12 Days 2010
Edited by Jim Bronyaur
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jim Bronyaur
AND ALL INCLUDED AUTHORS IN THIS ANTHOLOGY COLLECTION!
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
A little note from Jim:
This project started in 2009 on a whim… I wanted to see what stories people could think of based on the twelve days of Christmas song. I wasn’t sure if I was going to do this in 2010 but people actually asked me. I’m glad they asked and I’m glad I did it again. Please enjoy this book and as always, stop by the site and leave comments… us authors enjoy them!
January 5, 2011
THUMP by Jim Bronyaur
The Protected Ones by Cindy Mantai
Two Turtle Doves by Icy Sedgwick
On Thumbs, Monkeys, and Lettuce by C. Glen Williams
Tough Decisions by Sarah Hendrix
Vivaldi’s French Hen by Susan May James
Four Little Birds by Lori Titus
"Up North" by Tony Noland
The Fifth Ring by Kil Conor
Five Rings by Paul Anderson
Six Geese a Layin’ by Jack Roth
The Winter of Yesteryear by Laura Eno
Swan’s Act by A.M. Harte
Seven Deadly Swans by Cecilia Dominic
Eight Maids A-Milking by Chuck Allen
Miss Betsy by Patti Larsen
Nine Ladies Dancing by P.J. Kaiser
Ninth by David G Shrock
LORDS-A-LEAPING by Monica Marier
10 Lordes by Angie Capozello
Eleven Pipers by Helena Butters
So Played the Pipes in Arras by Janet Lingel Aldrich
Twelve Drummers Drumming by Eric J. Krause
12 Drummers Drumming by Wulfie
by
Jim Bronyaur
THUMP.
Harold opened his crusted eyes and sighed. It was another present. Another gift he’d have to stare at, think about, and then get rid of. That time of the year when the weather fought between cool and cold and rain and snow, when people flocked to stores like hordes of zombies looking for that material love to give…
“Christmas,” Harold whispered. He kicked the blanket off himself and walked to the fireplace. The clock above the mantel had died at 3:17am. Harold knew there was no way he was going into town any time soon; not until Christmas was over. He’d have to make do with his old Timex up on his dresser.
The fire was out too. The flaky ash sat in clumps. Harold sighed again.
He stumbled into the kitchen and poured a cup of mud-like coffee. He checked the calendar – December 14.
“Not much longer,” he said flicking the date with his finger. “Then I can get back to normal.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the back porch. It was slightly cracked, letting in the horrid odor of all gifts so far.
“Let’s add another one.”
Harold walked to the front door and opened it. His mind already knew what to expect but when his eyes saw something different, he collapsed.
__
It started four years ago. December 1, Harold opened his front door and found a dead bird at his foot. The bird was a fat crow. It had a large cut from its back to its belly and was bleeding on the porch. On the newspaper of all things.
Harold didn’t have a cat or a dog… or anything that would be loyal enough to bring a dead animal to his porch. He kicked the bird off the porch and left the paper there for the paperboy to see the next morning. The next morning there was a thump on his porch. He ran to the door hoping to see the paperboy but instead there was another bird. Another crow. Half of its body missing.
And the pattern continued right up until Christmas morning. That morning there was no thump but a large pool of blood.
Then it stopped.
Until the following December.
Harold reported the occurrences to the authorities but they had nothing to go by. They told him it was probably a bear or something… or maybe kids messing around. To them twenty some dead birds weren’t really that important.
The second time it happened in December, Harold began to be afraid. The thump, the birds, the blood… twenty five straight days of it. But on December 26 the porch was clear. No sounds – no blood. He noticed too that as the years went on, the objects changed a bit. The birds got bigger, more mutilated. A few times there were cats and dogs left at the door too. Whatever was doing it always kept trying to outdo itself.
For the third year Harold tried to stay up and wait. He wanted to catch the person doing this. He never got his chance at it; he fell asleep every night. Some nights he swore to himself it was more of a black out than actual sleep.
He did have a nightmare one night, one with a massive shadow hovering over his entire house. Pressure built inside his house and all the windows and mirrors began to crack. Something came flying down his chimney and squashed his fire in a second. Then a long black arm – or maybe claw – came out of the fireplace and reached for him. He was awakened by the thump of the next day’s bird on his porch.
__
Harold pulled himself up and it took all his will to not scream or vomit. In that moment he wished more than anything that it was a bird on his porch. But it wasn’t. It was a head, a human head. Harold didn’t know who the person was but that didn’t really matter at that point.
There was more blood than ever on his porch. But this time, it left a trail. His eyes followed it and it went to a tree. The blood then climbed the tree. And finally, after four years, Harold saw it and that’s what it was, an it. Not a person, but an it.
The creature in the tree was black and resemble something like a bird out of a dinosaur book except it had muscular front arms, like a gorilla. It was a horrid looking creature but its yellow eyes stared right at Harold. Its mouth was beak shaped too but had criss-crossed jagged teeth coming from the sides.
It blinked and then pushed its one arm. The rest of the person fell to the ground with a bouncing thud. The creature nodded at Harold. Harold stepped back inside and closed the door. He turned and fell against the door. He heard a tree branch snap and a massive black shadow fell over his house.
“What the hell is that?” Harold asked.
He smiled, trying to joke with himself in his last few moments of life… all he could come up with was a line from a song he hated… on the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree…
by
Cindy Mantai
Christmas morning dawned bitter cold as Perdy struggled across the frozen brown earth. She kept her eyes trained straight ahead on a nest of tightly woven twigs and leaves, which held a clutch of 18 newborn chicks. On the icy breeze that blew suddenly across her face, Perdy thought she heard a faint peeping. Thrusting her chest toward the ground, she scurried quickly toward her waiting brood.
