Birds of Paradise - 2. Chapter 2

Slamming the kitchen doors behind him, Cy leaned there, arms and legs trembling with weariness, and something else that turned his insides to mush.

"What?" he half-whispered to the empty kitchen. "What just happened?" There was something incredibly eerie about a songbird being captivated by his music.

Pressing cold, trembly fingers to his hot forehead, Cy swore never to go back ... except maybe to retrieve his harp ....

"Blessed Day!" he exclaimed, kicking the door behind him. How could he have forgotten his harp? The sensitive instrument would not weather the hot, moist environment of the birdcage well. He would have to go back.

"But not tonight. Not tonight." The thought of returning made him shiver as if chilled.

He clung to the door for several minutes to calm his racing heart, taking deep breaths in the nose and out the mouth, and letting his mind focus on a peaceful vision that did not -- did not! -- include that terrible bird!

"Augh!" he cried, grabbing the nearest object and heaving it against the far wall. Just that one, inadvertent thought and he could feel his face heating, his cock twitching as it never had for a man, and that bird wasn't even human! Could be, he supposed, without the feathers and with a different skin tone.

There were just enough alien features to make most men uneasy. The eyes were too big, the mouth and nose too small, the ears slanted and kind of pointy and feathered. Songbirds also had no hair ... anywhere, from that one, brief glance he'd had. Just feathers. Molted feathers were a prize commodity, traded as accessories or on clothing, or by themselves.

"What am I to do?" he asked.

He would play, to calm his mind, but his fingers, tough and callused though they were, had suffered from the day-long playing, and his voice was sore as well. Cy wanted his harp, but dared not return for it in his current, beleaguered state. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the way that songbird looked at him, and that ... that was just --

"They're animals!" He thumped his fist against the smooth surface of the preparation table, leaning there and trying to convince himself that everything he'd believed to date about songbirds was still correct.

Songbirds were no better, no smarter than dogs, or messenger pigeons, or hunting falcons. Horses, even. Animals occassionally came to him when he played or sang on his travels. This was no more significant! Wasn't it? It had to be!

But the silence hounded him through the grand, empty house, lapping against his ankles like the fat, old tabby cat from Cy's childhood. At last he dropped across his bed and pulled a pillow over his head to drown out the quiet.

Only, dreams were no better. He rose again to the dark after moonset hard and aching. He touched himself gingerly, begging the night demons to release him and grant him relief, but his prayers went unanswered. Instead, over the wind came a haunting melody unlike anything Cy had ever heard. If he tried to listen, to focus his mind on the music, the sound vanished, but if he moved around, letting his mind wander, the music became all he could think about.

There were only three chords, a simple melody repeated over and over, but the sound was so rich and full that Cy suspected the songbird. But who had ever heard a songbird sing during the night? Like their feathered cousins, songbirds rose with the dawn and tucked themselves away again at dusk.

One of Cy's tests of mastery was to sing away the night, to sing from sundown to sunrise, keeping evil spirits at bay. All the masters of the temple took turns to stand vigil each night. Cy did not mind the task, having long since come to terms with the demons who ruled the night.

But the music, the lone songbird's call, would not go away!

The melody wound itself around Cy like spiderwebs, tangible but ethereal, and as he meticulously made and drank, cup by forced-slow cup, a fresh pot of tea, Cy reluctantly concluded that he had two choices: quit the estate entirely, or confront the singer.

The first option held considerably more appeal, but Cy had never run from anything his entire life, not even the expected news of his father's death. The path laid out for him by the heavens was straight-forward and deceptively simple. There was no room for selfish interests. He must consider, then, that his and the songbird's paths were meant to intersect. He must determine why before he would be able to take the next step forward along his journey.

He left the house and retraced the path through the gardens to the songbird's cage. He had to walk right up to the door in the glass walls before he saw the dark blue bird.

The songbird sat on the edge of the pool, mouth open and eyes closed as he sang. When Cy spoke, the bird started, feathers puffing outwards in alarm. Off-balance, he toppled sideways into the water. He came up, sputtering, as Cy lifted the bar on the latch, simple for so elaborate a cage.

