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“I’ve never seen an iktomisaur so wound up.”
The iktomisaur chick curled its feathery body, little claws unsheathed and puffed. Its agitated and fearful glare flicked between Ororon and Ifa in quick swivels of its head. If one of them so much as moved, the iktomisaur chick would shriek—calling helplessly for its mother.
“It’s been through a lot,” Ifa answered with a whisper and a clenched jaw, “poacher victim, the poor sap.”
Ororon nodded, earning him a fearful squeak from the chick. Ifa suppressed a sigh.
“Will it be okay?”
Ifa clicked his jaw hard enough to make Ororon’s right ear twitch.
“Should be.”
Though they kept their voices low, the iktomisaur whelp snarled louder by the minute, its beak snapping open and shut in a chatter. Ifa stared at it for a moment—hard and focused—before shaking his head.
“I think our friend here just needs a little bit of time to calm down.”
Ignoring the chick's loud protests, Ifa approached it slowly, his arms drawn tight to his sides to make himself smaller—less intimidating. The iktomisaur’s claws scratched at the wooden table it clung to, its chirps rising to a hiss.
In a movement quicker than the iktomisaur’s eyes widening, Ifa caught the chick on the sides of its body, securing its wings and lifting it off the table. In the midst of its tantrum, Ifa’s wrists and arms were attacked by talon after talon of pure rage. He didn’t flinch.
Ifa hushed the chick through his teeth in low shh -ing sounds. When it finally was too tired to put up a fight, Ifa tucked it to his chest and looked over his shoulder at Ororon.
“I’ll put it in a darkened cage for the time being, that way it can rest without being disturbed. Pass that blanket over here, will you?”
Ororon picked up a dark indigo blanket and handed it to Ifa. With the iktomisaur chick secured safely in the cage Ifa knelt in front of, he closed it shut and threw the blanket over top. Shrill—yet muffled—chirping sounds could still be heard from within.
Ifa dusted his hands as he pulled himself off his knees. A stray iktomisaur feather was stuck to the front of his shirt.
“I’ll check back in tomorrow, hopefully it’ll be calmer by then.”
Ororon nodded, and he stepped forward to use the tips of his nails to remove the little purple feather. He twirled it between his thumb and index finger.
“Hopefully.”
Ifa smiled a tired smile, and he bumped Ororon’s shoulder with his own.
“Come on, let’s go outside. I don’t want to disturb the chick any further.”
It was late evening. The sky was deep with a teal green, like algae staining the ocean. A sweet and warm breeze hit their faces as the men stepped out of Ifa’s hut. Ororon’s ears tickled with the sensation, and Ifa allowed the wind to knock back his hat slightly before readjusting it.
“Does it not hurt?” Ororon asked suddenly, his gaze trained on Ifa’s forearms; red with scratches. Ifa shrugged.
“Nope. I’ve gotten used to it by now.” He ran a hand across his irritated skin idly. “I’m just glad that the chick still has the will to be feisty. It’s been through a lot.”
Ororon’s lips pulled taut against each other. “You didn’t tell me what happened to it yet.”
Ifa sighed as he shifted his weight to the ground, sitting on the second-to-last step of the hut’s stairs. Ororon joined him.
“I said poachers before, but…” Ifa crossed his arms tight to his chest. “I don’t know…it’s more like plunderers than anything else.”
“Plunderers?”
Ifa nodded. “Haven’t you heard? People think that some… bandit-group …or something has been trouncing around.”
“Oh,” Ororon murmured, “No, I haven’t heard.”
“People have been reporting small herds of saurians found dead.”
“Killed?”
“Yep. Gutted, maimed. All done in the same way.”
Silence fell over them. Ifa could hear the soft and downy movements of Ororon’s ears as they twitched; he always did that when he was thinking hard.
“The chick was found hidden in a bush next to a slaughtered pack of iktomisaurians, cold and hungry.” Ifa grimaced before he continued. “No, I can’t blame it for being scared at all.”
The night was quiet, and Ifa could still hear the soft sounds of the chick back inside the hut. Beside him, he could feel Ororon’s tenseness.
“I’m so sorry,” Ororon said finally, “that’s horrible.”
Ifa didn’t respond. He looked forward. The green night sky was fading quickly. The chick chirped on in the background. Chrt. Chrt. Chrt. Chrt.
