Nate !
The animals feel it, too. Along with Flowerbirth is a collective exhale. The first thing Nathaniel does is open all the doors. This is an old ritual, one inherited from the cabin’s previous inhabitant and thus performed with careful gravity. Or — maybe careful is the wrong word for flinging open the front door so hard it trembles, for snapping back the shutters until one of them breaks and Nathaniel curses loudly to himself. But it is joyful cursing, attentive cursing, because the sun is up and the dog runs circles around his feet and around the house and around the yard, her paws churning mud and dirty snow. These things are all part of the ritual.
So, too, are the chickens: bickering amongst themselves and searching for worms in the still-cold ground, shaking out their feathers, bedraggled but alive. Most of them, anyway. A few of the oldest hens left Longnight with the rest of the unlucky. Of course, the rooster is still alive, and crowing victoriously about it as Nathaniel shovels seven days’ worth of shit and feathers and all else from the chicken coop. Some of it will go to compost, feeding Flowerbirth’s new roots. Some — like the dead — will simply burn. Fire comes later, though.
For now, Nathaniel is working. Sleeves rolled up and clothes already stained, shovel in hand. He isn’t paying much attention to the birds underfoot or to the dog until it begins to bark, its racing put on pause. It stands off to one side of the house, ears up, tail flagged. Warning of someone’s approach.
So, too, are the chickens: bickering amongst themselves and searching for worms in the still-cold ground, shaking out their feathers, bedraggled but alive. Most of them, anyway. A few of the oldest hens left Longnight with the rest of the unlucky. Of course, the rooster is still alive, and crowing victoriously about it as Nathaniel shovels seven days’ worth of shit and feathers and all else from the chicken coop. Some of it will go to compost, feeding Flowerbirth’s new roots. Some — like the dead — will simply burn. Fire comes later, though.
For now, Nathaniel is working. Sleeves rolled up and clothes already stained, shovel in hand. He isn’t paying much attention to the birds underfoot or to the dog until it begins to bark, its racing put on pause. It stands off to one side of the house, ears up, tail flagged. Warning of someone’s approach.