He asked without thinking, "Are you all right?"

The water in the basin was only waist-deep. The songbird didn't bother pulling himself all the way out, merely clinging to the lip and continuing his song.

The music had more substance this time, physically grabbing Cy by the lapels of his jacket and dragging him closer. Instinctual fear of the unknown caused Cy's hands to latch onto the narrow bars, clinging there as he lifted his own voice in aggrieved protest.

The pull lessened fractionally under the barrage of music and Cy allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile, the melody changing slightly. While Cy sang a trumpet-march to inspire a troop for battle, the songbird sang seduction.

The notes slid feather-soft across the bard's skin and he shivered. Goose bumps appeared on his skin, and the impression of feathers brushed the length of his spine under his clothes. Where night terrors and battle, illness and injury could not disrupt Cy's singing, the deceptively gentle, pervasive music of the songbird wrapped around his body and mind and he lost first one note and then another and another and another.

He watched, apprehensive but too mesmerized to flee, as the sonbird levered himself from the pool, shook himself, and approached. Cy groaned, eyes pulled to that blue cock almost against his will.

The feathers from the songbird's back came forward over the shoulders and met in the front just like the clasp on a cloak. On the hips, the feathers tapered to an end, pointing down to the groin and drawing attention to what was between his legs. Cy wanted to touch so badly that he was disgusted with himself.

This songbird was perfectly proportioned in every way, small and stocky, but lithe and muscled like a dancer, though a little chubby. Cy had never seen a fat songbird before, and he found it easier to scrutinize the way the stomach detracted from the elegance of his body than to look below.

He clenched his hands tighter regardless of the day's blisters. He shivered again and closed his eyes, but that only freed his mind for far worse imaginings, such as what that skin might feel like beneath his hand, and how it might feel to run his fingers over those soft feathers, tracing the path they made down his body.

How much he really did not know about the fascinating animals that were songbirds crowded out the fantasies.

Then he noticed a new undertone to the music. Badly concealed desperation gave the rising descant a sharp edge. Cy saw the songbird frown as he noticed the discordant notes, but the more he tried to force the layers to lay smoothly, the harsher the song became.

Not mending the broken song was impossible. Cy caught the fragments with his music, not singing any particular words, just matching the songbird's notes, as how they ought to be. Like strumming a lap harp and hearing the sound of the standing, two-person instruments, the music recoiled to wrap around the bard with invisible, but powerful strength.

Cy didn't notice. He could hear now the songbird's fright, his exhaustion, and his grief. The music was a thin mask, as fragile as eggshells. Cy filled the vulnerability with the strength of his confidence. Before he realized what he was doing, Cy stood before the songbird, and took him into his embrace. Beneath his hands the songbird was a tiny, fragile thing, his feathers damp and his skin chill to the touch, but soft, so unbelieveably soft, like the suede from Mnga or the satin from Jorynh.

For the second time that day the bird fell silent. Cy continued to sing while the songbird huddled close and shivered.

The severity of the situation dawned on Cy with guilty alarm. No one had tended the furnace and there was no food in the bin. When the songbird tucked his arms in close to his chest, rubbing his cheek against Cy's clothes, he knew he had to do something.

He pushed away abruptly, making the songbird wobble, twittering something that sounded like a question. Cy replied with a soothing hum and a darting little kiss for the smooth, puzzled forehead. He had done the same for many a child over the years, but this was different, and turned his cheeks pink in embarassment, even if no one could see.

He didn't push, but shoved to get away, and his shame deepened as the songbird stumbled and fell. He hunched over, staring up at Cy with those round, bird-like eyes.

"I'm not going far!" he snapped. He wanted to shout and storm, which made him more guilty and more angry. His training was for compassion and kindness in all things, but this ... this was so ... impossible!

Shaking his head, he turned his back and stepped swiftly out of the cage. He came outside to find the sky darkening with the gray blackness that often preceded a storm, the air heavy, promising rain in the coming hours. He moved to trot down the steps to the furnace but paused before he could go down even one level. The songbird's trilling call reminded Cy of the deep lonliness hinted at before.

