Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
“I’ve only got five kisses. I’ve got to make them count.”
With a roll of my eyes, I knock on the door. Hopefully I don’t look too flustered and out of sorts. Hopefully. The chickens nearby are clucking wildly, and I knock a second time to make sure that I’m heard. I clear my throat and manage to get a relaxed look on my face by the time the door opens.
The spinner opens the door and gives me a frazzled look. “What?” Her gaze falls on me as if she’s just now seeing me, then on Kalos, and she goes white. “We weren’t doing anything!”
“Ominous,” I say cheerfully. “Can we come in?”
She pauses, considering. The chickens cluck louder, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear the sound seems as if it’s coming from her house. After a moment, she sighs heavily and opens the door wider. “Come inside. It’s not as if I can keep a secret from a god anyhow.”
I’m starting to wonder if we should have picked a different house. I step inside into the dark cottage, and the moment I do, I pause.
There’s a woman seated by the fire, her arm bent and bound over her head. More bandages are scattered around the room, along with feathers. Tied to the woman’s armpit is a flailing chicken, the source of the clucking, and she holds it in place with her other hand despite the chicken’s frantic pecking.
A chicken. Tied to an armpit.
“What the fuck?” I blurt out.
Kalos steps in behind me, his hands on my shoulders like a cool balm. He peers over me and chuckles, shaking his head. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Good luck helping the village, my darling.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” the spinner blurts.
I try to retain my composure even though he just called me “darling.” “It looks like you’ve tied a chicken to that poor woman.”
She pauses and eyes her friend. “Well, no, that’s exactly what I’ve done. It’s because she has the plague.”
The spinner says this as if it was the most logical thing ever. Glancing over at Kalos, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, indicating that there’s no plague at all. I eye the woman by the fire. Other than the fact that she’s flustered and crying and there are feathers in her hair, she seems healthy to me. All right. Maybe I can use this as a good teaching moment to lead into my goals for the village. “I’m new here, so perhaps I’m just not following. What are your names again, ladies?”
“Metta,” says the spinner, and gestures at her friend. “That’s Borja.” Metta looks over at Borja and stage-whispers, “That’s the god and his Anchor like I told you about.”
“Please don’t take me,” Borja cries, sobbing aloud. The chicken under her arm fights harder, stabbing its beak against her hand. “I’ve got children and a husband that need me. I’ll pray every day, Lord Kalos. I’ll sacrifice in your name. I’ll—”
“No one’s dying,” I say soothingly, moving forward to approach the women. “And there’s no plague.”
“Yes, there is,” Metta retorts, and points an accusing finger at Kalos. “He’s the Vulture God. He brings plague whenever he’s angry at people.”
“Does he look angry?” I gesture at Kalos, who is dusting off a small wooden stool with his hand. He sets it on the dirt floor and crosses his arms.
“I can’t presume.” Metta lifts her chin, her posture turning defensive. She moves to her friend’s side and holds the chicken against her armpit. The chicken tries its best to escape, wings flapping, but it’s not going anywhere. Metta looks unfazed, even as the chicken’s wings drum against her arm. “I didn’t realize you two would be back, and Borja came to me for help. I promise we’re not trying to circumvent the will of the gods. We’re just trying to survive.”
She’s getting worked up, and her ire is making Borja cry harder. It’s the most absurd situation, and yet I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Borja, who’s terrified and has an angry chicken strapped to her underarm. “We’re here to help, too,” I say, using my best barista-customer-service voice. “Lord Kalos wants to assess the health of the villagers and discuss cures for things that ail you. He’s very interested in spreading his knowledge of medicine.”
Metta casts a doubtful look over at Kalos, whose expression has turned bored.
The chicken’s wing smacks Borja in the face, and she sputters.
I step forward, because my sympathy is spreading towards the poor chicken, who has no idea what’s going on. At least if he was dinner, it’d be a quick death instead of whatever this is. “Let’s get that chicken free and we’ll talk.”
Metta steps in front of Borja, hands up and blocking me from approaching. “No! It must stay on her until it’s sucked the plague out of her!”