I left the apothecary with purpose, my expectations not high but hopeful that I’d find the help I badly needed to contact the High Queen. The sun burned bright, the gray dregs of dawn giving way to a cloudless blue sky and tight-knit groups of weary people starting their daily routines.

In drips and drabs, residents left their homes, ambling along in quiet family groups or close-mouthed pairs. No one spoke in public. Even the younglings were reserved. It was unnerving. Only the mundane sounds of carriage wheels rolling over cobble offered a small measure of solace.

Amidst the thorny silence, I nibbled on the corn muffin the gnome gave me and crossed Main Street, mulling over all she had revealed to me in the strained hush of her store. The Tweets may have ceased flying, but there was one who could be coaxed, for the right price. I hoped the gold Queen Rosamont gave me before my journey was sufficient.

Photo courtesy of: roland mey; courtesy of: Pixabay

Heading westward, I followed the gnome’s directions toward Shantyville—a seedier part of town hidden behind a vast heap of rubble. At first, I didn’t recognize the wreckage for what it was, then upon consideration, I realized it was the town plaza. Most towns in the realm had them. They were social squares with municipal centers and other administrative offices (Tweeterys, Social and Public Health Services) that aided the smooth legislation of the realm.

“My word,” I whispered, trying to imagine what produced such utter destruction. Cannons hadn’t been used in the Kingdom for generations.

It took me a few minutes to find the entrance to Shantyville. After a careful search, I uncovered a crude opening nearly eclipsed by wooden debris lying crosswise between the square’s remains and the wall. I moved the rubbish aside and plunged into the skinny hole, feeling like I had crawled into the mouth of an odious monster.

I picked my way along a spotty trail and down a narrow corridor, my hooves crunching over loose pebbles and hunks of wood. In broad daylight it was evident they had thrown together the wall surrounding Rockledge helter-skelter; the high wooden planks rose and fell like the jagged, shattered teeth of a giant hag.

Unlike Rufus’ Bloomer, the barrier surrounding Rockledge consisted of crude timber cut into narrow alleyways and broader avenues, that was slightly easier to tread. Everywhere you looked, the wall pushed its way into the town at odd and imposing angles, frequently blocking the rear lots of stores or the side entrances of buildings. I couldn’t believe Cinderella and Charming would willingly sanction such a sloppy and intrusive barrier on the town.

Photo courtesy of: Clik Free Vector Images; courtesy of: Pixabay

Picking my way over the splintered masonry, I squeezed myself into one of these narrow strips. At the end of the alley, a neighborhood of dung colored tents filled up another haphazard enclosure. It was a miserable sight to be sure and reeked of waste and other unpleasantness that derives from the bereft living so close together. I pushed my scarf over my nose, glad for the woolen barrier, my breath warming my face uncomfortably.

The tents were erected in no specific order. It seemed as if people, worn out from exhaustion, just plopped themselves down where they stopped and set up camp. The result was a maze of cooking fires and ragged canvas hovels.

I wove through the tangled mass, eyes peeled for a grounded homing pigeon. I didn’t expect it would be too hard to locate the Tweeter I sought; there weren’t many of them left in Rockledge. Along the way, I queried a few people if any birds were living in the area.

Most ignored my question, but one man directed me to a group of odd birds sharing a lean-to. “They’re a bit touched in the head,” he warned, pointing to a shack a few paces down.

I thanked the man and headed for the shack, mindful to avoid stepping on hot embers or the stray arm or foot of a snoozing tenant.

As I approached the shelter, I noticed the birds, heads huddled close together, immersed in fervent whispering, eyes scanning the skies expectantly. Like their counterparts, the shack was sparse on food and other amenities; scraps of material and dried worms dotted the floor along with an array of feathers, a grimy wad laying in the corner.

It looked like an engorged feather duster that had succumbed to a clean-up session at Gepetto’s. A wheezy ripple passed through the feathery heap, and then it stilled. I hoped it hadn’t died.

Photo courtesy of: Simon Steinburger; courtesy of: Pixabay

Gripped with fear, unphased by the atrocious gurgles emanating behind them, the birds peered upward as if waiting for something to tumble out of the sky and flatten them.

“Pardon me,” I said, but they didn’t hear me.

“Do you think it’s still falling?” a goose said with a shudder, her gaze fixed on a passing cloud.

“Most definitely,” a duck replied, his wing folded around a tiny hen whose head was tucked deep in his feathers. She kept moaning, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

In light of all the strange events occurring across the realm, foreign debris plummeting from the heavens didn’t seem impossible. Half-expecting that Pinocchio found his way to this corner of town, I too gazed upward searching for a sign that eminent doom hovered over our heads. A cheery blue, Pinocchio-free sky smiled down on us and appeased my concerns—for the moment.

Taking comfort in this, I cleared my throat to make my presence known to the birds—nothing except for the chant that now rotated through the group like a warped prayer. “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

Slightly impatient, I called, “All enchantments upon you.”

From a dim corner of the shack, the feather duster stirred, its scrappy wings quivering with agitation. A head attached to the feathers lifted off the floor, squinted at the birds and shouted, “Will you shut up about the sky. I told you a hundred times, Henny, an acorn hit you in the head.” The beady eyes, round with irritation, slid to me. “And you, take your enchantments somewhere else.”

Far from being insulted by his rudeness, I laughed to myself, aware that the standard greeting fell short in this place. There was nothing enchanting about Magical Folk forced to endure such squalor. “No offense, friend.”

The bird let his head drop back down and snorted. “I don’t have any friends. Not anymore.”

His remark caught my attention. Chest suddenly tight with modest expectation, I looked him over again. It was hard to discern, but beneath the filth and unruly feathers, I thought I perceived a homing pigeon.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, taking a step forward. My action produced an immediate uproar amongst the other birds, who had settled into a trance while chanting their sky falling mantra.

They scattered like a clutch of falling stones, clucking, quacking and hissing a round of obscenities at me, the likes of which I’d never heard before, and I’ve been around the forest a few times. They ran amuck for a minute, squealing like rusty iron hinges, then found each other and crouched together in a cornered shadow of the lean-to.

All around us, heads popped out of tents; neighbor’s eyes narrowed in panic were trained on us. Once they understood it was a false alarm, their nervousness rapidly changed to vexation. With dark looks, they fell back into their tents snapping the flaps closed.

Photo courtesy of: Momentmal; courtesy of: Pixabay

“For the love of Guardian Lymm will you keep it down!” The bird jumped up, a wave of feathers rippling around him like leaves torn from a tree during a windstorm. They burst and flew, surrounding him like a fluffy bubble, then gingerly swayed downward in a circular pile at his feet.

He was an old pigeon, worn by years of service to the realm but still strong. The authority of intrigue and long-held secrets surged from the crest of his head to every single one of his gray feathers. He was a veteran Cardinal Tweet and another old friend from my youth. “As I live and breathe, Duncan ‘The Mad Major’ Cobber. What are you doing here?”

Duncan pulled up short from his rant and eyed me up and down. After a brief pause, recognition dawned bright across his face; his beak opened wide with incredulity. Chuckling mightily, he strode toward me—wings thrown out, “Shirly Tims, is that you?” he said alighting on my shoulder and wrapping my face in a big hug.