Turning around, Cy saw the bird pressed up against the bars again. Meeting those eyes was just too difficult so he instead walked around the perimeter to care for the abandoned harp, pretending all the while that the songbird was just that, a bird with some human features, and not a human with some bird features. An intelligent, thinking being would not consent to being penned up like an animal. The latch was not complicated. The songbird could easily ....

He whirled around when he heard the bar lift and the door swing open. He stared, dumbfounded, as the songbird came closer and kneeled at his side. The bird still sang, wordless crooning that nevertheless felt like questions in the way the notes lilted at the end of each stanza, and the staccato overlays screamed frustration.

Cy scooted backwards, cradling the harp to his chest. "What do you want?"

The songbird tilted his head in a very bird-like gesture. His singing grew louder, as if volume could somehow do what the music alone could not, and then hitched to a sudden stop as he clutched at his abdomen, wincing and shifting, leaning forward, but still managing to look up beseechingly at Cy.

"Oh," said Cy, blushing and looking away. Songbirds ate a great deal, almost exclusively fruit and berries. The bird was just hungry and cold.

Hopping to his feet, Cy took a few steps before the songbird's music stopped him cold. Looking back, he saw the bird's feathers standing out from his skin as he curled protectively over his middle. His head stood out from his shoulders, mouth twisted into a deep scowl, and the song that streamed from his lips made Cy flush a dark red. Cats hissed and spat at each other, but birds in a snit were far worse. Though rare, songbirds also bickered, and he was positive that had the songbird had words, Cy's ears would be blistered from the forceful cursing.

Cy shuffled his feet awkwardly, wanting to leave, but unsure. His hands tightened around his harp, keeping it close like a shield. Brawny, overconfident soldiers, smug in their self-superiority, had never made Cy feel so small and foolish. A word or two would put them in their place, but his tongue refused to cooperate when faced with the songbird's wrath.

His trained ears caught the abrupt switch from anger to pain the very second before the songbird toppled over on its side. Knees drawn up to his chest, arms around his stomach, the songbird rocked back and forth, crooning something that sounded suspicously like "Ow, ow, ow, ow ...."

Cy didn't make a conscious decision, only slinging the strap to the harp case over his shoulder and kneeling at the songbird's side. The bird's eyes were closed, scrunched tight, his mouth open to pant. His skin was every bit as soft as Cy had imagined, but also cool and clammy, which didn't seem like a good thing.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hand drawn to pet lightly over the ruffled feathers. He frowned as his fingers came away red from the bird's self-mutilation.

The songbird made not reply but for an increased wail in his song, shaking his head and trying to curl up tighter.

Food and medicines could be found in the gamekeeper's cottage, on the far side of the gardens, by the stables and kennels. Cy could be there and back within minutes. Dawn was an hour or two away, and he could soon have the glass house warm again by shovelling more coal into the furnace, but he worried about leaving the songbird behind and out of sight. What if he worsened?

Mind made up, he gathered the trembling songbird into his arms. He weighed surprisingly litte, even wet, and Cy shivered as well when his own body heat could not counteract the ice he hugged against his body. If he'd had doubts before, they were gone now. All he could think about was getting the bird warm, and quickly. He walked as fast as he could, doing his best to jar his burden as little as possible.

Once inside, Cy placed he bird in the beat-up leather chair by the fireplace. He got the fire going quickly and piled on wood to make a brilliant blaze. Then he stepped outside to fill the kettle from the rain barrel to set over the fire and heat. He made a bed before the fire with several thick blankets, pulled from the bed itself and the chest, and boiled some grains into a recipe he found written in Lady Parisa's elegant script.

Lowering the songbird to the blankets, Cy stubbornly scooped spoonful after spoonful of gruel into the protesting creature. He sang the most forceful song he knew, and the bird relented without further struggle.

