by Anna Cates
in Issue 66, July 2017
“You’re the sleaziest bucket of fish guts I’ve ever seen.”
“Gee, thanks.” Inchel laughed. “I didn’t realize I looked that good.”
The elf boy’s ashy skin peeped through holes in fishnet stockings cladding his bony thighs beneath leather shorts. He ambled awkwardly in his chunky-heeled girly boots. A red silk scarf draped his neck, dangling across his naked chest. Stringy brown hair reached his shoulder blades. Together, they paced south beneath the wind-tossed canopy, leaving a patchwork of light and shadow on the path dividing woods and grassland.
“I’ll go with you as far as the crossroads. But that’s it.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to go fuck a bird when you could have me.” Inchel touched his chest.
“I don’t have the gold for you.” Breena grinned at her own sarcasm.
Inchel shook his head. “Alas, alas. An old king of crows it shall be.”
“Thunderbirds are not crows.”
“Am I one of your clan that I should reverence them?”
“What would your father say if he knew what you were up to?”
“He can’t judge. That’s how he met my mother.”
“Your mother!” Breena gasped.
“I knew him before he became a saint.”
As the heat of the day approached, they arrived at the crossroads, falcons soaring in the sky above. Inchel blotted the perspiration from his chest with the red scarf, eying the heavens. “Spies.” He shook his head. “Never trust a bird.” His dark eyes met hers. “Are you sure you won’t accompany me to Bordertown? Check out the new brothel? Make a bit of gold? Forget your idle errand with that filthy buzzard?
Breena huffed, her hands fisted. “A brothel? You are the only soul from the Crystal Lake bent on prostituting yourself, and you’re not going to drag the whole world into the gutter with you, least of all, not me.” She paused, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. “Good luck with the folly you’ve chosen. In time I expect you’ll regret you decided not to be a humble fisherman like your father.”
Breena marched off the road into the prairie, heading toward the cliffs. Why did rebellious boys always force her to sound so prim? What a pain.
“Witch!” Inchel called after her, but she ignored him, her senses full of the ominous black rock leering ahead. How would she ever manage to climb it?
Breena reached the shadow of the cliff, her soft leather boots passing from wild grasses onto pebbled ground, littered with fallen rock from the heights above. There, in between two small boulders, she left her sword and canteen, after drinking a generous swig. She didn’t need any extra weight for the long climb upward, as difficult and dangerous as it would be. She doubted she could fly were she to lose her grip and fall halfway up. She’d need more time to transition.
Breena forced her fingers into two large cracks in the cold stone then found a protruding slab for her first step. Finally, up she went. If she couldn’t make it to the thunderbirds for summer mating, none in her clan could. Of her generation, she alone retained the gift of shape-shifting. She alone could mate with King Kronos, birth his long pink eggs, and replenish her clan’s declining bird blood to preserve their magic powers. If she failed, they’d become like any other lake-dwelling elven guild. Simple, irreverent fishers like Inchel and his folk. A people dwindling into obscurity, plundered and ravished by displaced Ystacrashian barbarian hoards.
Fissure after fissure, chock after chock, Breena ascended the black cliffs, ferreting out wedge after wedge with aching fingers. Half way up the climb, she peered down. Big mistake! She swooned, pressing her body against the stone, half in sunshine, half in shadow. Don’t look down. Just keep going. Climb. Climb . . .
She lifted her boot, feeling for the next foothold then using her burning thigh muscles to force her trembling body skyward. She passed patches of weeds. Trickling water. Bird droppings. In places, her grip faltered at crumbling rock and dust spills.
Finally, she came to a small crevice just big enough for her to crouch inside and rest. She knelt on the meager floor, catching her breath, her wiry muscles tremulous. She peered down at the impossible distance. Then she lifted her gaze to the countryside. Beyond wind-tossed fields of wildflowers, vivid with yellow butterflies, the forest loomed. A diversity of tree tops, broadleaf to evergreen, caught the sunshine and the attention of birds. Orioles and coots, red-shouldered hawk and white ibis, cat-owls and qua-birds fanned their wings and sang. From somewhere in the canopy, campfire smoke trailed up then dispersed into breezes. The Big River glinted with sunlight, spilling across endless miles. To the north, jagged snow-capped mountain peaks stretched into cloud. To the south, Border Town’s yellow brick castle glimmered in the sun.
Rested at last, Breena crept from the crevice and resumed her climb, feeding her feet and fingers every advantage she could find. Wind played with her black hair, whipping it into her eyes and caking it against her lips. Why didn’t I braid my hair? She wondered.
She’d nearly reached the top when a strong gust of wind swept over her, nearly knocking her from her post. Goddess! Breena huddled against the rock with numb fingertips.
Finally, she reached the crest: miles of flat rock before the Forbidden Forest. She hoisted herself over the cliff till she lay on her belly on the sun-warmed stone.
Soon she was on her feet again. She tossed her hair over her shoulders then paced forward, hunting for matted grasses woven into depressions in the rock.
