THE GOOSE {Fiction}
Uncle Cassius said he didn’t know how I could have slept through all the shouting and breaking glass, but I did.
My brother Samuel is a light sleeper. He heard the heavy boots of the soldiers marching past the house just before dawn. Climbing onto the roof, he saw them pounding doors with their rifles, pulling people in their nightclothes out onto the street as they searched the house.
Samuel whispered about what he’d seen during breakfast. It was disturbing to imagine soldiers going from house to house, terrorizing our neighbors, arresting them, and taking them away.
As Samuel spoke, I felt molten fear roiling in the pit of my stomach. My heart raced, my arms and legs prickling with horror. My eyes darted from the open window to the door.
As my eyes lost focus on the dark wood, I could see the police and soldiers filling the yard. I imagined scores of angry men pounding black-gloved fists and rifle butts against the door.
The sounds of angry men shouting at us to get out of the house slipped away, and I felt my hands cramping as I gripped the edges of the table. Samuel had gotten to his feet. The kitchen was dark and still.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I forced the vision away. Though I knew it had happened, was happening to families in homes all across town, it didn’t seem real to me. I didn’t want it to be real. So, it wasn’t.
I shut out the unpleasantness like closing a book, and the latest nighttime activities of the angry men were gone from my mind by the time Samuel headed out to the barn to start his chores.
Glancing over at my mother, I see her move slowly about the kitchen, her face pale as milk. I watch her wipe down the clean countertop, rinse and ring out the cloth, all the while muttering tensely under her breath.
Hurrying with my meal, I finished the half-eaten bun Samuel left and carried the dishes to the sink. Taking the breakfast things from me momma washes them vigorously in the pan, drying and placing them carefully on the shelf.
Opening the door, I step outside. It’s a beautiful morning, and the yard is singing with the countryside sounds of water slipping over stones in the creek, birds in the trees, and animals waiting for their breakfast.
Crossing the yard, Samuel’s terse whispers at the table bring a flush of panic that makes me hold onto my water. I quickly push the ugly thoughts away. The sky is an ice-mist blue, and the smell of freshly turned earth, warming in the sun, turns my mind to growing things and the harvest.
Entering the barn, I pass Molly’s empty stall and spot the extra work Samuel has left for me. Shaking my head at the mucked straw, I grab the old coffee can and scoop dried corn out of the feed sack.
“Once again, Samuel has set about on a new chore rather than finish the first,” I say to the barn.
Unlooping the gate, it swings wide, and the hens, ducks, and geese take up their usual positions for the morning procession.
The comical ducks push ahead of the hens, waddling in file toward the old stone wall at the back of the house. Jostling one another, they hurry through the narrow opening, each determined to be first to settle in amongst the reeds of the riverbank. I hear them Quwahk qua-quwaking softly as they slip into the water.
Scattering the dried corn in the yard, I watch the chickens set to scratching and pecking at the ground.
Bertha, the matriarch of the hens, was off on her own, moving slowly against the side of the barn. Nipping twigs and stones as often as kernels, Bertha had been a reliable layer for seven years now, but Momma was sizing her up for the oven.
Turning back to the barn, I see Rolland, the king of geese, standing in the open door, casting a weather eye about the yard.
“Well, are ya coming or going?” I say, shaking my head at the pompous critter.
Pausing to give me a disdainfully purple glance, Rolland saunters forth to stroll importantly about the yard, his bevy of snow-white brides padding in attendance.
Moving in a lop-sided circle, the geese graze on stems, low berries, insects, and grass. Detaching himself from the gaggle, Rolland headed for the pump, crossing the wide yard with his usual swagger.
Eyeing the twittering chickens with disdain, the patriarch dipped his long, graceful neck and took a drink of water from the catch-pan. Lifting his head, he spread wide his ivory wings, shaking them impressively before nuzzle-pick-preening the downy-white feathers of his chest.
“You’re quite a fella, aren’t you, Rolland?” I call.
The goose winked a beady eye and turned his back to me. Stretching his wings afull, he flapped them heavily, beating long white feathers against the dirt.