His song was hazy and sleepy when Cy dipped a rag into the warmed water and began washing away the blood staining the once-magnificent feathers. At this, the songbird startled awake again, but Cy countered by humming a gentle lullaby. The words, he started to realize, made little difference. The songbird reacted to the tone of the music, calming and soon softly crooning along.

Cy was uncomfortably warm by the time the songbird stopped shivering, so he stripped down to his trousers rather than decrease the size of the fire. He cleaned the bird as best he could, rubbing salve into the wounds from a tin found beside a leather case with other medicines. The songbird hissed and cringed from the sting, leaning into Cy's chest while he worked.

The first time he felt something shift against his thigh, Cy ignored the sensation. The second time he paused and waited for the next occurrance. He knew the songbird wasn't moving, so what was touching him?

The third time he traced the phenomenon to the songbird's lower abdomen. Pushing on the bird's shoulders, he made distance between them and set his palm against the wriggling spot.

Water and rags and medicines scattered as Cy tumbled backwards through them, his arms suddenly full of blue skin and feathers. He grunted as his shoulders hit the floor, the groan morphing into a low moan as the songbird undulated across his torso, rubbing his cheek lengthwise up Cy's chest like a cat against his pantsleg.

With a shout, Cy shoved and rolled, clambering to his feet several paces away. Panting hard, he wiped his face, trying to forget the touch of feathers to his skin. He made the mistake of looking at the songbird and had to close his eyes, swallowing hard, but the image was seared indelibly on his mind.

The songbird stood bent at the waist, hands braced against the seat of the leather chair. He had his head tipped back and up, mouth open as he sang, and sent coy glances toward Cy. More unbelieveably, the bird's tail feathers were parted and curled up to reveal the smooth expanse of his skin beneath.

As he stood there, moistening his lips and trying to figure out what to do, the songbird's erotic noises ceased and his looks grew more uncertain and puzzled. He stood and turned to fully face Cy, waiting patiently, his song reduced to a questioning trill.

Once again Cy could not stop staring. He groaned and covered his face in his hands as he realized where he was looking. When the songbird took a step forward, Cy took one back, his shoulders hitting the wall. He put out an arm to ward off further approach.

"Stay back! Don't come near me!"

The songbird cocked his head, blinking solemnly. The smoldering look he then gave Cy made his breath catch in his throat, his hands itching to cover his throbbing groin.

"Blessed Day," he whispered.

The songbird turned back around and moved to perch on an arm of the leather chair. One arm braced on the other chair arm, legs spread, he reached down between his legs and grabbed his cock. All the while he stared at Cy, and his song became once again deep and desirious.

One part of Cy's mind recorded and catalogued the music to attempt recreating on paper at some later date. The rest stared in slack-jawed amazement, incapable of logical thought. Unbidden, his hand crept to the front of his trousers and slipped inside. He gasped, and could swear the songbird smirked knowingly, but as Cy's eyes were half-shut, he couldn't be certain. The music wrapped around him more intimately than any lover, whispering against his skin one moment, a firm caress the next. Wet bird and astringent ointment ceased to matter while his heart tried to beat its way free. Remembering to just breathe took all his concentration.

The song tempted and teased, a little smug, but no less sultry. Behind closed eyes, Cy could believe anything he wanted, but all he could picture was the songbird displayed on the tattered old chair, hand rising and falling with a surety Cy had never felt.

Congress with women was not forbidden to Cy; on the contrary, his superiors encouraged him to have as many bastards as he could in the hopes that some of his talent would be passed along to his offspring. Sometimes the bardic talent flowed in families. Likewise, congress with men was not forbidden, though not encouraged, either. Cy cared not for male company, so it had made little difference either way.

Children were of little interest to him, but he had done his best. None of his liasons, however, no matter how sweet or lovely, had ever made him feel this way, so out of control and overcome. The songbird's music made everything else seem unimportant and far, far away.

His knees weak, Cy slid down the wall, too lost in the hazy lust clouding his mind to feel the hands that steadied him. But for the grip on his hips he would have arched completely off the wall at the tongue which swiped across the sweat on his belly. He gasped, and the song paused. For a brief moment, the crazy sensations crawling over his skin faded; in the next, Cy took another breath and continued singing.

