The little bird snapped up the worm;
Hungrily gulped it down.
And once it ate, it closed its eyes
And sleeping made no sound.
But come the evening following,
The little one cried need.
As day set off in losing light,
The poor thing I did feed.
None knew that I fed him each night
And learned to love the thing
The hawk took me as father
My tending, pampering.
And large it grew and hungered more
And gained in needful size,
But though I brought it many bugs
Its need did not subside.
Then one cold morning, early still,
I heard the rustling brush,
And out I peeked with fear to find
Just what the trouble was.
And there, with rabbit’s dead form clutched
In talons sharp and strong,
My foster son stood all aglow,
As if he’d done no wrong.
With purpose filled he looked at me,
Said, “Father, now I see
I’m not meant to subsist on grubs,
’Tis fresh meat that I need!”
“No!” I screamed. “You murderer!
You fiend, you’ve killed my kind!”
There came a pained and bloody tear
Formed crimson in his eye.
I knew beyond a bitter doubt
What I had done for love
Was only for a greater sin
Than what good done thereof.
The old King Crow flew laz’ly down
And landed at my wing
His feathers worn and specked with white,
His grimace frightening.
He watched on, frowning thoughtfully
As I spoke to my son,
“You must go now! Never return.
Your time to leave has come!”
The hawk, he made the saddest sound
That I have ever heard.
The mournful wretch flew swift away,
The screeching, broken bird.
And as I watched, he disappeared
Into the morning sky,
And broken, whispered soft to him
A father’s sad good-bye.
King Crow he stepped then chuckled smart.
“Your child is grown, I see.
I am much vexed that he has gone.
His presence we did need.”
Then crow he flew up to his perch
And closed his eyes to sleep,
And I cried over rabbit’s form
For I had loved him deep.
And now we are so many here
And so few killed as prey,
We are fearless through the night,
And careless through the day.
But lately when the moon’s been full
I preen and do not sleep
And listen for the howling wolf
The hawk had promised me.
When Cotur Ada finished the song, the field remained stonily quiet. The rook marveled at the quail. “The father of the hawk, eh? If what you say is true,” canted Ophrei in calm, “he will still recognize you as his father. Alas, Elera lied about there being a surviving wolf, surely a ploy to trick your mercy, akin to the same ploy you attempt today, eh? There is not a bit of truth to it. But I find myself believing your tale in some part. Quail were always a soft lot. Your sympathy for the hawk chick brought the death of your friend. Sympathy can be such a sticky thing. Clasped you to fate, it did. All dealings with hawks bring death, for your kind and, at times, for crow kind. We need not seek Pitrin and beg his return. For this field, the order of the hawk is past. The order of the crow is in its place. No wolf will come. This is nonsense. Perhaps we will seek a council with the turkeys and offer them a portion of the next harvest for their alliance, or even with the deer if we must. With their help, we need not worry about the few foxes Sintus may convince to allegiance. Surely not the first snake or bobcat will join him. And as far as wolverines—there are no more wolverines, as there are no more wolves. And if Sintus would seek to ally his cause with the father coyote, the beast will eat him straight away.”
Cotur Ada stared up, his eyes red and his tail feathers quivering. “There are too many here now. Too many crows and too many quail. The mice are without end. We are shades for slaughter. We have fattened ourselves until we are grown indolent and smug.” Cotur Ada looked to Nascus. “Prince, your father was a wise King, surely, but he was lazy.” Nascus furled his brow.
“Oh, the wolf will come,” continued Cotur Ada. “And its order will be one of blood and darkness. The crows will be its servants, and in the end, all animals—crows, quail, rabbits, every one—its prey. I beg you hear me. The wolf will come if the hawk does not return.”
Ophrei looked deeply into the quail’s eyes, and for a moment it was almost as if he had softened and was to concede, to make allowance for the words the quail had spoken. Hidden deep within the brush, Ysil felt a brief surge of hope. But it was short-lasting.
“You speak the ramblings of an old fool, bird,” said Ophrei, resolving himself. “You must now suffer for your presence here. You must suffer the Spiking. No animal dare come here today, neither mole nor swallow. Even those birds in migration dare not land when the crows are gathered. The messenger doves are nowhere to be seen. No bat will chase mosquito over this field when the crows are so assembled. All who dare intrude will die and you, old bird, though you have made this field your home the entirety of your life, are no different.”
Cotur Ada lowered his head. “Do as your order commands,” he said.
YSIL AND MONROTH watched the happenings in horror. Ysil was overwhelmed. Cotur Ada the father of a hawk? Now the journey the old bird had commanded seemed to take on more meaning. Ysil felt his grandfather’s feather tucked within his breast and hoped should they make it to the hawk’s realm it would offer protection from his sharp beak.
Ysil understood that the next few moments were to be the last in Cotur Ada’s life. He wanted beyond hope for there to be a miracle to save his grandfather, but he was helpless to provide it. All the young quails could do was to sit and watch as fate resolved.
