By Jim Doran
A roar from a nearby mountain blasted across the village of Torma. Dropping their wares, the inhabitants of the village pulled their cloaks tighter from the booming screech, but a young shepherd walked along as if on a mission, his head held high.
The noise ceased at the same time the sheep tender approached Mayor Lun.
The bald, rotund mayor glared at the mountain. “Darius has failed, then. He was our last chance.”
The shepherd folded his hands. “I would like to try, sir.”
Lun blinked, as if noticing him for the first time. “A shepherd? How shall you kill the cockatrice that looms over our village when our best soldiers have failed?”
“I have means.”
Lun said, “I don’t even know your name.”
An aged woman, Fret, pointed a gnarled finger at him. “Trellos. He’s Markina’s bastard.”
Gnok stepped closer and scratched his bushy beard. “He tends the sheep. Hardly ever dares to come down here.”
“I would like to try.”
Lun waved at him. “Begone, serf. I’ve no need—”
The cockatrice screamed again at a higher pitch than ever heard before. Everyone, including the shepherd, covered their ears. At the end of the clamor, the gathering crowded around the village leader.
Gnok shaded his eyes. “The monster will attack us soon. What are we going to do, Mayor?”
“We’ll form a hunting party. The beast cannot kill all of us.”
Trellos cleared his throat. “Cockatrices have faced squadrons larger than any hunting party. You’ll be no match for its poisonous breath. I… I believe I’ll be able to convince it to move along.”
“Why you?” Lun crossed his arms.
“Did you know we have a nest of eagles to the south of Torma?” Trellos clasped his hands behind his back. “I do. Because, while tending sheep, I watch the sky. Eagles have a distinctive pattern, as if dancing. I’ve studied cockatrices when they glide overhead, too. Dozens have passed over my field for years, and none have escaped my notice.”
Fret leaned in. “It won’t decrease the village none if he dies.”
The leader studied Trellos. “Yes, you’ll make a decent, eh… distraction for the beast while I organize brave warriors. What do you want in return?”
“Ten gold coins. With that treasure, I’ll travel to a community that will accept me for who I am, to people who won’t shun me for being a bastard.”
Lun snorted. “Ten? I would give you fifty to remove that abomination.”
“I only ask for ten.”
“And weapons?” asked the bearded man. “Should I ask the blacksmith for a sword?”
“No. Just a bowl.”
Chuckling and snorting followed. Gnok said, “The village idiot against a deadly monster. Organize the party quickly, Mayor.”
Lun stuck out his hand. “We have an agreement.”
They shook hands. When they finished, Fret gave Trellos a bowl. “If, child, you kill the creature, bring me its tears before it dies. I hear they have healing properties.”
Trellos turned and strode away, ignoring the villagers’ taunts of fatal endings.
Trellos never slowed as he traveled to the top of the mountain. He avoided the main path as much as possible so the creature wouldn’t spy him until he came upon it.
When he rounded the corner to its lair, he halted.
The russet-colored beast was twice his height and with a rooster’s plume made of quills. The creature’s protuberant gold eyes glared down a lengthy, alligator snout filled with razor teeth. A thin neck connected its head to a round body with wings and hairy, chicken-thin legs and claws.
It screeched at him, spittle flying. Motionless, Trellos examined his adversary. On the monster’s back, he spied a gash around the wing.
“You understand human language well enough.” Trellos kept his voice low and calm. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The cockatrice waved its head on its spindly neck, baring its teeth.
“Your kind doesn’t stay still for long and doesn’t attack unless provoked. You are herd creatures. I figured you were injured, else you would have flown off. The only reason to remain here is if you were wounded.”
The beast clucked, and its fangs seemed to grow larger. And sharper.
“We are the same, you and I,” said Trellos. “Alone and hated. I could’ve chosen to remain with the sheep, and you could choose to kill me. Or we could help each other.”
It closed its jaws.
“Your tears could heal your injury.” Trellos nodded to its wing. “However, your head can’t reach your wound.”
Its eyes shifted to the bowl in Trellos’s hands.
“The town wants you to leave.” Trellos stepped forward. “And I want to help you. I will leave this bowl beneath your head. Cry into it. Then I will retrieve it and pour its contents on your wound.”
Two steps closer and he would be within range of the cockatrice’s poisonous breath. Nonetheless, Trellos moved forward, his hands shaking as he set down the bowl. The creature lowered its head and shed tears into the container. The bowed head and flattened quills seemed to express reluctant humility and guarded trust.
After the vessel was a quarter filled, it stopped and shuffled backward. Trellos retrieved the bowl. He could have retreated with it and made a small fortune in the market, but he had given his word. He sidled around the cockatrice’s scaly skin to the wounded wing. Standing on tiptoes, he poured the contents of the basin onto the injury. The cockatrice hissed, and its claws dug into the dirt.
Trellos’s pulse raced. Had he healed it? Would it kill him now?
The skin around the wound stitched itself together.
The cockatrice turned to face Trellos.
Trellos gestured to the sky. “Go. Be with your kind… where you’ll be accepted. Loved.”
It turned and, with a great beat of its powerful wings, soared into the air.
Trellos’s heart accompanied it as he turned to collect his money.
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Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The song that inspired this story has more generic lyrics and little practical imagery. Certainly, there’s no reference to a cockatrice in it! Hint: it’s an 80s pop/rock song, and this tune started a huge comeback for the band. I’ll come back later and reveal it.