On the other side of town, a mother held a suckling newborn tight against her body and sang a lullaby to take her mind off the cold. Marion was young and alone. As her baby drank his fill of milk, she struggled to keep her mind from leaping forward into the terrifying visions of what their future might be like. Gwyneth, Marion’s guardian angel, had told her not to be afraid.
“You and your child will be protected,” Gwyneth had murmured as she helped Marion pack her few possessions into a cloth sack. “I have surrounded you with white light. Go now and know that God is with you.”
Perdy reached her nest and thrust her body over her babies, enveloping their tiny heads with downy softness. She folded her gray and chestnut-colored wings tightly against her sides and snuggled deeper into the nest to try and block out any trace of wind or cold. She was young and alone, and when she wasn’t being careful terrible images stole into her mind and terrified her. The 18 peeping chicks beneath her belly needed food and warmth and protection, and Perdy was just one partridge. How could she feed her family and maintain enough strength to fend off the elements and predators? She suddenly felt bone-tired and, tucking her head underneath one wing, fell asleep.
Spring came and in the orchard the pear trees had burst into bloom. Snowy blossoms covered every bough and a low, steady humming of bees filled the April sky. Marion sat underneath one of the trees on a blanket, cradling her infant son David in her long skirt. A few yards away, Marion spotted a small gray bird running quickly toward the edge of the orchard, with eight miniature versions of herself trailed out behind her. The bird kept her chest low to the ground as she ran, and only once did she look back over her shoulder. Marion knew that the bird had seen her because she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. Her chicks clustered around her feet and she covered them with her wings, as if they had gone unnoticed and she still had time to hide them from impending danger.
Marion and Perdy looked at one another beneath the fragrant canopy of pear blossoms. Instinctively, Marion drew David closer to her, thinking that perhaps the mother partridge might charge them out of protectiveness of her young. But as Marion sat looking into Perdy’s eyes, she knew intuitively that the bird would never harm her or David. She and the mother partridge were the same; two young creatures alone in the world, protecting the only family they had. Something between them connected and understood. Perdy lowered her wings, clucked sharply to her children and the family turned tail and ran toward the meadow beyond as fast as they could go.
Six springs later, Marion sat on a blanket in the white, fragrant orchard while David searched for grasshoppers and swallowtail. Perdy passed a few feet in front of Marion with her new clutch of babies, her face turned straight ahead toward the opposite end of the orchard and the meadow. Something made Perdy stop and look back over her shoulder at Marion. As they had years earlier, they looked into each other’s eyes. Once more, there was an understanding, and after several moments Perdy, as she had before, clucked to her brood and continued on her way. Marion smiled as she watched the little feathered family scurry away, the chicks stopping to gobble up an insect or a blade of grass as they ran.
Twelve springs came and went, and Marion and Perdy continued to cross paths as Perdy led each year’s brood of chicks toward their nest in the meadow. One mid-April day in the thirteenth year, Marion decided to take a walk into the orchard, her favorite place to rest and enjoy the sunshine. She found a familiar tree and spread her blanket out, the tree’s snow-white branches spilling petals with each tendril of breeze. Marion gazed around her and thought about David and his new family. She thought of Gwyneth, the wise guardian angel who had assured her so long ago that she and her child would be all right. Marion had dutifully prayed each morning, asking God to keep her and David safe. Now she was content to enjoy her solitude and look forward to happy days ahead as a grandmother.
Something caught Marion’s eye and she looked up into the tree to see a small shape of gray and chestnut nestled into the crook of two branches. A head emerged from underneath a wing and she recognized Perdy looking down at her. They stared into each other’s eyes and Marion reached up her hand to pet the bird’s soft chest. Perdy didn’t move and Marion stood, caressing her, for a long time. As night approached, Marion covered Perdy’s body with a blanket of petals and said a prayer, thanking God for the chance to comfort her friend in her final hours. As Marion gathered up her blanket and headed home, she turned and said a final goodbye to beautiful Perdy – the partridge in the pear tree.
by
Icy Sedgwick
Davis opened his eyes and groaned. The thump in his head turned the sudden light into a pulse in his temples. He hauled himself to his feet, and tried to peer beyond the bleary fuzz obscuring his vision.
Four cream walls came into view, followed by beige furniture, and a tree adorned with blinking white lights. The sea of nondescript colour made his head swim. As he looked closer, bars came into focus. Everywhere Davis looked, all he saw were bars. Thin metal, coated with flaking white paint, but bars nonetheless. He tapped at one with his beak.
“Wouldn’t bother, mate. Can’t get out.”
Davis turned around at the sound of the voice. Another dove sat on the other side of the cage. It held out one wing, paused in the middle of preening.
“Who are you?” asked Davis. He rubbed his head against his wing as if to rub some sense back into himself.
“Daniel. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the other dove.
“I’m Davis...what’s going on? Why am I in a cage?” asked Davis. “Last thing I remember, I’d just left the dovecote. I was sitting on a wall, watching some children make a snowman.”
“You were captured. See, you’re to be a present. We both are,” replied Daniel.
“Who for?”
“I don’t know her name, but she’s a pretty lass, if her photo is anything to go by. Look, it’s over there, on the mantelpiece.”
Daniel gestured across the room with his wing. Davis peered through the bars at the black and white photo. A girl stood in a snow-covered field, holding the reins of a black horse. Her dark curls streamed behind her as she tossed her head back to laugh. Her frozen smile caught Davis’ attention.
“Cor, she’s a looker, isn’t she?” he said.
“Told you so.” Daniel fluffed up his feathers, proud of his taste in humans.
“What kind of a moron gives two captive birds as a present?” asked Davis.
“Her utter berk of a boyfriend - that kind of moron. From what I can gather, some idiot friend of his bet him that he wouldn’t actually get her all the stuff from that Christmas song. I don’t think he was particularly sober when he agreed to it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. I heard the French hens having a row the other day, and those leaping lords are hell on the nerves. They jump about at all hours of the day and night – it’s so annoying,” replied Daniel.