Hoorrkh, he cried, tucking his wings in as a cloud of dust and down settled in a circle about him.
Geese are funny creatures. When they look at you, you get the feeling they’re sizing you up n’ working things out. They seem to know when people like them or don’t. They keep good n’ clear of anyone they suspect of harboring ill intentions.
The chickens are just as likely to come to a hand holding an ax as one holding a cob. You throw their grub down, and they fall on it, but the geese never entirely trust you. Always keep an eye peeled when you approach. Figuring you might be carrying poison or imagining a goose dinner.
I’d wager the chickens never saw it coming. Might be why they carry on so. Running around afterward, like they still had someplace to be.
Coming in from the barn, I saw Momma standing in the kitchen, her apron clutched to her mouth. The last time she’d done that was two years ago when a man came and told her Poppa’d been struck dead by a falling branch.
Samuel was standing before her, reaching out to take hold of her arms. She twisted out of his grasp and hurried to her room.
It must be bad news, but I can’t understand what Samuel’s saying. The words won’t catch; a low droning sound in my head seems to keep them at bay. I turn away from the closed bedroom door and head back outside, to the yard, to the barn, to the placid and untroubled familiarity of the animals where I can escape the growing terror of the world.
Later that night, Samuel tells me the soldiers had come again, dragging people from their beds and throwing them out onto the streets. The old couple that lived three houses down, the baker, and the young man who worked at the post office. All gone, taken away in the darkness.
How could this happen? Other places, maybe. You heard about it; people standing in the street in only their nightclothes. Whole families being rounded up and hauled away in trucks. But here? People you know plucked out of their everyday lives, never to be seen again?
Why did it happen? What terrible series of events could have whipped people up in a frenzy so that neighbor turned on neighbor and young men took up arms and marched off to war?
How did the terror and violence go from whispers to privation, to angry men in uniforms marching in the streets rounding up undesirables and…
Bet lots a’folks had their bowels turn to water today. Wasn’t just me. Felt like everything I ever ate burned right through. It’s a good thing we had that new hole dug last summer. I couldn’t a’made it to the far side of the yard.
Wiping the cold sweat from my brow, I wondered if the soldiers would be coming for us one day. We don’t know anyone. We’re just ordinary folks, never gone anywhere or done anything in our whole lives. I know Pa used ta’ read that one newspaper. But they closed all the papers down.
Soaking my handkerchief at the pump, I pressed my face and neck with the cool water. If we all just do what we’re told and don’t make any trouble, I reasoned as nausea swelled in my gut.
That family out by Brookturn. The soldiers came one night and took the daughter. Just the girl. And when her father tried to stop them, they smashed his head with a stone and left him lying in the mud. What had they ever done?
How can things like this happen? Here? It started miles away, in the cities. Honestly, some a’them folks brought the roof down on themselves. If you just keep to yourself and don’t bother anyone, they’ll leave you alone. Won’t they?
Samuel and I sit in silence over our bread and cheese. Ignoring his pointed expression, I poured myself a fresh cup of water. Momma left early this morning to be with Aunt Sarah. Uncle Cassius had been arrested and taken away.
Chewing the bread till it was like slimy pitch on my tongue, it took six hard swallows of water to get the sticky lump down.
The old widow woman who kept the apartment upstairs from Uncle Cassius’ hurried through the empty streets to whisper to Mother through the door.
The soldiers had come before dawn. Breaking down the door, they dragged Uncle Cassius out of bed and threw him out onto the street.
Aunt Sarah had stood crying in the doorway, her nightdress fluttering about her ankles, Uncle Cassius’ papers clutched in her hand. The soldiers didn’t even look at them. They just burst in, hauled him out of bed, and took him.
Samuel’s face swam up at me from the gloom. The weak flame of the candle stub hardly kept the darkness at bay. The bite of cheese he took still had waxed paper on it.
Chewing slowly, he swallowed it down, paper and all, as he stared at the back of the door — the pegs where we hang our things. Mother’s apron was there. I’d never seen it hanging up. She was always wearing it. Always working.
