Norther, Wallace, and the Turkey

An excerpt from chapter 4 of Lumen Marcia:

Norther found himself absorbed in thought when Wallace’s arm caught him across the chest, signaling a halt.

They’d come upon an ovular clearing with a fallen tree in its middle. The turkey stood on the tumbled timber, head bent, stabbing at the remains of a rabbit with its beak. It tore a shred of pink meat from the carcass and tilted back its head to swallow, looking as though it shouted a ballad in some frequency the hunters could not hear.

“The black-hearted villain himself,” reported Wallace.

“Mmph,” replied Norther, for his companion had sensed a mocking retort and pressed a palm to his mouth.

 Once Rye had acquiesced to silence, Poppy unslung his bow, pulled loose an arrow, and drew. He aimed at the turkey’s beady, blood-drenched noggin.

“Odious fowl,” whispered Wallace. “Gobble once more if you’d like, for it shall be your last.” A chunk of mud dripped off his chin.

Throughout the course of the evening the wind had merely traipsed along, lacking the force even to upset a hairdo. But as Wallace quietly taunted the bird, Norther noticed that the breeze picked up considerably. The mist swirled, the leaves shivered, the branches swayed side to side—and Rye grew suspicious.

This is no ordinary wind. He rose from his crouch and studied the forest with a confounded eye. No, this is…

In the time it takes a frog to loose a full croak, Rye sifted through a lifetime of memories. Blooms of prismatic lights leapt beyond his brain and possessed his physical sight. He explored those snippets of the past and—yes, now he understood. The fog, the foliage, the trees—she wielded the entire forest. And she, through the forest, shook its million leafy heads and ligneous arms, telling him, telling Norther, through wooden groans and verdant rasps, No, don’t let him shoot!

Norther brought his hand over his head and chopped down onto Wallace’s elbow just as he released the shaft. The missile whistled wide of its mark. The turkey flapped its brown wings in alarm.

“What!” cried Wallace. “This is a whole new breed of treachery, Norther. What are you about, man?”

 Rye opened his lips to answer, but a gobble cut him off. The hunters looked toward their feathery target and saw that the impish eye that had so enraged Wallace the previous day had returned. And that the turkey aimed it in their direction.

“Do you see it, Norther? Do you see why he must be slain?”

The turkey heard Wallace’s challenging words. It tilted its beak skyward and emitted a startling gobble-shriek. Springing off the fallen tree, it charged at Norther and Wallace with tremendous speed. Its neck and head alone were visible above the mist.

“Run,” commanded Poppy. “Run!” He grabbed Rye by the wrist and took off.

Stumbling at first, Norther gained speed and passed Wallace.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” hollered Poppy from behind.

“You’re the one with the weapon,” yelled Norther without looking back.

For a moment Wallace’s eyes seemed to say, Norther’s right! But when he turned, drew, and saw the turkey grow larger and larger, gobbling all the while, Poppy panicked and fired well off target.

“Its gobble is the source of its power,” Wallace shouted to Norther. “Projectiles are nothing to this demon!”

Norther sprinted several paces ahead, leaving a wake in the mist.

The turkey spread its wings and rose into the air.

Wallace opened his mouth and squealed at the feathered assailant before turning and running as hard as he was able.

Rye made a mental note to use Poppy’s stentorian squeal against him at a later date. He also noted that this was the second time he’d been chased through the Verdunkeln in as many days. Perhaps I’ll not return for a week or more, he thought, as Wallace, fueled by fear, caught up to him.

“He’s far too swift on this path,” panted Poppy at Rye’s side. “Let’s enter the jungle. His wings will be of no use while negotiating the thicket.”

“Just keep running. The foliage will slow us too.”

Behind him, Norther believed he heard a branch break, but out of the corner of his eye, on Wallace’s head, he saw the shadow of the raptor’s snapping jaws chomping in sync with the sound.

“Into the jungle then,” rasped Rye, shoving Wallace off the trail.

The turkey had not foreseen this maneuver and continued moving in the duo’s previous direction for a short time. This allowed Norther and Wallace to gain a better lead. They leapt over roots, spun around trunks, and plowed through shrubbery. Leaves vaulted up from the mist behind them as though the runners’ feet had startled them out of a snooze. Wallace hurtled over a downed tree held on a diagonal by one of its brethren, and Norther slid underneath.

To their aft, the fowl had, as Poppy predicted, fallen victim to the Keln’s dense greenery. It had to tuck its wings to its round body and run with its sticklike legs. Nonetheless, it was only about ten turkey paces away, and it was gaining.

“Maybe we should climb a tree,” huffed Wallace. The mud on his body shot back as he dashed.

“I wouldn’t put it beyond that bird’s abilities to follow us up.” Norther glanced back and widened his lids in surprise. The gobbler was so close that he could make out its individual eyelashes.

Eyelashes!?

The baker tucked his head and put his last driblet of energy into a final sprint. A root stuck its foot out and tripped him. He collapsed, sprawling into a pile of leaves. With lungs ablaze, he spread his arms, so exhausted that he had no trouble accepting the fact that his demise would come from a cruel, sharp, gobbling beak.

It’s a unique way to go, at least.

Read one of the turkey’s favorite short stories: Strange Harbor.