“What’s he getting her gifts for? Hasn’t he heard of Santa?” asked Davis.
“I don’t think he believes in Santa.”
“Not believe in Santa? He must be a fool.”
“Well clearly, if he thinks his girlfriend will appreciate caged birds for Christmas,” said Daniel. “Anyway, from what I can tell, a lot of these humans don’t believe in Santa any more. That box in the corner sometimes shows moving pictures and they’re always telling humans to buy noisy toys for their kids.”
“Poor Santa. He must feel really hard done by,” said Davis. He shook his head.
“Imagine how his elves must feel, having all these humans claiming the credit for their hard work!” said Daniel.
“Oh I hadn’t thought of them. Poor elves. Poor Santa! Oh, poor us! I don’t want to be a present!” wailed Davis.
“Neither do I, but what can we do? I’ve been all over this cage and I can’t find a way out.”
The doves waddled around the cage, pecking and pushing the bars. A whistle and a thump interrupted their investigation. They looked out of the cage. A short man clad in dark green sat on the rug in front of the fireplace. He patted his tunic, sending clouds of soot into the air.
“Evening, fellas. Thought you might need a hand,” said the man.
“Who are you?” asked Daniel.
“I’m Ellerby. Reconnaissance and rescue division. We’ve been keeping an eye on you boys,” said the man. He gestured to a small plastic Santa hanging from a branch on the tree. A tiny lens in Santa’s eye extended toward them.
“You’re an elf!” exclaimed Davis.
“That I am, that I am. I’m here to get you out! It’s against Christmas Regulation 8, sub-section 9, paragraph 2b to give live animals as presents so when Santa saw what was goin’ on, he dispatched me right away,” said Ellerby.
He walked across the rug, leaving a trail of sooty footprints. Ellerby clambered onto the coffee table and wrenched open a small door hidden in the bars of the cage. Daniel hopped through the opening, fluttering across the room to the sofa. Davis climbed out of the cage, and perched on the mantelpiece.
“What do we do now?” asked Davis.
“I’ll open the window and you can go home,” said Ellerby.
“What about the girl?” asked Daniel.
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave her something a bit more suitable,” said Ellerby.
He hopped down from the table and crossed the room to the window. The elf climbed the curtains and swung himself up onto the sill. He pushed his fingers under the frame and pushed the window up. Davis and Daniel flew across the room and sailed out into the cold twilight.
Ellerby waved goodbye to them, watching the doves disappear into the gloaming. He slid the window shut and made his way across the room. The elf reached up the chimney and pulled down a wicker basket filled with Dove bath products. He pushed the cage onto the floor and sat the basket in its place.
“Merry Christmas, Gwendolyn,” said Ellerby.
He scampered across the room, and disappeared back up the chimney with a whoosh.
On Thumbs, Monkeys, and Lettuce
by
C. Glen Williams
"Hurry up," said Parson, bouncing up and down impatiently.
"I'm not as fast as you are," said Duncan, struggling to pull himself up onto the branch.
"That's plain to see," said Parson, gesturing spastically with a stumpy foreleg. "We started climbing at the same time, and now I've been waiting for you four whole days."
"Three and a half," snorted Duncan. "I can't exactly help it if I'm not built to climb."
Parson popped his head into his shell and back out again. "Neither am I," he said, "but I did. It's simple enough once you figure it out."
"But you're clever. I'm slower than you are -- you can't expect me to be able to do it right away?"
Parson grunted. Someone who knew the facial expressions and physical mannerisms of turtles might almost think that he looked nervous. "Any turtle can do it," he said. "It's all about how you balance the shell and when you reach with the leg--"
"We don't have thumbs," snapped Duncan, finally managing to get himself on top of the branch. "Did that ever occur to you? Monkeys have thumbs, and even they manage to fall out of the trees some times."
"Have you ever seen one fall?"
Duncan was silent for a moment, thinking. He had had a very long life by most species' standards, but not all that long from a turtle's point of view. Even so, he had to think for a good while.
"Now that you mention it," he said, "I don't think I've ever even seen a monkey, let alone a falling monkey."
"Then how can you even say they have thumbs with any degree of certainty?"
"I think I heard about it somewhere," said Duncan.
"From who? Another turtle?" said Parson.
"It would just about have to have been."
"And if you've never seen a monkey, how can you be sure that any other turtle has seen a monkey?"
Duncan shook his head slowly from side to side. A true expert on turtles would have recognized confusion in his eyes. "There's something wrong with that argument," he said, "but I can't figure out what it is."
"That's because you're not a philosopher like me," said Parson.
"Filler soaper?" said Duncan. "What's that?"
"It's someone whose job is to think," said Parson. "They spend all day just thinking."
"Why would anybody need a filler soaper?" said Duncan. "It seems like a pointless job."
"It's very important," said Parson, proudly. "If we sit around and think, then we figure out what it is we're doing wrong and what we're doing right and what we can do differently. We're meant to do more than just wander the ground, hauling our shells from rock to rock, looking for a scrap of lettuce or a nice, juicy cricket here and there."
"I could enjoy a crunchy piece of lettuce right about now," said Duncan.
"There's nothing wrong with a piece of lettuce per se," said Parson, "but we're meant to do more than go looking for it. Think about it. Wouldn't a piece of lettuce taste so much better if you knew that you had done something truly spectacular earlier that day?"
Duncan thought about it.
"I don't think lettuce really tastes like much to begin with. It's more of a texture thing."
"Forget about the lettuce," said Parson, "and get out here. We're going to do something no turtle has ever done before."
"Are we going to see a monkey?"
Parson rolled his eyes. "Forget about the monkeys," he said. "This has nothing to do with monkeys."