Light and shadow shift along the bottom of the door. My heart freezes in my chest as I imagine a gloved hand lifting the latch and soldiers pouring into the room.
My arms begin to tremble as my fevered mind offers me horrifying visions. Samuel, Momma, and me knocked to the floor and kicked! It could happen! The angry men could be here at any moment, throwing us out onto the street and sending us God knows where!
Taking another swallow of water, I see the cup shaking in my grasp, the water inside rippling like wind whipping across a pond.
Does Samuel think of things like this when he is out late at night? Does he ever imagine his actions might bring the soldiers down on us, get us in trouble, or killed? The chances he takes. The things he says when others might be listening.
With water slopping out of the cup, I lower it to the table. “Samuel-”
BANNGG!!!
The gunshot is so close it sounds like it’s in the room! Running to the sink, I throw up everything I’ve managed to get down, then wipe the sick off my apron. Staring at the watery paste in the sink, I feel Samuel grab my shoulder.
“Calm Down! Keep Quiet!” he snaps, hurrying to the door and listening.
A dog barks in the distance. I feel dizzy and take a deep, shuddering breath. The tension is unendurable!
Looking over at Samuel, his hand is shaking so violently the door handle rattles. “It’s not us!” he hisses, moving away from the door and grabbing the freshly washed clothes Momma’d set out.
Standing holding onto the sink, I watched Samuel snuff the candle with his fingers. “Get to bed, Zharren,” he says, disappearing into the bedroom.
Rinsing my mouth, I take my clothes and stumble to bed. The last light of day turns the familiar room strange. My palms sweat with flushing heat, but the tips of my fingers are numb as I undress.
Moving carefully, I lay down on my bed. It feels as if I’ve never done it before. The pillow and blanket might belong to anyone. Staring up at the dark corners of the room, I wait for the floor to fall out from under me or the walls to explode.
When I open my eyes, I see cool, clear daylight. Samuel is gone. A flush of terror roars through my limbs; then, I hear him out in the yard talking to Molly.
As I dress, I think how much better the animals have it. They know nothing of political philosophy and the damage it can do. Animals don’t trouble themselves thinking about the days to come or how they have to be so terribly careful just to stay alive.
People don’t hold it against them, don’t care what, if anything, animals think or believe. Opinion, boundaries, religion, and war mean nothing to beasts. They rise, take their daily bread, and spend the day strolling about in the sun. At night they’re tucked up in bed with no real thought for what the next day might bring.
Grabbing the new bag of corn, I head for the barn. If we were gone, all of us, someone else would look after the animals. Poppa went out one day to collect firewood and never returned. If they noticed his absence, they gave no sign of it.
Waking on another day, they didn’t know anything about the change in circumstances. They were fed and watered all the same. To them, nothing had happened. They didn’t fret over how they would live.
Be a whole lot easier to have the life of an animal; your only concern would be the fodder set before you and whether the hand that provided it treated you fair.
They don’t brood about what the neighbors think of them. Grabbing the knife, I cut the lashings along the sack.
Animals don’t have to worry about who they talk to or what they say. They don’t know a world where they can be killed for thinking or believing the wrong things.
War can sweep across the village, killing or carrying off the people, but the animals would be safe. They have no allegiances, no religion to claim or deny. Animals don’t have a say in local elections and then suffer the consequences.
I can’t see soldiers breaking into Molly’s stall and demanding she swear fealty to King and Country or be killed. And the ducks and chickens would take their grain from any likely hand. Might be from someone speaking another language; it’s all the same to them.
Pushing the barn door open, it swung to the wall and bounced off. Looking inside, I saw Samuel throwing the saddle over Molly. “Samuel?”
“Do your chores. I’m going into town,” he snapped.
“You’re not going to speak to Tobias Winslow, are you?” I ask. “Samuel, you know what’ll happen if you get cau-”
“Shh- just do your chores. I’ll be back later,” he says.
“What are me and Momma to do if you get caught?” I whisper tensely, watching him swing up onto the saddle.
