I have another short story coming out in the Pecan Grove Review XIII (PGR). Though I work for the Pecan Grove Press, the PGR is a separate animal all together. For those of you interested, I present it here in its entirety with limited commercial interruptions:
Fiddle, Faddle, Feedle
By Luis A. Cortez
The unusually large and blazing sun climbs to its zenith casting a watchful gaze below to see a lone soldier lying under a blackened dead tree. The branches seem to bow towards him as if to caress Refugio—now in the throes of death. To him, he thinks he can hear the roaring flames of the sun and stretching wood of the tree. His soiled white shirt is marred with an ever growing blood stain. His hands cradle the bullet wound that lies under his heart. In the distance, he can hear the battle raging over the next hill for the little unknown fort occupied by the gringos. His breath is shallow and it is beginning to get harder to breath. He licks his dry lips and he imagines his lungs filling up with blood. If the blood pouring out his body does not kill him first, surely he will simply drown here in the desert.
“Pinche gringos,” he laughs at the irony. He sees a shadow move about his legs. He looks up to see a brown owl sitting on a low hanging branch taking an interest in him.
“It looks like I’m not going to die alone.”
The owl looks away as if curiously drawn to something else; the sounds of battle pressing on.
“I’m sorry, mi amigo, that I am not more entertaining for you. Perhaps if I were feeling better, I would do a little dance for you, eh?” Refugio laughs at the idea of him dancing for an owl in the middle of Texas—so far from Mexico City, his home.
The owl turns back to Refugio, regards him for a second or so, and says, “Fiddle!”
“Fiddle?”
“Fiddle!”
“You’re a strange owl, senor. I was told that owls said ‘who’, not ‘fiddle.’” At this curiosity, Refugio moves to hoist himself up to get a better look at the owl. As he does so, his hand brushes up against a full water skin beading with cold water droplets along its leather hide. This was not here before. He recalls drinking the full contents of his water skin some time back. He picks up the new skin, moistens his lips, pulls back the top and quenches his thirst. He keeps his eye on the owl and the owl, in turn, watches him.
“You didn’t bring me this did you?” Refugio ponders the idea for a moment before admonishing himself. “Of course you didn’t! You’re just a pinche bird! Refugio, you’re going crazy.”
“Faddle!” The owl screeches.
Refugio falls silent. He just sits there trying to hold himself up to stare at a brown owl sitting on a low hanging branch.
“Faddle!” the owl screeches again and Refugio visibly jumps at the owl’s proclamation. The owl spreads its wings and flaps furiously. A single brown feather shakes loose and flutters to the ground to rest on the back of Refugio’s hand. Suddenly, Refugio feels a sleek, smooth movement traverse around his wrist. He looks now to see a large grass snake coiling around his arm. He screams and tries to shake it loose but the pain of his open wound over takes him and he collapses to the ground. The grass snake licks wickedly at the blood soaked shirt and after a few seconds looking at the wound, the snake dives into the bullet hole!
Refugio screams in shock and pain as the snake writhes to enter his body. Just as Refugio is about to seize the snake and throw him away, the owl swoops down to clasp the snake and carry it back to his perch. Refugio cannot believe his eyes as the snake, trying to get away from the owl, is brandishing the bullet slug in his mouth. The owl begins to eat.
“I know you, tecolote,” Refugio announces as he clasps onto his injury. He rocks back and forth trying to sooth the angry wound. His vision blurs in and out of focus. The loss of blood is beginning to take its toll. He raises his hand to make the “sign of the cross” first touching his forehead, “En nombre de padre…,” he begins but the owl suddenly discards the snake onto Refugio making him jump to shake the dead and mutilated snake off him. In the distance, despite the battle, Refugio can make out a wild cackle. Refugio turns his attention to the bird.
“There was an Owl lived in an oak,” recites Refugio, “Whiskey, waskey, weedle!”
Refugio recalls his time in California on one of his many duty assignments. There he met a soldier from the United States Calvary. They exchanged anecdotes and scary stories while getting drunk late into the evening.
“And all the words he ever spoke,” Refugio calls out but his vision is blurry again. The Owl seems to fade away leaving an old crone standing in front of him. “Were fiddle, faddle, feedle!”
“No, no, mijito,” says the old woman, “I need a young man to get me around. You will make a fine horse, you will.” Again she cackles. Her face is a twisted visage of wrinkles. One of her eyes is milky white. Her shawl is tattered and her dress is poorly stitched up. Her image fades away and the owl has returned.
“Feedle!” cries out the owl while thrashing his wings again. A number of feathers fall from the owl to land on Refugio’s legs. Quite unexpectedly, Refugio is overtaken with a new pain rushing from his feet. He screams out and tries to shake the pain from him but the pain endures. Refugio has forgotten about his bullet wound. He tries to scramble to his feet but his legs fail him. Then, to Refugio’s shocked amazement, his left boot bursts open to reveal a misshapen foot. The toes look to have merged together and his ankle has expanded ripping his sock and revealing brown fur. He continues to scream as he hears his bones snapping and resetting themselves. His right foot does the same. His legs have transformed into the legs of a horse.
Refugio begins to panic. His mind races back to the story the corporal shared.
“A Gunner chanced to come that road, Whiskey, waskey, weedle!” Refugio drew out his pistol and pointed it at the owl. “Says he, ‘I'll shoot you, Silly Bird!’”
As he tries to finger the trigger, he notices his fingers are now melded together. The finger nails are turning black and brown fur is growing out his skin. His whole body lurches forward as his shoulders push apart. He can sense his neck growing, what seems to him, to a monstrous length. He tries to scream but his voice breaks and he sounds like a neighing horse! He fumbles the pistol and tries to regain his composure. He levels the gun onto the owl who his now thrashing about on the branch. Between heaving breaths and concentrated effort, he says, “so fiddle…faddle…feedle!”
A clap of thunder rolls across the sky and the owl seems to implode leaving only a bundle of brown feathers to fall to the ground. Refugio is wracked with pain once again and he passes out to the fading cackle in the distance.
He awakens to the voices of two military medics. He opens his eyes to see them standing over him. He tries to talk but all he can manage is a groan.
“No se preocupe. We’ve got you. You must have one hell of a story to tell. How did you get all the way over here on two broken legs and a bullet wound?” Refugio tries to raise his head but finds it to too heavy to lift. He raises his hand to see five blood stained fingers. He thinks to himself, “maybe I dreamt this. Maybe it was a hallucination?”
The other medic says, “I think he ate a bird. Look at all these feathers!”
