A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [84]
BROCH DE SHLANG
Mickey Zucker Reichert
A moist breeze cut through the usual heat of an Iowa June afternoon, teasing long brown hairs loose from Melinda Carson’s sweaty neck. With the help of her younger daughter, six-year-old Kaylee, she plucked weeds from between the crooked rows of vegetables. Her 10-year-old, Paige, lolled in her wheelchair at the edge of the garden, bubbles crusting at the corners of her mouth.
Kaylee looked up. “Mommy, is this a weed or a veggable?” She pointed to a scraggly sprig of green poking through soil still damp from the morning rain.
Melinda studied the indicated plantlet. “Vegetable,” she said, correcting the mispronunciation and answering the question simultaneously. “That’s a baby cucumber plant.”
“I like cucumbers.” Kaylee picked a grass seedling beside it, tossing it toward her sister’s wheels. Earlier somersaults in the grass left wet, green patches staining her jeans and blonde curls. The summer sun had brought out a spray of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and the dark lashes over her blue eyes betrayed the future color of her hair.
Paige looked on silently, uncomprehendingly. Strapped into her chair, an umbrella shading her from the sun, she made broad, rhythmical movements. At times, she shouted out piercing noises; but today she remained mostly quiet. Short, sandy hair lay pixishly around her tiny head, and broken areas in her irises made her dark eyes appear more hazel. Scarred lips, twisted leftward, revealed the cleft repair she had undergone in infancy. She had seven fingers on her right hand, six on the left, and her toes fused together like paddles. She had so little tone in her limbs that, without the straps, she would flow from her chair like liquid.
Melinda reached for another weed, smiling at both of her daughters. Just as she plucked one from the dirt, twittering sounds filled her ears. A small bird fluttered around her, so close she could hear its wing beats and worried it might get tangled in her hair. Instinctively, Melinda ducked, and the bird flew away, still tweeting wildly.
Kaylee pointed after it. “That bird just flied right in your face.”
“I know.” Melinda watched it disappear around the shed, toward the entrance on the far side. “It must think we’re too close to its nest.” She had seen songbirds attack humans before, as well as cats, dogs, and other birds. This one had seemed less aggressive and more frantic.
Before Melinda could return to work, the bird zipped from the shed again. This time, she could see it clearly, a slender bird, iridescent blue with a reddish chest and a long, forked tail. Swallow! She loved those special birds; they feasted on mosquitoes, blackflies, and other nuisance insects. It flew right for her, circling closely, letting out a series of squeaky twitters, then headed back to the shed.
Kaylee stood up. “Mommy, he wants you to follow him.”
It seemed unlikely; yet, even as Melinda rose, the bird returned and repeated its bizarre behavior.
“Kaylee, watch your sister.” Melinda trotted after the bird, around the corner, and into the shed. Pallets covered most of the floor, bits of rotting hay clinging to them. Bridles and halters dangled from hooks on the wall, and tools lay scattered across the concrete floor. The bird flew to a cross beam near the ceiling, perching upon an elongated nest composed of mud and twigs. It continued chirping wildly.
Three tiny heads poked out of the nest, beaks wide open, begging food; but the adult bird did not attempt to feed them. Instead, it flew toward one of the support beams, then practically into Melinda’s face, then back to the nest. As her gaze followed its erratic flight, Melinda finally saw the problem. Crawling slowly and laboriously up the column was a large bull snake. Soon, it would reach the swallow’s nest.
The snake had already climbed a good three feet over Melinda’s head. She cast about for a tool long enough to dislodge it. Snatching up a rake, she poked it toward the snake, but the tines