Samuel gives me a hard look. “There are worse things than being killed for doing the right thing.”
Leaning against the door as he passes out, I hold on to the latch to keep from falling. The clip-trot-clip-trot of Molly’s shoes on the cobblestones throb in my throat. What does he mean by that? What is he going to do?! He could get us all killed! Momma, me, himself! Is he crazy?
My breath catches and shudders in my chest as I let the foul into the yard. I follow numbly in their wake, my mind swelling and breaking over Samuel’s words.
Angrily brushing aside tears, I throw the feed onto the ground. The chickens are nothing but a yellow noise at my feet, the ducks a blurry grey line heading for the fence.
He’s killing us! The baker, the girl, the boy from the post office! Uncle Cassius! My God, why can’t he stay out of things?! It’s terrible what’s going on, but we can’t stop it! Everyone is best minding their own business!
Standing helplessly in the middle of the yard, I watch the geese stroll past my legs to peck at the corn scattered on the ground.
“Dumb animals,” I fume, watching the geese nibble and snap at roots and grass. The swaying, white tufts of their backsides rise and fall. They have no thought but filling their bellies. “Do ya? You don’t have a clue,” I snap.
The geese don’t suppose that the ducks are plotting against them as they paddle about the reeds. The chickens don’t concern themselves with what whispering neighbors might be saying about them, worrying they’ll let slip a bit of information that seals their fate.
The sun on my neck begins to burn…then sting. Reaching back, I feel a tiny, smarting lump. Something whispers against my fingertips. When I shake out my collar, a dead bee falls to the ground.
Crushing the yellow carcass underfoot, I walk to the pump and splash cold water against my neck. The plashing of the water in the pan gives way to the jingling sound of harness coming along the road. Momma won’t be happy. There are underclothes on the line. No point in pulling them down, they are nowhere near dry.
Listening to the clut-clut-clut-clut of hooves on stone, I rise, looking for Samuel to enter with Molly.
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Patting wet hands against my sides, I step forward to meet Samuel coming in but freeze as I catch the sound of many hooves. There is more than one rider coming up the road. Listening hard, it sounded like nearly a dozen. Heavy horses with crisp new shoes.
As I turn toward the barn, an unfamiliar voice barks out a command. The horses stop as one…then another command is given. The blood throbbing in my ears turns the words into jerking tones and pauses.
Crossing the yard in three bounds, I make it to the barn and hurry inside as the riders enter the yard. There is no time. Pulling the door wide, I hide behind it, my frantic breathing blowing tiny clouds of dust off the wide planks.
Peering through the crack, I watch armed and mounted soldiers fill the yard. As the birds scattered, I took in the dark grey uniforms, and the heavy holsters on their belts.
Holding my breath, I watched two of the soldiers dismount and march up to the house. The taller of the two men pounded a gloved fist against the door, the old wood shuddering with each blow. The shorter man added a kick, leaving a black-scuffed dent.
I hear shrieking somewhere inside the house. Momma calls for the soldiers to “Go away!” Her voice cuts through me like a blade of ice. Looking from the soldiers yelling at the door to the dark windows, I am terrified! I want to run to her, but I cannot move!
Gasping noisily, I realize I have been holding my breath. My eyes move to the mounted soldiers, I pray they did not hear me! Though they are less than ten feet away, they don’t seem to have moved. So maybe I’m safe.
KUNTH! KUNTH! KUNTH! The shorter soldier began kicking the door!
When the old door judders and gives way, the two men barrel inside and tear through the house. Their shouting is drowned out by the sounds of furniture being overturned, glass breaking, and my mother’s screaming!
Standing with my face pressed to the dry wood, I see the soldiers drag my mother forward, dropping her to the floor. As she kneels against the open door, her face is wretched, her eyes imploring as the men storm about the house.
Suddenly, the kitchen window shatters, and a chair lands in the yard, startling the horses. The chair sits absurdly upright in the yard. I imagine the table following and then the cloth and dishes, all landing in place.