Lips and teeth nipped at the border between trousers and skin, nuzzling against his groin in the worst tease imaginable. Freeing his hand, Cy unfastened his pants and let the cloth slide to the floor. He braced his feet and guided that head to the tip of his painfully hard erection. Instead of thick locks, he grasped smooth skin a feathers, almost distracted enough to stop. Almost.

Teeth, though?!

"Ouch!" Eyes flying open, Cy pushed his partner away, staring wide-eyed as the songbird thumped backwards to the floor, immediately curling up again.

Cy swore, his hard-on cooling a bit. Still, he checked his tender cock before going to the bird, just to be sure he was in one piece. He was, if a little red in places. The blessed bird had come on to him! What had possessed the creature to bite him?

"Hey. Hey, you okay?"

The songbird's face turned towards Cy, the eyes moist and hooded with pain. His cheeks were a slightly darker color -- was that a blush?

The bird twittered back at him, pushing Cy's hand from his shoulder. Although somewhat cleaned up, the songbird was still a mess, with crusty, dried residue around nose and eyes, and what Cy now recognized as pain lines around his mouth. His song had again that edge of desperation, the notes clipped around pain-filled, wheezing breaths.

Not sure what he should do, Cy stayed put. He watched as another tremor seized the songbird, and sang softly the little lullaby that had seemed to work before. The scream of pain that resulted startled him and he flopped backwards, scurrying away, but the songbird did not follow. He curled around himself, almost tucking his head between his legs.

It was a fascinating display of flexibility, even as Cy cursed his ridiculous libido. There was something seriously wrong. Rising, he dumped out the medicine bag on the table and started searching for drugs he recognized.

There were herbs, when burned, that would subdue an injured falcon long enough to get a hood on. Leaving the bag, Cy went to the pantry, shoving things around on the shelves until he found a bag of the less-potent variety. It was dry and looked none too fresh, but there was nothing else.

He cleared off the blankets and transfered the songbird, deftly avoiding the weak attempts to bite him. Cy tossed the whole bag into the flames, watching carefully and singing softly as the songbird's rigid posture relaxed, head rolling about his shoulders and legs tumbling free. Cy checked that the eyes were glassy and unfocused, and then wrapped a thick cloth around his eyes.

Although not trained to be a physician, Cy had the knowledge. As a Loremaster, he was expected to retain any bit of information he saw, read, heard, or experienced. He could state without hesitation anything he remembered; the priests at the temple taught him how to store the knowledge for later recall, and how to use various meditative exercises and trances to prepare his mind for important events. They had expected him to practice the techniques no matter what his lessons were or what recreational activities he engaged in.

The most important part of being a Loremaster, however, was taking bits of information and stringing them together to form a coherent whole. Knowledge from a miller, for instance, might be used to help a brick-layer, or three different spies' reports of seemingly insignificant affairs could add up to a planned assasination.

Right now, Cy needed to find out what ailed the songbird. Somehow, to have the bird die because of a belly-ache seemed rather unfair after the last day's singing.

He caught the slim wrists and prised them away from the bird's stomach, to tie them securely behind his back. The songbird screamed again when Cy straightened his legs, sitting astride the muscled thighs to keep him still.

There wasn't much light, what with the storm still rumbling in and blocking out the sun, but the fire was bright and illuminated what Cy needed to see. The songbird's abdomen rippled, in the lower-right section just above the pelvis. Slowly, Cy ran his fingers over the stomach, palpating gently to feel for abnormalities. He'd seen enough naked bodies to know what was normal for humans and many animals, and he figured that the songbird was human enough that he'd be able to discern whatever was causing him so much pain.

The taut, muscles over the ribs gave way to a looser, more flexible section just above the groin and below the hips. Many women carried extra weight there, to assist their body's expansion during pregnancy, but the songbird was male. He was just fat.

Something was definitely wrong, however. The moving lump nestled against the bird's pelvis was about the size of Cy's two middle fingers. As he pressed cautiously, the songbird screamed, jerking on his arms and trying to buck. As he hung on grimly, Cy switched to the other side, and found another of the lumps, but this one wasn't moving.

