Flight or Fight

 

Huddling with Alithea and Erthen behind a fallen tree, Fallon watched the herders out in the field. Until they moved further away, he did not want to attract any attention. Although he listened intently, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He was surprised when they moved back up the hill. “Let’s go closer to the village. Stay in the trees.”

Dozing off after eating, Erthen wanted to stay curled up in Alithea’s arms. Fallon gathered the boy against him as he threaded his way through the aspen trees. Peering through the trees, he saw the large bird, bigger than an Alsace bird, perched on the dead calf. It tore at the carcass with its curved beak, then surveyed the area, alert to any challenge. Two cows stood at a distance from the bird and carcass, their necks extended, their noses low to the ground, but both were too timid to risk closing the distance between them and the large bird.

Fallon passed Erthen to Alithea and edged closer to the field. Looking up the hill, he saw several herders and cows waiting for the bird to leave the carcass. Fallon did not understand why they didn’t rush the bird. He turned back to Alithea. “I’ve seen no children here. How do we present ourselves? Should you stay hidden?”

“We should keep to the trees, follow the land and work our way inland,” Alithea whispered.

“The desert,” Fallon reminded her.

“We don’t know that it extends this far south,” Alithea argued.

Fallon looked down as Erthen woke up. He had grown more passive, probably frightened of the strange surroundings and sensitive to the stress his parents felt. They should get out of here, take their chances, but he said, “We have no weapons. Our clothes are rags. The others.”

Fallon’s hesitancy disturbed Alithea who reached to touch his arm. “This is our journey. Which way is safer, do you think?”

“The safe way is not the safe way. Stay here. If I am not back by sunset, go down the hill. One of the sleeping quarters is on the right before the beehive ovens. I only heard them speak Dallesa. Say you are with the Washiti. Oh, that reminds me. Sisseku is there. She didn’t recognize me.”

“You tell me now?” Alithea asked in a quiet tone.

“I forgot.” He waved toward the field and the herders.

“Does she know?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to know. There’s so much here that’s odd. Why are there no guards? What are they doing with the cows?”

Alithea leaned in close to him, then gently stroked Erthen’s head. “Our job is to keep him safe, if we can.”

Fallon nodded, pressed his cheek to hers and touched his finger to Erthen’s lip. “Bye, bye, baby boy.” He got up but remained in a defensive crouch as he worked his way to the edge of the clearing again. The bird still perched on the calf carcass.

Fallon stayed within the trees, working his way downhill until he was across the field from the sleeping quarters he had left earlier. Looking up the slope, he could see no herders close by. Crouching low, he crossed part of the field to a tree, then stopped before continuing across the field to the rock where he had stashed the white coat.

Huddling down behind the rock, he noticed several villagers gathered at the bottom of the hill. One gestured up the hill toward the large bird, but none made a move to challenge the bird. What was wrong with these people? He gathered the white coat in his arms, conscious that it was his cover, his pretend identity with these villagers. He hustled back to the tree in the middle of the sloping field. The bird continued to tear at the calf carcass.

He strode out into the field toward the bird with the coat stretched between his arms above his head. He mimicked the cawing and shriek of an Alsace bird as best he could, waving and dodging the coat, simulating a large white bird on two legs. Atop the carcass, the large bird cawed back, lifting its tail and spreading its wings to show its size.

As Fallon approached, he was disappointed when the bird did not abandon his kill. When Fallon swept the cloak toward the white plume of neck feathers, the bird beat its wings as it struck with his beak at the cloth. With two more roundhouse swings of the coat, the bird released his talon grip on the carcass and rose a few feet to attack Fallon from above with its deadly talons.

Fallon’s shouts intermingled with the thrump, thrump of the bird’s wings beating the ear and its shrieks of war. Holding the cloth between his hands he twisted it into a long knot and threw one end at the bird’s legs. The cloth caught the outstretched talons and Fallon pulled hard on the coat, dodging to the side as he upended the bird in mid-air. He hooked the claws of his right foot into the opposite end of the cloth and stomped on the ground, tying the bird to the grass, one wing trapped against the grassy field.

The curved beak came forward, opening slightly to slash into Fallon’s arm, but he brought up the cloth and caught the beak strike. Fallon released his right foot and wrapped the coat around the eagle’s head, pulling tight to restrict the neck movement and keep the bird blinded. A hard twist and the bird went limp. Another hard twist to make sure that the bird was dead, and Fallon let the limp body fall to the ground.

The villagers came running up the hill toward him and Fallon prepared to fight them as well. As they neared, he heard their jubilation. They made short little bows of appreciation. The one who had demanded that Fallon bring firewood handed Fallon a knife and motioned toward the bird’s head wrapped in the white coat, its curved beak sticking through the torn cloth. Fallon wasn’t sure of the ritual, so he unwrapped the head and laid the knife blade against the neck, looking up to make sure he understood. A few nods from the villagers and Fallon cut through the joint between one of the bones. When the head was separated from the body, he extended the bird’s head to the owner of the knife, but he signaled that the head belonged to Fallon. Two villagers carried off the body of the large bird and the others followed behind on their return to the village.

“Should we cut up the calf?” Fallon asked the knife owner.

“We don’t eat meat,” he said.

“May I cut up some of it? I am from the Washiti tribe. We offer up small bits of meat for the little animals in the forest. A way of giving thanks.”

Knife owner smiled. “You speak Dallesa very well. Where did you learn?”

Fallon took a chance. “My cousin is Sisseku. You know her?”

“Of course! She works the oven in the village. I will tell her of your bravery. What is your name?”

“Fallon – ,” he paused, realizing his mistake as the word came out of his mouth. His name would identify him as someone from the northern tribes, not a Washiti or Dallesa. Holding up his tunic, he repeated his name, “fallin’ off me. Do you have a new tunic? Perhaps a new coat?” Quickly he let his mind fumble for the syllables of a likely male name in the Washiti tribe. “My name is Gorsuch. Tell Sisseku we are distant cousins from before the war.”

“Yes. Come with me and I will get you a coat and fresh tunic.”

“Let me do my sacrifice of gratitude to the forest and land. I will come by your oven.”

As knife owner strode down the hill, he turned to cut up some of the carcass. Alithea and Erthen would appreciate the meat. As he bent over the carcass, he heard a grunting moo and the strike of hoof on ground. Looking up, the calf’s mother approached.