"Do monkeys have filler soapers?"
"Philosophers. And no, they don't have-- well, yes, they might. But mostly it's humans that have philosophers."
"Do human filler soapers know how to make lettuce taste better?"
"No, they think about human things."
"Thumbs!" said Duncan, hopping up slightly in his excitement and shaking the branch, causing Parson to shift his weight to avoid falling. "Humans have thumbs, too! And they fall out of trees."
"Don't be ridiculous. Humans don't climb trees."
"They do when they're children."
"Only the ones who don't survive to be adults," said Parson. "Forget about the thumbs and get out here."
Duncan stopped, confused. "What am I supposed to forget?" he said. "You've told me to forget so many things now that I can't remember what I was supposed to forget."
"Then you've done a very good job forgetting them, haven't you?"
Duncan inched along the branch. "I think I was supposed to forget about monkeys," he muttered to himself, "but why was I thinking about monkeys in the first place?"
"All right, that's far enough," said Parson. "Now I want you to pay close attention, because you are about to witness the world's first turtle philosopher in the process of... philosophizing."
"Does it involve lettuce?"
"No," said Parson, raising his head as far as he could, "it involves the advancement of all turtlekind to the next level."
"But we're already there."
"What?"
Duncan looked down from the branch. "We're already at the next level," he said. "The ground's down there and we're up here. But I don't think there's enough room up here for everybody else."
"No, not physical level," said Parson. "The next level of-- it's very hard to explain. But it means that we're not going to be just ordinary turtles any more."
"We're not?"
"No. We'll be something new. Something better than turtles used to be."
"Will we still enjoy lettuce?"
Parson froze. He had never really considered the ramifications of species advancement re: lettuce before.
"I suppose," he said. "Of course. Why wouldn't we?"
"What about crickets?"
"I'm sure they'll be just as tasty as they've always been. No -- better. Crickets will taste better once we have realized our full potential as members of the turtle race. Now, any more questions before I start to philosophize?"
"Will we have thumbs at the next level?"
"We won't need thumbs where we're going," Parson snorted.
"What if I want thumbs?"
"What would you use thumbs for?"
"I hear they're very useful. Monkeys like having them."
Parson glared at Duncan, his jaw working silently for a moment. Duncan suddenly felt bashful and fell into a respectful silence.
"If we're done with the questions," said Parson, "I can get started with the philosophizing."
Duncan nodded, keeping his mouth shut.
Parson straightened up again, extending his neck to its longest point, his head held high.
"Since time began," he said, "there has been dream that turtles have clung to, as the turtle to the phoenix--"
"I never did," said Duncan with a snort.
Parson stopped, his philosophical train suddenly and rudely derailed. "What?" he said.
"You said the turtle clung to the feenis, whatever that is."
"Phoenix."
"Whatever it is, I never clung to one."
"No, the turtle as in the turtledove."
"A turtledove?" Duncan's eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. "How do you get a turtledove? I mean, who even thinks a dove is attractive?"
"No, no, no," said Parson. "It has nothing to do with a turtle and a dove... that is, the anatomical logistics alone...."
"Even if they could anny-comical their lodge-sticks," said Duncan, "what kind of self-respecting turtle would want to?"
"You're getting it all confused," said Parson.
"I'm getting it confused? That's a laugh. You're the one suggesting a turtle and a dove could--"
"No, a turtledove is just a kind of dove. It has nothing to do with an actual turtle."
"Then why did you call it a turtle?"
"People call them turtles all the time. Why shouldn't I have called it a turtle?"
"It's confusing, that's why."
"How on Earth could you possibly think that was confusing?"
"When you're a turtle talking to a turtle and you use the word 'turtle,' why should the other turtle think that you mean a dove?"
Parson opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again without speaking. He opened his mouth again, and again closed it. Finally, he said, "That... that actually makes sense."
"Maybe I'm a filler-soaper, too," said Duncan, proudly. "We can be filler-soapers together."
Parson glared at Duncan. "Maybe," he said, "but only so long as we're clear that I'm the first turtle philosopher."
"Turtle turtle or turtledove?"
Parson groaned. "Will you stop confusing me and let me get back to my philosophizing?"
Duncan looked at him, silently, but his lower jaw trembled.
"What is it?" said Parson, sighing.
"What is a feenis and why does the turtledove cling to it?"
"The phoenix," said Parson, again raising his head to its full height, "is a beautiful bird that dies in an all-consuming flame, only to rise reborn from its own ashes."
"What, and a turtledove clings to it?"
"Yes."
"While it's burning?"
"Well, yes."
"But that would hurt!"
"I imagine so."
"Then why would it do that?"
"Because it's in love with the phoenix."
"That makes no sense! I love a nice, crunchy piece of lettuce, but if you set fire to it I'm not very well going to say, 'damn the consequences' and go nuzzling up to it."
"But that is the depth of its devotion."
"You mean the depths of its stupidity."
"Yes," said Parson, with a sigh. "You are correct. It's a very stupid bird. May I continue?"
"They should call it a monkeydove, then," said Duncan. "Okay, get on with your soaperizing."
"Thank you," said Parson. "Now, there is a dream that turtles have clung to since the beginning of time, as the turtle...dove clings to the phoenix. Yes, turtles have clung to the dream that one day we would slip the surly bonds of Earth and touch the clouds, themselves." Parson paused and looked at Duncan.
Duncan looked back, silently.
"That means fly," said Parson. "I'm saying turtles have always dreamt of flight."
It is difficult to imagine a turtle shrugging, but Duncan managed it.
"You're not going to correct me?" said Parson.
Again, Duncan shrugged.
"I just said turtles dreamt of flight. You're not going to tell me you never have or ask me which turtles dreamt of it or anything like that?"