The shaman’s warning reverberated in her mind: Avoid nests with eggs or shells. The bird king’s consorts built those. Don’t expect them to like you. You’re their rival and a threat to their chicks. Look for a clean nest without shell bits or baby bird feather fluff. . .
The shaman’s withered face and puffy eyes appeared in her mind. Shun the big brown thunderbirds, the king’s consorts. They will attack you. Look for the smaller giant with red feathers . . . the shaman had smiled . . . Let him seduce you.
Screech!
The shadow swooped down with a twinkle of sunlight. Breena ducked, narrowly missing being knocked off her feet. A small tear at the shoulder of her leather shirt testified to the shadow’s talons. She touched the trickle of blood. A minor wound, but the assailant wasn’t finished yet.
The matriarch fowl glided into the heavens, circled, then swung back. Breena removed the sling from her belt and a rock from her pocket. As the brown behemoth veered toward her, she drew back her arm and aimed. The rock was unlikely to kill the magic bird but would allow Breena to assert her prerogative.
Ping! The rock whizzed into the air, meeting its target with a splash of feathers.
Screech! The bird retreated skyward.
Breena stumbled back, nearly tripping over an empty nest hidden behind blue elderberry bushes, a healthy staple for chicks.
Breena ran over the rock, passing nests filled with bits of broken shells and downy feathers. Where would the king bird reside?
Her gaze rose to a ledge of rock on a precipice. An ideal spot for a grand roost. Testing her hunch, Breena hastened forward.
She arrived at the nest just as the sun was setting. A single flaming feather betrayed the owner of the perch.
Breena sighed with relief, heart thudding. She’d made it. A stream of water near the nest trickled down the mountain. She washed her hands and scratched shoulder then drank her fill before eating a light supper of elderberries. Finally, darkness falling, she curled into the nest and fell asleep.
The king bird arrived early in the night in a whorl of warm wind. Beneath a full moon and stars, he loomed over her, fanning his feathers. His golden eyes gleamed.
Goddess! Breena gasped. The king bird’s beauty and grace stirred something deep within her. Her body tingled. It seemed everything in her life had been leading up to that moment. She discreetly pried off her boots. She unfastened the ties of her leather shirt and slipped out of the garment. Finally, she removed her pants till she lay before him naked.
He moved closer, wings fanning. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, feeding her senses the bird king’s animal musk. He lowered himself over her. The beak nipped lightly at her skin, but she didn’t turn aside. She took him in. She joined with him, becoming one with his flesh, merging with his ilk.
Breena’s mind soared into stars and clouds, thunder and rain. She rasped, moving fluidly with his rhythms. She felt her own wings forming as his body waxed manlike. Feathers became chest hair, wings muscular arms. Fingers. Phallus.
“You are mine,” he spoke in her mind.
A thunderclap ripped through the sky, but the showers moved quickly over them, heading across the forest and river. The giant wings wrapped around her, shielding her, loving her. . .
She awoke late the next morning, still warm, curled on her side in a nook of the nest, her clothing draped over her like a blanket, her boots placed neatly together on the other side of the nest as if a housekeeper had been keeping the roost tidy. Breena smiled, lifting her arms to stretch. She placed her palm on her belly. Soon long pink eggs would bud within her.
She dressed then drank more water and ate more berries. Then she braided her hair and set off in the direction from whence she’d come, this time avoiding the brown birds’ nests.
Early afternoon, Breena arrived at the spot on the cliffs where she’d first ascended. She peered over the precipice. Did she dare?
Breena grinned. She removed all her clothing then tossed it in a bundle over the edge of the crags. Then she rose to her feet and dived into the air like a swimmer plunging into water.
Screech!
Her body burst into feathers and wings. She soared through the air, the wind against her, then glided down to the pebbly ground below.
She dressed again in the shadow of the mountain, retrieved her sword and canteen from behind the boulders, then made her way back to the field, heading for the road beyond.
Breena stepped onto the empty highway then turned north, walking briskly toward the Crystal Lake and her people. Yet she hadn’t trod far when she spotted another traveler ahead on the road. Something in the gait seemed familiar.
“Hey Inchel, that you? Wait up!”
The elf boy stopped, peering back over his shoulder.
Breena jogged forward, reaching his side. “Funny we should run into each other again,” she said, catching her breath.
Inchel didn’t reply, his face somber, but only resumed his slow march north. In fact, he limped a little. A chunky heel on his girly boots was loose and about to fall off. His fishnet stockings were in shreds, an eye blackened, the red silk scarf missing.
“How was the brothel?”
Inchel paused momentarily. “I figure, all it takes to be a fisherman is baiting a hook and then just sitting there.”
Breena laughed. “That bad, huh?”
© July 2017 Anna Cates
Anna Cates lives in Ohio with her two beautiful kitties and is unafraid of lightning. She has been published in Abyss & Apex, Visual Adjectives, Long Short Story, the Internet Review of Science Fiction, and other journals and anthologies. She holds an M.F.A. in creative writing and teaches English and education online. Her full-length collections of poems and speculative fiction are available at Cyberwit.net: http://www.cyberwit.net/authors/anna-cates.