The songbird fell back, exhausted, his chest rising and falling swiftly and Cy could see that the bird's stomach should indeed be much flatter. To sing as they did, songbirds had a large lung capacity. The breastbone usually curved down to the stomach much more sharply.

Rising to his knees, he turned them to a better angle, and this time saw the red line of enflamed skin below and to one side of the wiggling lump. Touching that sent the songbird into fresh paroxsyms, and he managed to kick Cy rather painfully before collapsing again. Running his fingers along the affected area, Cy saw there was an edge to it. He slid backwards on the bird's legs to take a closer look.

"What the ...?" he muttered, bringing up moistened fingers. A clear liquid dribbled from what appeared to be an opening to the body cavity. From the smell of it, something was decidedly rotten, or getting that way.

He touched the wriggling object again, shaking his head. "Surely not," he said slowly. "No. No, this can't be."

He looked up and caught the songbird's almost lucid gaze where the blindfold had slipped. The bird had his teeth bared, lone, agonized notes bubbling from his open mouth. Cy had to think, very carefully how to ask what he needed to ask.

He sang a short hymn of fresh life, staring at the songbird and listening to the answering music to be sure the bird understood and answered the right question.

Are you pregnant? he sang. He saw the head bob quickly as if in a nod, but waited for the affirmative, musical reply. Concern over the bird's condition completely overshadowed his personal triumph at successfully communicating with the creature.

No more than he really expected, Cy stared with both wonder and trepidation at the skin beneath him, the new knowledge making the songbird seem even more alien than before. Careful checking revealed a second opening on the other side of the penis. This one was dry and lacked the sour odor of the first one.

The songbird began weeping again, soft, mewling wails that tore at Cy's poor, abused heart, making his throat clench tight and his eyes prickle painfully.

"Stop it!" he said firmly, and slapped the bird as hard as he dared. He needed to be able to see and think clearly. The blows stunned the songbird, but only for a moment before he started singing again. Desperate now, Cy lunged for a couple of rags and stuffed them into the bird's mouth as a gag. That worked enough that he could focus again on the task at hand.

Riding to town for Lady Parisa or her gameskeeper was out of the question. The trouble needed to be dealt with immediately. Cy had witnessed a number of births at the temple. Unwed women could seek sanctuary there for themselves and their children. Sometimes they stayed on, sometimes they learned a trade and left after a time, and sometimes they died. Quite often, if the mother died, so did the child. There was even one time that the woman delivered a dead babe. The mother was little more than a child herself and had never quite been the same after.

Cy curled his hand over the unmoving lump and swallowed hard. What had the physician done? Oh, yes, he'd reached inside to grasp the child and pull it out. These ones were so small, though. They couldn't possibly be ready to be born, could they? But leaving the one at least did not seem to be a viable option, either. If it didn't come out, the songbird would continue to sicken, and perhaps the other would die as well.

"Guide me," he prayed.

He stood and, breaking one of the chairs at the small table, affixed the songbird's ankles as far apart as they would go, and tied on as much weight as he could to help keep the bird from kicking him or moving around too much. He ran rope under the songbird's arms and around his chest to tie him tightly to the old, leather chair set on its side.

He set out and lit as many lamps as were in the cottage, boiled fresh water and set fresh rags, healing herbs, needle and thread within easy reach. Washing his hands carefully up to the elbows, Cy sat kneeled once more, this time sitting between the songbird's thighs. He tried to sing something reassuring, but stopped when he could not conceal his own nerves.

With a rag dipped in boiling water, Cy washed the area slowly and meticulously, holding steady despite the songbird's shifting. Then he put two fingers together to probe the swollen, leaking opening. He frowned in concentration as the songbird arched against the invasion, screaming through his gag.

The skin was more supple and flexible than Cy had feared it would be. As he pushed further inside, the opening stretched until he could slide his whole hand inside. The cavity was warm and wet, much like a woman's uterus and could evidently stretch quite far, which was puzzling. He probed the outside with his free hand, seeking the wriggling baby. The tiny form was easily cupped in the palm of his hand and he withdrew to stare in amazement at the perfectly minature songbird chick.

