can talk.” He and the men stared up at the harpy, and it mockingly sniffled at Bill. “Go ahead and talk,” Bill said to the harpy. “Tell them how you promise to kill me in two days, how you killed my brother.”
The men waited, but the harpy remained silent. They turned their attention to their boss, who hysterically chattered about the talking animal.
Bill saw their glances and knew they thought he was delusional. “I’m not crazy. I’ll prove he can talk.” Holding the rod, he adjusted the setting to high and opened the cage door. “I’ll shock him until he speaks.”
George had walked in to start his night shift. “Mr. Simpson, your auction starts in a few hours,” he said. “At that high setting, you’re sure to stop his heart. It’s a waste of a lot of money.”
Bill stopped at the cage door and stared at the harpy. “He wanted this,” he muttered, “Mollie said he only wants to die. He’s trying to egg me on to kill him.” He closed the door.
“Do you want him left strung up like that?” George asked. “You can hardly see his wings.”
“Yes, roll his cage onto the stage and then free him from the chains, but leave the shock collar on,” Bill said. “We’ll need some control over him.” He walked toward his office feeling tormented by the harpy that had revealed it wasn’t an animal, but an intelligent being bent on revenge.
The men moved the display cage onto the stage, and Shail listened to them discussing how to free him from the shackles and chains without getting hurt. The five animal handlers were nervous, and the six guards were grateful they didn’t have the task.
“Okay, we’ll pull him down and undo his shackles through the cage bars,” said a handler. “If he attacks, he can be shocked with the collar.”
“He’s damn fast and strong,” said another handler. “I was there when he grabbed Mr. Simpson through the bars and nearly choked him to death.”
George walked to the handlers. “Give me the keys to the shackles,” he said. “I’ll do it. I don’t want to see him harmed.”
“Old man, the harpy will tear you apart,” said a handler, “and the collar might not work quickly enough.”
George held his hand out. “The keys?” He unlocked the door and entered the cage. “Let’s get this crap off you,” he said to Shail.
Shail stood quietly and watched George bend down and remove each shackle from his ankles. The man stood up and untied the ropes that held down his folded wings. When the ropes came off, Shail ruffled his feathers.
“Watch out, George!” one guard yelled. “He’s getting ready to smack you with a wing.”
George frowned at the man and turned back to Shail. “You’re doing real good,” he said quietly. Taking Shail’s hand, he unlocked the wrist shackle and cringed when he saw the deep welts and sores created from fighting the chains. “You poor little guy,” he said and unfastened the last shackle. He patted Shail’s shoulder like he had done on the previous night.
Shail sniffled and nudged him with his head, showing affection.
“This temporary job stinks,” George grumbled and strolled to the cage door. A handler opened the cage, letting him out, but quickly slammed it shut. He walked to the circle of shocked men.
“Unbelievable,” said a handler. “The harpy was like a kitten with you.”
Shail sat down in the straw and watched the men. A younger man approached the cage and put his hand through the bars. “Here, harpy,” he called. Shail docilely gazed at him. “Look, he is tame. He just hates the boss.” He grinned at the men.
As soon as the man glanced away, Shail leaped at him and grasped his arm, jerking it backward. The man screamed and struggled to be free, but Shail wrenched his whole body toward the bars. Hoisting the heavy body off the floor, Shail choked him. The man’s feet dangled and wildly kicked in the air.
Holding the collar remote, another handler hectically jabbed at the keys.
Shail jumped with the sharp neck pain but refused to release his prey. The panicked men tugged at Shail’s arms, hoping to break the death hold.
“Push a higher setting!” one man yelled. “He’s immune to the low shocks!” The young man had stopped wiggling, close to death.
A tremendous jolt hit Shail’s neck, forcing him to release his grip on the young handler. He convulsed and wildly flipped in the straw from the stabbing pain.
“He’s had enough,” George barked and jerked the handler’s hand off the remote key, ending the shocks.
The young man slumped on the floor, gasping and choking, and several men lifted and carried him a safe distance from the cage.