"No," said Duncan. "You say turtles have dreamt of it, I figure you must know some turtles who have."
"Right," said Parson. "So, turtles have dreamt of flight. Today, thanks to my philosophizing, we are ready to transcend that goal. We will step forward off of this branch and enter into a new era for all turtlekind as we take to the sky!"
"Did you say we're going to step off of the branch?"
"Step forward, off of this branch," said Parson, nodding.
"I would really prefer not to."
"You just climbed the tree to get up here," said Parson. "Do you really want to try doing that in reverse? Jumping off of the branch is the only way to go."
Duncan thought about it.
"I could be a tree turtle," he said. "Monkeys seem perfectly happy with being in trees."
"Don't stand in the way of progress," said Parson, turning and marching to the end of the branch. He stood, proud, in all his turtle glory, and cast his eyes to the sky.
"If I may, as your fellow filler-soaper," said Duncan, "mention something you're not thinking of...."
"I have thought of everything," said Parson, "but you may speak."
"It just seems to me that we, as turtles, are missing something that the birds use to fly."
"If you say 'thumbs,' I'm throwing you off the branch first."
"I was actually going to say 'wings,'" said Duncan.
"We don't need wings," said Parson. "For I, in my daily philosophizing, have realized something that will be the key to turtle flight."
"Oh, that's good, then."
"As I was pondering the question of how we would reach the skies, my dear fellow philosopher, I observed a small creature -- a squirrel -- leaping from branch to branch."
"They do that, yeah."
"Then, suddenly, the squirrel spread its arms wide and leapt, and I observed him actually take to flight as gracefully as a hawk."
"It never did."
"Oh, yes, it did."
"What, without wings?"
"Not only without wings, but without flapping, as well. It took on a shape. A shape that, I deduced, helped it to fly. And that shape... was the shape of the turtle."
"Shell and all?"
"He didn't actually have the shell, of course, but he was shaped like the shell. Sort of roundish and flat on the bottom."
"Ah," said Duncan, and lapsed into silence.
"And so, armed with this information, I prepare to become the first turtle to fly."
"A turtle turtle, right? Because I imagine turtledoves have flown for a very long time."
Parson craned his head to stare disbelievingly at Duncan. "Did you just ask if I meant turtle or turtledove? Do I look like a turtledove to you?"
"I've never seen one," said Duncan, shrugging again. "For that matter, you could look exactly like a monkey and I'd never know it. Except for the 'no thumbs' thing. The only thing I know for sure is you don't look like a piece of lettuce."
Parson shook his head sadly and turned back to look at the sky. "I go now, friend Duncan," he said. "Observe me well, for you will want to execute this move exactly as I do it, otherwise the consequences could be dire."
"Oh, yes, dire, yes," said Duncan.
Parson lowered the back of his shell and twitched it back and forth, extending his neck. He gazed upon the clouds once more, opened his mouth, and cried, "I fly today, for all turtlekind!" And then he pushed forward, off the edge of the branch, and fell from sight.
Moments later, Duncan heard a distinct thwacking sound from below.
Duncan inched forward to the edge of the branch and looked down.
"Was that flight, then?" he called down.
Parson's voice floated back up to him with a groan. "I believe I may have miscalculated."
"So I should do the same thing you just did?"
"No! No," said Parson, hastily. "Just... just wait up there and I'll be back up to the branch in two or three days, and we can try again."
Duncan looked around the branches of the trees.
"All right," he called back down, "but bring some lettuce with you. I don't think there's any up here."
END
by
Sarah Hendrix
Crissy stood with her kids as they waited for the bus. Her oldest, dressed in second-hand jeans and a pink shirt with a few ketchup stains, swung their clasped hands and sang half a line from one of the songs her music teacher sung to the class the day before. The youngest looked up at her from under thick lashes.
“Do I have to go to Miss. Jessie's house today?”
“Yes you do,” Crissy said as she knelt down between the two. “I have to look for another job. Today's the only day I have off. I might not be home in time.”
Derik pouted a bit. “But I want you to play with me after school.”
She tapped his lip gently, making him smile. “I wish I could be sure I would be there hon.” She drew her kids in for hug as she heard the bus making the corner. “I'll pick you up at Miss. Jessie's house as soon as I can.”
The kids boarded the yellow mammoth before her tight smile faded and her shoulders slumped. She was lucky the kids weren't old enough to see through her disguise. They didn't notice the tear marks on her cheeks in the morning or the bags under her eyes. What they did notice was the lack of cigarette smoke in the apartment and the last loaf of bread. They would get a hot breakfast and lunch while she choked down a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of water.
She went back upstairs to the apartment and sat at the small table. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn't really want to eat. Instead, she picked up the envelope that contained her bills and her paycheck. One of the numbers was larger than the other, not by much, but not nearly enough to cover the baby-sitter bill, a tank of gas for her car and the electric bill.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she allowed herself a few bitter moments. Child Services had yet to track down that skunk, Devon, so there would be no help from that end. Her parents had already sent her as much as they could. Her full-time job had laid her off three months ago, and she supposed she should feel lucky she was able to get a part-time job as a cashier at the grocery mart, but the paychecks didn't stretch far and her savings was already used up.
Sighing she got up and rubbed her eyes as she walked into the living room. The shelves along the wall held books, games, puzzles and a few photos. The battered-looking TV had survived a fall down the stairs and except for a cracked case worked well enough for the few programs she let the kids watch and the news. Her furniture was third-hand at best, nothing matching and a few holes or well worn spots on the fabric. Nothing worth anything except for the small black case sitting on the table beside the couch.
Crissy sat and picked up the laptop. She flipped open the lid and hit the start key. It whirred and booted up, slow as usual, but instead of her screen saver, the default settings popped up. She checked the files and confirmed nothing was left. Before she let herself fall into another crying spat, she slid the computer into a leather shoulder bag, wound up the cords and grabbed her jacket.
