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One day ends and another begins . . .
‘Feathers and beak!’ squeaked the wren, raising his head from the dried sunflower head the lame man had left on the frozen ground for the birds. 'What was that?'
Corn, too, had been brought out for the mice and rabbits, bones with meat still clinging to them for the bigger animals. And bowls placed here and there of the fragrant soup the cook had made that day. It was Yule and the two-leggeds shared their food and warmth with the animals.
One of the crows, a raggedy bird in the wren’s opinion, sat high on the spine of The Green Man’s roof. ‘Don’t see nothing out there!’ he called down to the party below.
‘Well, of course, you don’t, you worm-brained croaker,’ the wren muttered around a mouthful of seed. ‘It’s dark! Bet you can’t see the end of your beak in this light.’ Wren hopped over to where owl was perched, neatly eating a piece of raw meat from one of the smaller bones. Owl had it grasped in his great talons and not a drop of blood got on his white feathers. Wren shuddered at the thought of having to hunt meat, much less let the cold, wet gobbets slide down his throat. Worse yet were his thoughts as he considered the sharp beak and strong talons of Owl. Given other circumstances it was just as likely Owl might find him a tasty, if small, beakful. He ruffled his feathers, shaking those thoughts from his mind.
‘Sounds like that other . . . well animal, or whatever it was last night, doesn’t it? Doesn’t seem to have come any closer,’ he went on, ‘though does it?’ He was trying to reassure himself without much success.
The boy who he’d seen before, emptying the slops pails, came out after the two-leggeds had their evening meal, carrying an armful of twigs and small branches, and two small wedges of oak. He built a small fire in the burning pit and stacked the oak together so that it would burn slowly. The young dog trotted alongside him, happy it seemed to be in the boy’s company. The boy brought the old hounds blankets closer to the fire and bade him lay down, giving him a bowl of hot mush with meat bits stirred in as the old fellow settled down on it.
When the boy had gone back in, the animals gathered in closer to the small blaze, turning rump and side and snout eagerly to the radiating warmth. Many of them muttered about the moaning wail, wondering how safe they were behind the think wooden fence that circled the town.
‘Better’n than we’d be each of us out there alone,’ said Wren. His belly was full now and he perched on the bare branch of one of the apple trees whose limbs were propped on the courtyard fence. The heat from the fire radiated up and around the Wren. Soon, he had tucked his head beneath his wing and dropped into slumber once again.
~*~
Next morning, early
The fire had burned down to a small heart of coals by the time the sun had risen. Wren spread his little wings and fluttered down to be closer to the warmth, he nodded to those were awake and those just opening their eyes to the morning’s light.
Taking a nose and tail count he saw that everyone had made it through the night. ‘Bless my beak!’ he said in a pleased voice. ‘We’re all still here! Now . . . where’s breakfast?’
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