The soldiers rush past my mother, each carrying a drawer pulled from the dresser. Hurling the drawers to the ground, I watch as the ancient wood shatters, scattering clothing, books, photographs, and papers across the yard.
I watch the soldiers turn and disappear inside once more, striding past Momma as she leans wearily against the open door, skirt clutched in her hands. I see her lips move, but a low buzzing in my head drowns out all other sounds.
I am weak and nauseous. My head throbs with fever heat, and I can taste pain. It reminds me of the time I fell from the hayloft and landed hard on my back. I couldn’t find my breath, and my head felt like it was stuffed with warm cotton.
The recollection is slapped aside by the sight of the soldiers grabbing my mother roughly by her arms. Jerking her up from the floor, they drag her outside, only to throw her to the ground.
I watch in frozen silence as hairpins fall from her head, tapping onto the dust like the first drops of rain before a storm. Retrieving the tiny metal pins, she attempts to gather up her long, dark hair as she pleads with the soldiers. They ignore her.
As she looks up at the men on horseback, her desperate expression becomes one of shattered horror. Crushing my face to the crack, I strain to see what draws her eyes.
The soldiers slowly part with a musical jittling of harness and toph-tophing of horses’ hooves as another mounted soldier enters the yard. Passing between the lines, the newcomer holds the reins of a riderless horse. There is a sack of ripe beets lying across the saddle.
Coming to a stop directly in front of my mother, the soldier pushes the sack of beets to the ground, and I see Samuel’s lifeless face covered in blood!
Jerking back from the crack, I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes. As the unimaginable horror takes hold, my hands tremble as I sink forward, the dry wood scraping against my face as I stare at my brother’s motionless body.
He has been savagely beaten. There are bruises and tears in the flesh of his face. Gaping wounds across his bare arms look like fresh meat in the butcher’s window!
My stomach churns, and my skin feels like ice as I spot tiny sections of Samuel’s cream-colored shirt and dun trousers amongst the ribbons of scarlet. His hands bloody and broken, the soles of his feet shiny and charcoal black. Looking at his face, his eyes are fixed, peering without sight at the scalding blue sky above.
Warm wetness spreads from my groin to my heels. I look away. To the house…the trees…the sky…the back of the door. Anywhere but the center of the yard where Momma weeps over Samuel.
My mind floods with memories. Samuel and I playing in fields of tall, swaying grass. Sitting together at the table, studying by candlelight. Our father coming home of an evening, worn out and smiling as we gathered around him.
In summer, Samuel and I would bed down in the hayloft, laughing and sharing stories. Winter would find us throwing snow at each other and banking up the hay in Molly’s stall to keep her warm.
Molly?! I see her standing in her stall, swishing her tail, and nickering softly to Samuel. But this, too, is a memory. She went with him into town. Where is she now? Did the soldiers take her? Why should they? She is not like their sleek, powerful war horses. What would they want with a broken-down old malo like Molly?
The soldiers wouldn’t kill her, would they? There’s no point. Molly’d never hurt anyone. Maybe they’d keep her to work in the fields? Or would they kill her? Even in the country, meat is getting harder to find.
A terrible sound pushes Molly’s whereabouts from my mind. Looking through the crack, I see my mother lying across my brother’s broken body. The wounded, guttural moan erupting from her throat is unlike anything I have ever heard. I wish the dull throbbing in my head would return so I don’t have to hear her shattered, keening cries.
The soldiers yell at her to get up, kicking her backside with their shiny, black boots and leaving dirt on her skirt.
Wringing Samuel’s bloody, torn shirt in her hands, she is pressing her face to his chest when the tall soldier lunges forward, seizing her by the hair and yanking her back.
“Where is the other one?!” he spits.
“I don’t know,” she cries, drooping forward, her hands clutched to her stomach.
The shorter soldier walks over. “You’re a liar! Where is Zharren?!”
Wringing her apron in her bloody hands, she shakes her head slowly.
The soldier slaps her across the face. Her body spins with his blow.