Looking at the young man’s arm, one man said, “His arm is broken and nearly wrenched out of the socket. It’s astonishing that slight creature is capable of this.”
“Better take the boy to the hospital,” George said.
“George, you were damn lucky,” said a guard. “The harpy could’ve jumped and killed you in the cage, and we couldn’t have stopped him in time.”
Shail sat up and shook his head, the sting wearing off. He glared at the men and arrogantly seethed, conveying no shock would stop him from attacking again.
George walked up to his cage, but kept his distance. “I guess you’re not like my stray cat.”
Shail curled up and rubbed his neck under the collar. Between his feathers, he observed the distressed men, who now truly feared him. He had done his best to kill an outgoing, young man who had never shown him ill will, yet Shail felt no regret. If the opportunity arose again, he’d kill and briefly quench his desire for revenge. Is the hate what drives evil men? he thought. Is this why Gus performed such cruel acts? Gone was his gentleness, his logical reasoning, his harpy soul that had longed to protect life; also gone was his love of the jungle, and his loyalty to his flock. These things were no longer important. Hatred consumed him and even nullified his depression. He now lived for the kill.
An hour later George returned to the cage, and Shail sensed the man’s distrustfulness. Shail lifted his head from the feathers and made a friendly sniffle.
George scrutinized the harpy’s eager, bright eyes, which conveyed he sought companionship. “You’re one confused little guy, who’s been pushed to his limits. You don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore.”
Shail placed his head on the straw and sniffled again, longing for the man’s acceptance.
“Come on, come over here,” George said, and put his hand through the bars. Shail obediently slid across the bedding and meekly lowered his head against the bars below the man’s hand. George stroked his hair, and Shail closed his eyes, the calming touch oppressing his rage.
George took some berries out of a bag and offered them to Shail. “You’re not to blame,” he said while the harpy ate out of his hand. “You’re putting out what’s been given to you. I sure wish I was rich. I’d buy you tonight and set you free.”
Shail ate the last berry and nuzzled his nose against the man’s rough hand, encouraging the man to stroke him. George patted him before returning to his guard duties. Watching him walk away, Shail lay down, feeling baffled. This man was his enemy who participated in his confinement, yet Shail lacked the hate to hurt him.
In a brief span of time, Shail accepted George for his soothing words and simpl
e acts of kindness, and George knew his kindness had paid off. The dangerous young harpy had spared his life and had become his friend.
18
In her hotel bed, Kari awoke and stared at the ceiling. It was Monday, the day of the auction. The long, wrenching wait that decided Shail’s and her fate would be over. With the help of Doc’s antidepressant patches, she had remained calm and upbeat, positive her father would win back her mate. She smiled with the thought of being wrapped in Shail’s arms tonight.
She refused to consider the alternative; her father could lose the auction, sealing Shail’s fate, or that her abused and unstable husband could remain forever changed; his love for life gone. To dwell on those things might restore her depression, disabling her and making her useless. She had to stay strong for Shail and for her son, the future monarch of the harpy flock.
During her time in Hampton, Ted had been a great distraction. Ignorant that she faced life-threatening despair with her mate’s loss, he was cheerful and optimistic. He’d be back to work at the spaceport, but he promised to return this evening and be at her side for the auction.
On the other hand, her father and Charlie ambled about, sullen and worried, knowing the tragedy of a bonded harpy pair. Like one body, her life and Shail’s were completely connected. Cut in half, they had difficulty surviving without one another.
Kari climbed out of bed and went to the sink. She splashed water on her face, hoping to wash away her growing stress. I will get Shail back, and he’ll be fine, she thought. For a fleeting moment, her eyes welled up with tears when she realized he could be lost. She brought more water to her face in an attempt to squelch her doubts. A knock on her door liberated her from the ominous thoughts.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, opening the door and clearing her throat. All the water on the planet couldn’t wash away the worry on her face.
John saw it. “Kari, I’ll get Shail back. This morning I have an appointment with the bank, and I’m taking out a line of credit on everything I own. No one will be able to bid higher for a single harpy hunt. Tonight he’ll be with you.” He lifted her chin and stared into her teary eyes.