Ifa regained his bearings with a jolt and a twitch.
“Well, anyways.” Ifa sat up quickly. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Ororon. Authorities have already made a statement about it. They’re doubling patrols.”
Ororon nodded. “Hopefully they’ll catch whoever’s doing it soon.”
Ifa looked up and down his red arms. He hoped that, when the plunderers came, the chick gave them their own healthy dosage of scars. Ifa smiled ruefully at the thought.
“Hopefully. No saurian deserves such a hard life,” he murmured.
Ororon gave an approving hum. Despite his calm face, his ears flicked sharply. Ifa rubbed the side of his face slowly as he looked up at the sky.
“This is going to sound stupid, but I always feel guilty whenever an abused or victimized saurian comes under my care. It’s just not fair, y’know?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had a pretty good life so far, I think. As good as a life could reasonably go.” Ifa gave a sheepish smile. “I just wish I could… project … my life onto these saurians. Is that stupid?”
Ororon blinked at him slowly.
Ifa sighed. “It’s stupid.”
“No. I get what you mean.”
He said nothing more. Ifa squirmed around awkwardly where he was sitting. Ororon’s ear flicked harder. Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
Ororon’s ear reminded Ifa of the entire reason he was saddled with the iktomisaur chick in the first place. He shifted his body around to face him.
“That chick was given to me because of its bad case of ear mites. Poor thing had been neglected so long that its been absolutely infested. ”
“Oh, ear mites. I get its distress even more now.”
“Right? Thankfully I’m able to use a topical solution as treatment. It’s real easy.”
“Sure. The chick will be fine. I get ear mites all the time.”
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle. Ifa looked at Ororon, and then at his fluttering ear, and then back at Ororon.
“...You can get ear mites?”
“Yeah. Animal ears, you know.”
“Ear mites are incredibly contagious.”
Ororon’s ear stopped moving for a second.
“Oh.”
***
Ifa opened the door to his hut the next day to see Ororon standing there, both ears flickering like they were caught in a storm.
“Your suspicions were confirmed.” Ororon winced as he scratched at the inside of his ear. “They came with a vengeance.”
Attached to Ifa’s hip was the baby iktomisaur, pecking away at a seed ball with happy chirps. Despite his apparent discomfort, Ororon smiled when he saw the chick.
“It never takes you long, does it?”
Ifa cocked his head back in faux bravado.
“Who can resist my charm? Get inside quick.”
As Ororon moved to sit inside the hut, the chick eventually mustered up enough courage to leave Ifa’s side and climb onto his lap. Ifa had to stifle a smile as both Ororon’s and the chick’s ears flopped around in unison. The iktomisaur heartily ate several home-grown berries from Ororon’s hand.
“Well, I’m glad you forgave this little one for infecting you,” Ifa said as he pulled out several cotton swabs, “it got it bad.”
“It’s not its fault. I should’ve said something sooner.”
“Hmm.”
Ifa dragged a stool over to the side of where Ororon was sitting while stretching his knuckles with his thumbs.
“A look?”
Ororon nodded. With a gentle hand, Ifa held the base of Ororon’s ear as he peered into its canal. His face was close enough to Ororon’s to make the latter’s skin prickle, any closer and he’d feel the heat emanating off him. Ororon’s ear flicked again.
“What do you usually do when you get mites?” Ifa asked after he thoroughly examined both ears, “You’ve got them for sure.”
“Citlali gets rid of them for me…but I’m not sure how. I think it’s some type of incantation she does.”
Ifa raised a brow. “Oh? That’s beyond me then. She isn’t helping you now?”
Ororon shook his head. “She’s on a trip. Probably already at Toyac Springs.”
“So we need to do this the old-fashioned way.” Ifa smiled. “You’re in luck. You couldn’t have had a better friend for this.”
As Ororon held on to the iktomisaur chick, Ifa sorted through his medical supplies with vigor. After a while, frustration started to stain his movements, and he reapproached Ororon and the chick with a half-empty vial of honey-colored oil.
Ifa rubbed his temple as he set the vile down beside them.
“Typically I treat ear mites with a special chrysanthemum-based oil. Its viscosity suffocates the mites and kills them off quick. That’s how I’m treating the chick here.”
The iktomisaur cooed in Ororon’s lap.