Terror floods my arms and chest, and my stomach heaves. Frozen behind the open door, I see one of the officers jump down from his horse.
Signaling the men to take hold of her arms, my mother sags between them as the major advances. Pulling a knife from his belt, he presses a long silver blade to her throat. “Tell me where Zharren is, or I will cut your throat!”
Held to the spot by some unseen force, I see my mother look up into the major’s face. Meeting his eyes, she says nothing.
With a gloved hand so tightly curled around the knife that the leather cracks against his knuckles, the major punches her in the face! A red line dribbles out the corner of her mouth, and I taste blood. I’ve bitten through my tongue.
“Search the house!” the major orders. “Tap the walls and floors. Check the roof and outbuildings! These vermin have hiding places everywhere! You!” He turns. “Search the barn!”
He is pointing directly at me! I’m shot!
No gun was fired, but I fall to my knees behind the door. I hear the soldiers hurrying toward the barn. The puddle has gone cold, turning the dusty ground beneath me into mud.
The door slams into me as the men run inside. Crushed between the door and the wall, I hear them ripping gardening tools from the walls, then the sound of metal hitting metal, wood, stalls, and doors. Finding nothing, they toss the tools aside.
Peering through a knothole, I watch the men rip doors off cupboards reach in, and rake tools, bottles, rags, scrap wood, and old newspaper off the shelves and onto the floor.
There is a pause, a grunt, and my hatchet comes flying toward me, the honed blade slicing deep into the wall beside the door. It is less than a foot above my head as I cower in terror.
Climbing the ladder to the hayloft, the soldiers throw empty barrels, sacks of grain, and the carved bench over the side. Thud-Thud-Crack! They’ve broken into the wooden chest in the corner. Bits of harness and worn leather strapping come flying out of the loft to join the growing pile on the floor below.
Inhaling with a shudder, I try to breathe slowly and evenly, the air is cool, and I can smell the dusty tang of my water on the ground. The sound of heavy boots coming back down the ladder makes me tremble violently.
When I steal another peek through the knothole, the soldiers’ blotchy faces are fierce and determined. Eyeing the dark spots spattered along the arms of the gray uniforms, I wonder, is it Momma’s blood or Samuel’s?
I force myself to be still as the soldiers move toward the door. Their hatred seems to fill the room. Kicking the debris with their tall, shiny-black boots, an empty bottle of bluing spins into the open door. The men follow the bottle with their eyes, and I wait for death.
As I hold my breath, the major shouts at them from the yard, and the men begin stomping and dragging their feet against the packed dirt of the barn floor. Their heavy, circling footfalls bring them so close I can smell the oiled leather of their boots and feel the heat of their bodies.
The shorter man has a long, jagged scar along his jaw. The taller man has eyes the color of a summer sky. The decorations and insignia on their uniforms are like beetle shells and corn poppies.
Finding nothing, the soldiers run towards the door, and my heart leaps into my throat. Closing my eyes, I draw back against the wall. Will I be placed under arrest, loaded onto a truck, and taken away? Will I be shot? Beaten? Burned? Perhaps they will cut me to ribbons like Samuel? Throw me at my mother’s feet.
The men are on the other side of the door. I can hear their breathing, their hearts pounding in their chests. There is no time! I feel the sucking pull of air as the door is jerked away from the wall! My eyes fly open, and I am staring up into their terrible faces!
I’m dead!
The soldiers are now hurrying out of the barn, cursing as they rejoin those waiting in the yard.
Why didn’t they grab me? Why am I not being kicked, beaten, and placed under arrest? They saw me. I know they saw me. I’m standing right behind the door!
Or am I on my knees? The men had loomed over me: their hard bellies and color-dabbed chests, their brutish, angry faces.
As I look feverishly around, everything I see seems outsized and far away. I must be muddled from the terror of it all.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I look over at Molly’s stall. The metal latch is far too high on the door. And I’d never hang her feed bag on the topmost peg.
Turning to look back through the crack but careful not to touch the open door, I watch the soldiers jerking the reins cruelly as they turn their horses to ride out of the yard.