FAR ABOVE IN the blue of the afternoon sky, a tiny speck flew over unnoticed. Zeno the dove knew that to be caught spying on the crows’ undisclosed ceremony would bring his death. Flying as high as possible and still low enough to see the forms on the golden field, Zeno counted birds. He barely made out the tiny gray form of a quail. He could never have identified the bird except for the fact he held his head up and was face-to-face with the crows. Only one of the field’s quail would have such bravery to yield. Only Cotur Ada. He watched as the small form lowered his head to the crows before him, and at this Zeno knew the bird’s fate was sealed.
Zeno turned to the cold wind and flew with all his strength. He would never make it to the Vulture Field before dark and would have to roost the night somewhere. When he felt he was a safe distance from the crows’ watch, he flew low along a wooded trail. He saw three quail struggling fast through the late afternoon shadows. He passed on. And when he came to a fork in the trail, he made a detour to a stand of cedar and descended to the den within. He spoke to the woodchuck living there, told him of the goings-on in the field and of the tiny quail on the path. Then he took to air again and forwarded upon a new command, for the woodchuck had whispered his own fears of something new to the dove, and in their exchange the woodchuck relieved the dove of his mission. And the woodchuck, called Risa, set out from the safety of his den to seek out the quail, the struggling older and the two small, to guard them through the night, then bear them to Olffey Field with burdensome news. He would tell them what the dove knew had happened. The crows had killed Cotur Ada, as their order demanded. Perhaps they already knew.
But the woodchuck would have no word of the small quail that were held up in the brush. If asked of them,
he would have nothing to offer but the vague speculations of a woodchuck, which were few.
FRAGIT THE GENERAL followed the command of Ophrei the rook and made Cotur Ada, the eldest of the quail, to lie down on the field. The old quail did not beg for his life or speak another word.
“Now you will pass your body to the field,” said Ophrei. “You have done a foolish thing by coming here, quail. This is a dire day, and it is sad that with all the killing that took place here today we must add another senseless death to the number.”
He turned to Fragit. “General, dispatch this quail. Return him to the earth from whence he came. Spike him. Remove his head and place it where all can see, so that those returning will be reminded of the order. Surely none will come again when commanded to stay away.”
The General glared down at the prone form of Cotur Ada. The old quail did not quiver in fear as Fragit would have believed him to. He only lay there, still as if he were already dead, his wings spread wide, his body flat on the ground, eyes closed and head slightly to one side. Fragit leaped upon the quail, his wings hurriedly beating. He stared down at the form of the smaller bird. “You will now die, quail,” was all he said. And with that, he drove his beak into the back of Cotur Ada’s neck, piercing his skin and straight through his spine, killing him instantly.
And thus Cotur Ada, the wisest of the quail, passed from the known world. And because of his noble sacrifice, five quail lived that day. And hidden in the brush, Ysil wept. Monroth shook in fear.
Chapter Seven
Visitors in the Darkness
YSIL AND MONROTH lay as immobile as their terrified bodies would allow. Ysil told himself there was nothing he could have done to save his beloved grandfather. However, he felt a burden of guilt within his heart. He had been useless and powerless. They watched as Cotur Ada’s body was shredded and his head carried away to the Murder’s Tree, his skull to be spiked upon a dead branch. From their hiding place they could still see a few of his gray feathers blowing in the wind as the day’s light waned and the promise of dusk befell the Murder’s Field. The crows one by one returned to their tree in preparation for the night’s nesting.
Quail, really most all birds, do not fly at night. The reason is simple: they can’t see. Of course, there are some birds that see just fine in the dark. The whippoorwill, the nightingale, and, indeed, the owl. Oh, for the grace of the wind, the owl! Ysil prayed they not see an owl. Surely Strix was not close. He was not welcomed by the crows. But the night was his realm, and how could the crows know if he were to fly through seeking mice or perhaps two little lost quail? However, he felt certain it would be known if Strix had been carousing and hunting. The crows’ count of mice would be in descent and he would have heard.
Quail nest at night on the ground and do not move through the descent of darkness, which is when the foxes and coyotes begin to prowl. Tonight, Ysil and Monroth would have no choice. They would have to move away from the field through the gathering dark and get at least a fair distance away before they settled to nest. If they were too close come morning, the crows could see them and suspect they’d secreted a view of the Reckoning; this suspicion would be enough to get them killed.
So they lay there silently until the last crow was gone from the field and evening began to fall over the place they called their home. Then, with as much quiet and stealth as possible, they moved through the brush and away from the field.
Ysil felt certain he could find the trail in the shadows. “It has to be this way!” he called softly to Monroth, gesturing in the direction that he believed Cotur Ada had flown to intersect Banka and Incanta.
“No, Ysil! That is not the way to the path.” Monroth was adamant, and not only that. Ysil felt heartlessness in his voice. They had just watched the death of the elder, but now that Monroth’s life was no longer in immediate danger, he was prideful. Ysil said nothing about this.