Ifa continued, “But I ran out of the chrysanthemums I need weeks ago. And I haven't really had time to think about it until now.”
Ororon pet the iktomisaur between its ears.
“Oh.”
Ifa sighed, “I’m sorry, Ororon. I could try to use the little bit of oil I have now to alleviate the itch a bit, but—”
“But the chick needs the oil more,” Ororon finished. He smiled as the chick sneezed at its own feather down. “Don’t worry, Ifa, I understand.”
Ifa’s face was still screwed with guilt and irritation. “I should’ve made the trip as soon as I ran out. Those flowers are unique.”
“How so?”
“The chrysanthemums that produce the best oil are found just south of Flower-Feather Clan in a patch of redwoods. It’s a bit of a niche area, the chrysanthemums there grow pinker than anywhere else.”
Ororon nodded. “I see. How many flowers can you get per trip?”
“Around thirty of them, forty if it's a good bloom.” Ifa perked up. “You’ll know you’ve got the right spot because a flock of qucusaurus live there. They’re the friendliest bunch I’ve ever seen.”
The iktomisaur chick, overstimulated by Ororon’s attention, hopped off his lap and lazily walked to its cage, huddling in one of the fluffiest corners contently. Ororon’s ear flicked again, but this time Ifa could tell it was because he was deep in thought, rather than the mites.
“Why don’t I get you some?” Ororon asked finally, “I know my way around Quahuacan Cliff well enough.”
“You’d do that?” Ifa rubbed his neck. “That’d be a huge help. I’d do it myself but…”
The sounds of different types of saurians—all in different conditions—filled the huts' background air. The majority of Ifa’s clientele were resting in their cages, waiting for their next check-up.
“Yeah,” Ifa breathed out, “I’m swamped at the moment.”
Ororon smiled and shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll get the flowers to you by tomorrow afternoon.”
Ifa returned Ororon’s smile, though warmer. Suddenly, the iktomisaur chick popped its fluffy head out of its crate and chirped loudly. Ifa recognized the call well: it was hungry.
“I hear you, I hear you,” Ifa murmured as he moved to pick the chick up, “you’ve become a needy little thing, haven’t you?”
Ororon tilted his head to the side. “I guess you managed to project your good life onto your patient after all.”
Ifa raised a brow but smiled fondly. “You think so?”
The iktomisaur chick ran circles around the hut in excitement, chirps getting louder and louder. Ororon stifled a laugh.
“I know so. Just make sure to keep some good life for yourself before giving it all away.”
***
Ifa hadn’t worried when noon came and Ororon didn’t show up. He knew that sometimes life got in the way of promises, and Ororon was probably tied up with some Night-Wind Elder who turned him into their de facto errand boy. Ifa used the last bit of chrysanthemum oil on the chick’s left ear. That had to be it.
But Ororon never let things drag this late. The warm midday sky was cooling down to a chilled blue, painting the Flower-Feather Clan with gray tones. Ifa fed his patients their dinner. The uneasy feeling in his stomach only grew as he watched them wolf down their meals.
Suddenly, Ifa forced himself to smile. You’re being so overdramatic, he thought idly as he wiped a saurian's mouth clean, Ororon’s offer was a favor, not an obligation, he’s probably busy doing something more important.
The thought soothed Ifa, and he made a mental note to tease Ororon about his lack of commitment later. A shrill chirp took him out of his thoughts, and Ifa felt a sharp tug at his pants. The iktomisaur chick was looking up at him with big eyes, it trilled in pain.
Ifa tried his best to clean out the gunk and mite residue from its ear canal, but the chick’s infestation was coming along worse. It yelped as Ifa brushed a particularly sore area with his cotton swab.
“I’m sorry,” Ifa winced, “It’s not getting any better, huh?”
The iktomisaur whined as it lifted a hind claw to scratch desperately at its ear. Ifa caught its leg and lifted the chick up to constrain it.
“You’ll make it worse if you pick on it like that. Don’t make me get the cone.”
The chick gave another pitiful cry. Sighing, Ifa put it back on the table. He frowned, Ororon or no Ororon, Ifa needed those flowers—and fast.
By the time the sun started to dip below into the horizon, Ifa secured the iktomisaur chick back into its crate and threw a cross-body wicker bag over his shoulder. If he hurried, he would still have enough evening light to forage for the chrysanthemums with ease. If he was lucky, he’d have the oil processed by dawn. Ifa sighed as he made his way down Quahuacan Cliff’s dirt roads. Another all-nighter.