I feel a moment’s relief at the hooves clattering against the cobblestones as the soldiers ride away. But the feeling drops away at the sight of my mother knelt beside my brother’s body, her face hidden in her hands as a low, keening cry whispers through her bloody fingers.
Wrung out and tense, the very blood in my veins seemed to be tingling. Reaching for the door to pull myself up, I saw a row of feathers. I must have picked them up when I was crouching on the ground.
Opening my hand to drop the feathers, I’m irritated that they don’t just fall away. Trying to shake them from my hand, I see the long, white feathers flapping through the air. Every move of my hand was mirrored by the same long, white feathers!
Reaching with my other hand to scrape the feathers off, an identical set of feathers reaches forward! Slapping my hands through the air, all I can see is feathers!
What is this? What has happened? No! It’s impossible!
Closing my eyes, I let my arms rest at my sides and force myself to breathe slowly. When I open my eyes, Molly’s stall is ahead of me on the right. The walls look impossibly high; like I’m still kneeling on the ground.
Just beside me on the left, the barn door is as tall as a house. The worn, metal latch at the level of a second-story window!
Gazing out across the now silent barn, I see the dirt floor littered with wood, bottles, rags, bits of straw, and seed. Farther along, the rake and hoe cross each other as they rest against the wall. That must be where they landed when the soldiers threw them aside.
Staring at the discarded yard tools, I knew I could crawl right under them. But this is absurd. I need to get to my feet and help my mother!
Lifting my hand once more, I again see white feathers.
NO! This is not happening! Lurching forward, I slip on the muddy spot where my bladder let go but keep running in a panic. As I move into the yard, I feel splinters of wood and straw poking into the bottoms of my feet. What happened to my shoes?
Looking down, I can’t even see my feet! And where my clothes should be is all a curve of downy white!
Hurrying from the barn, I’m surrounded by flapping wings that blow dust, straw, and dry grass in all directions. And even though I am screaming in terror, all I hear is a strangled HHeeauunnnkkkh!! HHeeauunnkhhh!!
I spot my mother lying across Samuel’s body and I run to her. Reaching for her hand, I watch a long, white wing brush against her arm.
Jerking back, I turn in a circle and catch a glimpse of a low white body and a tuft of tail feathers!
Fluttering violently, I lift up off the ground and fall on top of Samuel’s lifeless body!
Flapping and kicking to get away, I roll onto my back and watch the world turn upside down.
This is impossible! I cry. Hork heork heork, erupts from my mouth. Mouth?!
Pushed bodily aside, a scolding female voice floats over my head. Righting myself I turn to see two women help my mother to her feet; her face smeared with blood and tears. I am looking right at her, but she doesn’t seem to see me.
As the women walk my mother back inside the house, a girl picks up a dresser drawer and starts collecting things the soldiers threw out of the windows. Tears roll slowly down her face as she places our belongings in the broken drawer.
I feel the heavy footfall before I hear it and jerk my head to the right as a small group of men, not soldiers, enter the yard through the break in the fence. Passing me, the men gather to lift my brother’s body, silently carrying him into the house.
Running up behind them to go with Samuel, I am angered when a man pushes me aside with his foot. Hurrying to get inside before the door closes, another man shouts at me before kicking me back into the yard.
The sun is going down. There is a chill in the air. I hear low voices inside the house, but I do not understand what they are saying.
The ducks are filing back through the fence, their webbed feet padding softly in the dust. Quarttle quarttle, they say to one another as they cross the yard.
The ducks bring with them the scent of the river, their grey feathers sleek and dewy from a day spent on the water.
From a shady corner of the yard, the chickens scratch, peck, and meander their way back to the barn.
Eventually, the fussing chickens settled themselves on their nests of straw; bruuuh rut brut brut-ing to themselves as they fall asleep.
Rolland, leading his harem back around the barn, strolls up to me. Stopping to let the flock go ahead of him, he looked at me for a long moment, and fluttered his feathers, giving me an amiable nod.
Lifting my hand, I see long, white feathers tipped with scarlet.