“I know it’s this way, Monroth,” said Ysil. “I remember seeing Incanta and the two chicks right here.” He stamped his foot on the ground. “I’m going this way, and you may as well follow.” Ysil set off down the path.
“Well, I am not going that way,” said Monroth. “I’ll just sit right here for a while, and when you get lost and start crying, I’ll come rescue you.”
“If you sit for long, you will fall asleep,” Ysil whispered back. “We have to get farther away.”
Monroth considered this. “All right. I’ll follow you. But when we get lost, I will lead from then on.” The bigger bird smirked and followed, surely hoping to prove him wrong.
On Ysil led through a batch of thick brush and to a red ash he knew especially well. He had sat perched in the tree just the week before and counted ducks as they flew overhead in groups of two or three. They passed the tree and, within moments, were on the trail.
And though his heart was broken by the loss of his grandfather, Ysil raised his beak to Monroth in triumph, relishing his minor victory.
“I always knew it was here,” said Monroth. “I was just testing you.”
They went down the trail quickly, and kept moving, though inevitably twilight came. They forged on, fighting the instinct for sleep, pushing through the dense undergrowth of fanworts, broom sedge, musk thistle, and red sorrel. And still they continued, stumbling at times over rocks and roots exposed, beneath the darkening green canopy. They pressed through the forest with sleep beckoning them like Mother from her late spring nest.
GOMOR AND CORMO were still and quiet at the descent of night. They had seen but a few small songbirds and no other creatures. Gomor was a bit worried about leaving his family without telling them of his adventurous plans, but of course the young will be young and neither bird nor rabbit worried too much. After all, they would see their families tomorrow, assuredly. They wanted to make an early meeting with Ysil, Cotur Ada, and Monroth. And certainly not long after that the whole of the field dwellers would be going back home.
But for now they settled down beneath the shelter of a willow in the recess of the fallen tree Cormo had seen earlier in the day and lay still.
Then they heard the voice.
“Oh, boys, I hear your whispering,” came the soft call. It was Harlequin. She sounded playful, but there was unrestrained relief in her voice. “Am I glad I found you,” she said.
“Over here!” called out Gomor, a bit too loud for Cormo. “We are here!”
They heard her rustling then curse softly, missing a step and tripping. She moved through the shadowy undergrowth, careful of her footing, and settled close to Gomor. She’d had a kinship with the rabbit since they were young, and he, of course, adored her as a dear friend.
“Well, well,” she said. “If I haven’t found my brave young adventurers. Let’s keep company.”
“Why on earth would you follow us? You are crazy to move through these woods alone!” said Cormo, but even as he said this he remembered what he had overheard her tell Cotur Mono and knew: Monroth. She wanted to find Monroth.
“Well,” she said, “I couldn’t let you two take off by yourselves and have all the fun. And besides, you need someone to take care of you.”
It was nearly dark now.
Gomor huffed. “And you would be that one? Really!” He lay still.
All this talk and Cormo was a bit nervous. “Be quiet, you two. Remember the rules of the wood at night. We must stay quiet.”
They fell silent. Harlequin rustled a bit closer to Cormo, and he felt her feathers brush his. He shivered. Harlequin was his cousin and he had never carried Harlequin within his heart, but being this close to her and her immediate need for his presence was flattering to him. She was unquestionably as tense as they were about being alone in the forest and certainly a good measure more afraid than she sounded, facing the prospect of sleeping by herself with the dangers of night about. Surely she had never done that before. She would in no doubt be huddling this close to any of the covey, or any rabbit for that matter.
And so they settled down, and with
dark closing fast, the two quail fell asleep. Gomor lay there listening only for a moment, then began to rummage through the surrounding leaves looking for something to eat.
“WAKE UP!” THERE came a voice to Cormo like one within a dream, and he fought the web of sleep to reply.
“What is it, Gomor?” said Cormo, his mind tangled within a night’s dreams.
“There is something near!” whispered Gomor.
Then he heard it. The undeniable rush of great wings. His heart seized in his chest at that sound as only the prey can. He spun around to Gomor, who was staring into the black, his eyes attuned to darkness.
Gomor looked over to Harlequin, who had awoken also. She had lowered her head to the ground, her eyes wide and frightened. The rush of wings within the descending dark of night could mean only one thing: an owl.
They all huddled still. Had the bird heard them talking? It could have been nesting in a nearby tree and they would never have known. Then the rush sounded again and they knew the bird was falling down toward them. With a great final flurry of wings, the great bird settled upon the fallen tree inches above their nest.
“Who?” called a voice deep and grand. “Who, my little morsels, are you?”
“I THINK WE are far enough away now to bed down,” said Monroth.
“We should go farther,” said Ysil. “With the chaos of the day, some crows may have ventured out of the field to make nest. May even be some nesting across the ridge we just descended.” He trudged on through the relative darkness. Monroth huffed but followed.
Lupus Rex Page 8