Ifa reached the edge of the redwood patch as soon as dusk officially broke. The crisp beginnings of night casted strange shadows on the trees, and the undergrowth below was fogged out with reddish mist. Ifa had never visited the patch at night. He tightened his grip on his wicker bag as he walked further into the woodland.
As he continued, his eyes darted between redwood roots to redwood roots. The chrysanthemums liked to nestle themselves in the nooks and crannies of the great trees, their impressive pink color coming from the nutrients they provided. Ifa’s frown deepened with every tree he passed: there were no chrysanthemums in sight.
When Ifa came across a redwood with an impressive girth, he stopped to look further at its roots. Protruding from the gaps were long, green, and stocky stems—chrysanthemum stems—whose flower bud had been recently cut off. Ifa’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back. As far as he knew, nobody had any use for the flowers but him.
Suddenly a strange oblong shadow obscured the precious light Ifa was using to integrate the roots. He stepped back to trace the obtrusion to the leafy branches of the redwood.
A qucusaur?
A silhouette of a qucusaur was framed sluggishly in the redwood’s branches. Ifa recognized its brilliant plumage. It was the patriarch of the qucusaur flock that lived there.
Ifa smiled at the familiar face and he waved up to the saurian enthusiastically.
“Hey! Wanna come down here and tell me where all the flowers went?”
The qucusaur didn’t respond. Its wings sagged down to its talons in a way utterly unbefitting of itself. On closer inspection, Ifa could see it was leaning its shoulder blade against a thick branch to keep itself upright.
Ifa frowned.
“Hey? What’s wrong—”
CRKK!
Faster than the eye could see, the qucusaur’s body slid off its precarious perch and came crashing into the ground with a deafening pop. Ifa gasped—sharp and hard—as the dust, dirt, and leaves settled to reveal the saurian's body, neck fractured to an impossible angle.
Ifa breathed out a shaky swear as he approached the qucusaur. Jutted into its throat, catching the dwindling light, was a long steel arrow. He touched the tender side of the qucusaur’s body: it was ghastly cold. The saurian had been dead for a while.
As Ifa removed his shaky hand from the qucusaur’s breast, he could hear his heart thump in his ears—rapid and wet. He placed his hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to steady himself as he backed away from the saurian corpse. Suddenly, a grim thought flashed in his mind: what about the rest of the flock?
Ifa was running now, deeper into the redwood patch despite his pounding fear. It was his duty. If there were any qucusaurs, hurt but still alive, that needed tending to—he’d never forgive himself if he turned a blind eye. Leaf litter crunched underneath his shoes, his empty wicker basket fluttered violently at his hip.
It was utterly churlish. As Ifa continued, he saw the feathery red-pink bodies of qucusaurians freckling the forest floor like blood-spots on a pecked chicken. He could tell by a glance whether they were alive or not. Dead, dead, dead,...dead.
Ifa had to stop himself from throwing up as he verified a qucusaur chick he helped incubate for the flock a few months back. Its bottom half was cleaved off—completely missing. He was almost at the heart of the redwood patch now, where the flock primarily lived. That, he thought, is my best chance for survivors.
Ifa’s legs felt jointless and bells rang heavy in his ears with ever-increasing fervour. His mind was similarly useless, heaving more thoughts than it could carry. Is this the work of the plunderers? Ifa thought through pained gulps of air, did they take the flowers too? Who else would’ve been here today other than—
“Ororon.”
Ifa didn’t hear himself say his name, but it fell out of his mouth quicker than his eyes could adjust to the redwood patch’s middle hearth, red-blue light illuminating the clearing through the lopt branches.
Again, Ifa’s body worked faster than his mind. His weighted head shook back and forth in disbelief—in panic—before he could even find the word “No.”
Ifa couldn’t see him well, Ororon’s body was lying down on its side, facing away. Peeking up from his limp arms was a huddling qucusaur chick, shivering with terror and life. Beside him was a woven basket. Chrysanthemums spilled out of its wide reed maw in spades. The flowers were no longer their unique pink, but deep red, stained with blood pouring from Ororon’s lower gut in a way that all but confirmed his—
“No.”
Ifa found the word.