The baby looked far more human than Cy had expected, other than being bright, bright blue. It was male, of course, and the lids of its eyes, while closed, seemed translucent, its tiny hands curled into fists. The infant had only a few feathers on its minescule shoulders, and cheeped weakly as he stared, quickly beginning to shiver even in the hot-house warm temperatures.

Working quickly, Cy cleaned the chick, moving off of the parent to brush aside the feathers tumbling over his chest to find the nipples, but there were none! He had curves and muscles where on a man or woman would be nipples, but Cy couldn't find anything of the sort. He stared from the chick wrapped in a rag in his hand to the songbird and back again, totally confused.

Then he shrugged. Perhaps when he let the bird loose again, he would know instinctually what to do.

He set the chick down within sight of the songbird and dipped another cloth in the herb-filled water. Pulling on the lip he tried to see inside, mopping up the leaking fluids. As that didn't seem to be doing any good, and seemed to be causing the songbird more discomfort than before, he stopped, pulling on his lip as he thought.

Once he'd seen a farmer lance a boil on his dog. The bite wound had become infected and he'd sliced it open to drain, and then packed the wound. Cy wasn't sure what herbs were used, but the farmer had said he'd have to change the packing several times to clean the wound of its infection so the dog could heal. The songbird was not a dog, but perhaps this would work, too.

Crushing more herbs into a fresh bowl, Cy soaked another rag. Cloth between his fingers, he entered the songbird's pouch and swiped the insides with the rag. Sometime during the third such cleaning, the songbird mercifully passed out and Cy worked more quickly.

Checking the other pouch, Cy found he could get no more than a finger inside, the second pouch warm, but dry. As the songbird had only reacted to probing on the right side, the conditions of the closed pouch must be normal.

He searched the infected one a little more carefully, noting the differences. The entrance to this one felt rough and abraded, now that it was not oozing so much, and there were small blisters, each no larger than Cy's thumbnail, within the pocket itself. Then he touched something soft and knobby-like and gaped. His other hand came up to touch his chest. He leaned to the side to peer at the chick, now making little mewing noises, and with perfect, soprano pitch.

The songbird's nipples were inside the little pouches! Were the chicks formed there? Or how had they gotten inside?

He shook his head, reminding himself to think about that later. He had a more pressing problem to solve. He continued searching the inside of the blistered pouch and found a handful of the mini blisters were open, his fingers coming away wet were the rest of the pouch had quickly dried after the cleaning.

Taking up the rag, Cy cleaned again, and then used the needle to puncture as many of the blisters as he felt he could reach without causing more damage. His hands were shaking with exhaustion by the time he cleaned out the resulting fluids.

He cleaned up and washed thoroughly, tossing the soiled rags into the fire. Under his touch, the songbird's stomach felt far less warm than before. He hoped that was a good sign. Cy wanted to just curl up and sleep, but the chick, so similar to a really, really tiny human baby, kept him from doing so.

Cy hadn't noticed the storm crash down around them and muttered darkly as he ran down to the barn, hoping that one of the billy goats had been left behind. He actually found the dairy cow, head hanging down and lowing in swollen-uddered misery. Relieving the poor creature, and wondering if the beast had been left on purpose, Cy filled a pail and darted back out into the rain. Placing the pail just inside the door, he went into the storage cellar, emerging with food for both himself and the songbird and then gratefully got out of the cold and wet.

Boots went into a heap in the corner, the milk poured into glasses, fruit and grains on the table. Finding an old falconer's glove needing mending, Cy cut off the littlest finger and poked a hole in the tip with the needle. He filled the finger and offered it to the wailing chick.

The powerful muscles of the mouth and neck surprised him, but the chick's voracity made Cy smile. He drank his milk while the chick suckled, relaxing against the overturned chair and occassionally petting the unconscious songbird while the rain pinged down on the tiled roof over head.