The
shop that she wanted was a short squat building huddled between two
taller ones. With the flaking paint, the pawn shop looked a little
like a fat old hen squatting between two of her more lseeThe Three
French Hens was a little shop on the other side of town. The brick
building had once been whitewashed but it had faded over the years
becoming more of a dirty white flecked with brown. The tall building
to either side stood tall and proud, almost looming over the shorter
squat building. She almost laughed at the mental image of a plump hen
squatting among the thinner more proper chickens.
The
door chimed merrily as she entered. Neatly stacked rows of books
lined the first two aisles she slid in between. Her fingers lingered
on a few of the spines before she pulled her hand away. Her eyes
glanced over the power tools and movies wondering if any of them had
been hers at some point in time. Devon had waited until she was
visiting her mother before he cleaned out the apartment with anything
valueable. While she didn’t see anyone in the building, it didn’t
feel empty, but maybe that was the inviting smell of cinnamon that
lingered in the back of her throat.
Crissy
set the leather case on the counter, flicking off imaginary dirt as
she looked around the store again. She looked around again then
reached over and gingerly tapped the bell.
“Hold
on,” a woman’s voice cried out from behind a dark, heavy curtain.
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Chrissy
fidgeted and looked back at the rows of tools, movies and radios next
to the door. She had a sudden urge to slip the strap of her computer
bag over her shoulder, grab a handful of DVDs and walk out the door.
She wondered how many people who came in walked back out with more
than they came in with. Resolutely, she stuck her hands in her jacket
pocket and stared at her case until the curtain parted and a short,
gray-haired woman wearing coke-bottle glasses shuffled
through.
“Afternoon!”
she smiled brightly and came to the counter. “What can I help you
with today?’
Her
breath tightened in her chest as she shoved the case over to the
woman. “How much?”
Wrinkled
fingers worked the zipper open and pulled out the laptop. “Works?”
she asked as she flipped the top up and hit the start key.
“You’ll
have to plug it in, the battery doesn’t keep a charge very well
anymore,” Crissy said as her cheeks began to warm.
“Ahhh,”
the old woman said. “You use this for work?”
Crissy
shook her head. “I’m a...” She licked her lips. “I was a
writer.”
The
brown eyes behind the glasses flickered up to her for an instant
before returning to the contents of the case. She pulled out the cord
and plugged in the computer. When she hit the power key, the fan
began to hum. “Writer hunh? Did you get a new machine?”
Crissy
found she couldn’t answer for a moment. She had pens and notebooks
at home but nothing felt the same as when she was quietly clicking
keys while the kids were sleeping. Now she would have to go to the
library and use the public computers in order to copy her stories.
The
old woman gave her another sharp glance. “You any good?”
Crissy
shrugged. “I had a couple of sales this year. I’m editing a novel
and I have a few short stories out.”
The
old woman nodded. “I’ll
give you seventy-five, it’s an old machine, going to need a
cleaning and probably a memory upgrade before I can sell it,” the
firmness in her voice brooked no argument.
Crissy
knew the tone, she heard it when she took in her engagement ring to
another pawn shop and when she made call backs to jobs she applied
for. She had a choice but it wasn't much of one. Take it and enjoy
her freedom for another few weeks. See if any of the other shops
would give her a better deal. Or hope that one of her stories sold
and would carry them through the month.
She
didn’t look at the older woman as she turned the laptop around and
shut it down. Her breath caught in her chest again as she slid the
computer into the black leather case. She managed a throat-tight,
“Thanks,” before she turned and headed to the door.
“You
know much about those online auctions?”
Crissy
paused, uncertain if the old woman was speaking to her. “Excuse
me?” She turned around.
“You
got kids?”
“Two,” Crissy
answered. “They’re in school.”
“Electric
or gas bill?” the woman asked suddenly with the same tone she had
offered her seventy-five bucks. When Crissy stood there stunned, the
woman chuckled. “Let me see it.”
Crissy
handed her the bill from her pocket.
“You
got a job?”
“Part-time
at the grocery store.” She felt her cheeks redden, shame and
embarrassment tugging her eyes down to her toes.
The
cash register rang. The woman pulled out some money and walked around
the counter. “I been in your shoes before hon. Selling your dreams
is hard. Harder when you know you are trying your hardest and there
isn’t anything else you can do about it.” She grabbed Crissy’s
hand and put the electric bill and some cash into her hand. “You go
pay your bill. Your next day off, you come and help me with that
ebaze stuff.”
Crissy
stared at the cash in her hand. Enough to cover the electric bill.
Conflicting emotions boiled up inside - relief first, then, shame. “I
can’t take this,” words suddenly spilled from her.
The
old woman smiled, “Sure you can, call it an advance on your
paycheck.”
“Paycheck?”
“You
have time for another part-time job don’t you?”
Crissy
nodded mutely, before she understood. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
by
Susan May James
Alone, penniless and desperate to stay warm Fleche wanders the winding streets of the Left Bank. Every few moments she tucks her chin into her thick scarf, her breath warming her nose and cheeks. Heedless of time, she eventually finds herself in the Latin Quarter; its lanes brimming with restaurants and tourists. The atmosphere is vibrant but instead of it lifting her spirits Fleche’s mood plummets. All the hope and excitement, peaking after months of planning, has been doused over the course of a single day. Years of dreaming have come to nothing and now she feels like a fool.
Stopping outside a restaurant, she pretends to read the menu and glances through the window at the diners. Her stomach rumbles as a waitress carries a steaming fondue pot and a basket of bread to a table of five. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the door open and for a brief moment the smell of food wafts out on the sound of laughter. She stares, mesmerised, as each of the group takes a turn spearing chunks of bread. Her mouth waters as they dip the bread into the pot of melted cheese, twirling it and letting it cool as they talk and laugh.
With a sigh, Fleche wiggles her toes in her shoes, willing the numbness to abate.
“Mademoiselle?” The restaurant host, his job to stand outside and drum up business, looks at her as he extends an arm towards the door. Fleche lifts her face from her scarf and shakes her head.
“Non, merci.” Her breath erupts in a cloud of warmth that disappears into the crisp night air. As she walks away the cobblestones are cold and slick under her feet and she shivers as tears well up in her eyes. Since that morning, when her mother had turned her away, she’d been walking the streets of Paris in a cold haze; her legs now ache and Fleche is in dire need of a rest. As she passes more restaurants she keeps her head down to avoid eye contact with their hosts as they try to coax her in. They gesture towards dessert trolleys and displays of fresh seafood but without money she is forced to ignore them and the festive chalkboards that dot the pavement.
Eventually Fleche crosses the River Seine and approaches the towering cathedral. Its gothic architecture and imposing flying buttresses are a marvel that would have otherwise inspired her. In fact she had hoped to spend a day exploring a number of sites but that doesn’t seem possible now. Nonetheless, she stands for a moment to admire the renowned cathedral of Notre Dame; darkness has fallen and its bright brickwork glows a golden hue under its spotlights. A chill runs up her spine and so, in an attempt to stay warm, she repeats her steps back and forth over the bridge between the Left Bank and the Île de la Cité.
As she walks she remembers the scene from that morning. It had been the first time she’d seen her mother in fifteen years and while Fleche had expected her to be surprised, she had not been prepared for the outright rejection she had received. Although, in retrospect, the unanswered calls and the returned letter had hinted at what she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, the possibility that her mother did not want to see her. Finally, desperate to make contact, Fleche had gone to her mother’s home and knocked on her door but, far from being welcomed, a woman she barely recognised told her to leave.
Fleche then had to place a collect call to her father and admit that not only had her quest been a failure but she’d also run out of money.
She feels ashamed and foolish for her naivety. Her father, with a pained expression, had warned her not to get her hopes up but she had refused to listen. Instead she’d brushed off his words, saved her money, caught a flight from Lambert St. Louis International and had spent the journey over the Atlantic dreaming of the reunion with her mother.
Now, shivering in the cold, Fleche wonders what she will do all night; it had taken a number of attempts to get through to her father and due to the time difference the money wire would not be available until the next morning. Therefore, for one night at least, she is forced out onto the Parisian streets.
When she returns to the cathedral she notices that the doors are open and as she bends her head back to view the bell towers she wonders if there is a pending service. If so, it could offer her a brief respite from the cold. She is just about to go inside when she hears a noise and turns to see an old woman sitting on a nearby bench.
“Psst!” the woman hisses at her, beckoning her with a gloved hand. “Come sit with me!”
Startled, Fleche casts a glance over her shoulder before taking a few hesitant steps towards her.
“What’s your name?” the old woman asks, smiling. Fleche tells her and waits for the usual response. When it doesn’t come she feels awkward so she launches into her oft told story anyways.
“When I was seven I was in the school Christmas pageant and had to dress up as a French hen. Apparently I ran around clucking for weeks so my mother started calling me Fleche. It’s a breed of French hen,” she shrugs. “The nickname sort of stuck.”
She doesn’t add that her mother left five months later and she’d kept the nickname because it was one of the few things she remembered her mother ever giving her.
“You must be cold,” the old woman says as she stands up and slides a sheet of cardboard along the bench. “Sit on this, it will help.” The woman coughs into a gloved hand, her fingers are bare where the fabric is worn and Fleche feels a tug of sympathy for her. She sits down next to her and wishes that she had something to offer the homeless woman.
“Don’t worry, your company is enough,” she says as if Fleche has spoken her thoughts. They sit in silence for a moment until the woman leans forward and whispers.
“I too am considered a French hen!” She laughs as she says it. “I am known as Vivaldi’s French Hen. They call me Houdan! Do you know why?”
Fleche shakes her head, giving her a polite smile.
“Like La Fleche, the Houdan is a breed of hen but they have five toes instead of the usual four and look!” All of a sudden she pulls the glove from her left hand and it takes a moment for Fleche to register what she reveals. Resting just above her left pinkie there is a soft, fleshy stub; a cross between a miniature finger and a toe.
“When Vivaldi saw this, he called me Houdan. I was just a young orphan, living in the streets.” The woman sighs and Fleche doesn’t know how to respond so she just nods. “The Red Priest kept many of his visits to Paris a secret,” Houdan continues. “Passing through Montmartre he saw me from the window of his carriage and took pity on me; a cold and hungry waif. I was sick and lying in the street; my mother had died giving birth and my father had just been killed in a gypsum mine. I had lost all hope; there was no future for me. But then Vivaldi’s assistant lifted me into the carriage and through an act of great charity I was nursed back to health as we travelled to Venice.”
The old woman pauses, expecting a response, and it is obvious to Fleche that she is delusional.
“I see,” Fleche says at length, not wanting to upset her. “You went to Venice with Vivaldi? The composer?” She doesn’t comment on the fact that if her story were true then it would make her close to three hundred years old.
“Of course the composer, who else?” Houdan exclaims, indignant. “He heard me sing, I have a beautiful voice, and he took me to join his girls at the Ospedale della Pietà. It was very unusual, you know. I was the one rare French hen amongst his flock of Venetian orphans. I stayed for many years and gave many performances. But then when he decided to leave for Vienna, I returned to Paris.” Houdan sighs, her face clouding with a look of remorse.
Fleche is struck speechless as she gazes up at the cathedral and Houdan whispers in a conspiratorial tone.
“You wouldn’t believe which opera he wrote for me!” She laughs as she sits back, a grin spreading across her wrinkled face. “But I digress; my point is that you must keep faith. My dear Fleche, don’t ever lose faith and hope because just when you think all is lost, amazing things happen.”
“Like being swept away to Venice on the charity of Vivaldi?” Fleche looks sceptical.
“Exactly! But you’ll need a thick skin, Fleche.” Houdan reaches out and presses something into her hand. “Now take this, the service will soon be starting.” She nods towards Notre Dame. “Light this candle and have faith. Don’t worry; your mother will come around.” The old woman’s eyes are glowing and her cheeks are pink. As Fleche clasps the small votive candle, her palm feels warm.
“Now, go!” Houdan tells her, giving her a nudge. “Go find a third French hen, a Crevecoeur perhaps!”
Taking her leave, Fleche stands up and as she walks away she hears Houdan laughing, her loud cackles rippling through the night. At that moment Fleche remembers that she had not told the old woman her reason for coming to Paris; she had only mentioned that her mother had called her Fleche.
With a start, she realises that Houdan had read her mind. Whirling around, she finds the bench empty. Houdan is nowhere to be seen; an apparition, vanished into the night.
“Houdan?” she calls out. There is no response and she sees that even the piece of cardboard they were sitting on is gone. A chill passes over her as she looks down, the candle is still cradled in her hand and at that moment the bells begin to toll, calling worshipers to mass. In a daze, Fleche continues walking towards the cathedral where she is swept up by the crowd that streams through the entrance; people brush by to take their seats while she moves towards a shrine of votive candles. Have faith, the words echo as she lights the candle and stands for a moment with her head bowed, reflecting on the old woman’s strange story. Tears spring to her eyes.
“Fleche?” she looks up at the sound of a soft voice and sees her mother standing in front of her. They stare at each other for a moment.
“I’m-” her mother stammers, blushing. “I’m sorry for earlier today. You caught me off-guard.”
Fleche continues to stare, sullen.
“When you weren’t at the hostel I called your father. He said you’d always talked about seeing the cathedral so I was hoping I’d find you here.”
Fleche mumbles something about its architecture and history.
“Should we stay for the service and then go get something to eat? You can stay with me if you want.” Her mother looks nervous and Fleche notices her bloodshot eyes and the fine lines around her mouth. She looks older than she should for her age and Fleche wonders about her life. She nods and they take their seats.
After the service, thinking of the fondue she’d seen earlier, Fleche suggests they walk to the Latin Quarter for dinner. Her mother agrees and as they leave the cathedral Fleche can’t help but stare at the bench. There is still no sign of Houdan although for a moment Fleche is sure that she can hear the old woman’s laughter through the wind.
Once seated in the restaurant, their order taken, Fleche is ill at ease. She’d been waiting for this moment for so long but now that it has arrived she doesn’t know what to say. You left me, she wants to scream.
“So, how long have you lived in Paris?” she asks instead.
“Since I left the States,” her mother is blunt. “You want to know why I left. I’ve always known this day would come and I’d have to explain. But I can’t.” She shakes her head. “Not really. It was so long ago and I wasn’t ready for a family. I grew up dreaming of becoming a dancer. I was born in France you know, near Marseille. We moved to Missouri when I was twelve, my father had a job offer from a cousin already living there. I never fit in.”
The waitress brings their drinks and her mother pauses, leaning back in her chair. Fleche doesn’t say anything; she looks down and swirls wine around in her glass while waiting for her mother to continue.
“I quit school when I met your father. We got married and had you. I wasn’t happy and felt you would be better off without me. I was too young to accept such a responsibility. I thought he’d remarry but I guess he never did?”
Fleche clears her throat. “No, he didn’t remarry.”
There’s an awkward silence as they wait for their food. Eventually the pot of melted cheese and basket of bread arrives but the atmosphere is not as jovial as the scene Fleche had witnessed earlier in the evening.
“And the dancing? How did that go?”
Her mother shrugs as she dips a piece of bread into the fondue. “Not so well at first. I was starting late so I had to compromise a bit. But it’s been alright.” She takes the bread out of the melted cheese and sets it on her plate to cool while she rummages through her hand bag.
“Here,” she says holding out a brochure. “Why don’t you come to my show? It’s a bit bawdy but it’s all in good fun.” She seems perkier now that they’ve changed the subject.
Fleche opens the brochure and stifles a gasp as she reads the name splashed in bright red letters across the page.
Crevecoeur.
“That’s me,” her mother says looking pleased. “Crevecoeur, heart break, it’s my stage name. It’s quite something isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s quite something,” Fleche whispers, food sticking in her throat. She remembers Houdan’s words. Go find a third French hen, a Crevecoeur perhaps! A tickle creeps up her neck and goose bumps break out along her arms. Her mother doesn’t notice her reaction but continues talking, her voice animated.
“Oddly enough, it’s also a breed of French hen,” she laughs. “Actually, that reminds me of something I wanted to ask you, Leanne.” With a flick of her hand she tosses her hair over her shoulder and reaches for her wine. Pausing for effect she leans forward and rolls her eyes at her daughter.
“Why on earth do you call yourself Fleche?” She emphasises each word as Fleche’s eyes grow wide. The question hits her like a slap in the face and as she blinks back tears Houdan’s ghostly warning flashes through her mind. You’ll need a thick skin, Fleche.
She stares at the mother she’s never known, her heart breaking; Crevecoeur, indeed.
***
The author should like to point out that while certain general elements of this story are true, insofar as Vivaldi was a real person who was a composer and a priest, lived in Venice and was in charge of the Ospedale della Pietà (where he had an all female choir and orchestra) in the early 18th century, other elements such as whether or not he made secret trips to Paris or ever offered help and refuge to females other than those already abandoned in Venice, are a figment of the author’s imagination. Furthermore, the character of Houdan is not based on any known person or character, living or dead, waif or otherwise.
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