Pashov shakes his head, stubborn. “It is for you.” He nudges the plate closer to me. “What will you do today?”
“Me?” I shrug. “Some more sewing, I think. Pacy’s growing so big that his tunics barely fit, and I need to line them with fur since it’s getting colder.”
“Do you have enough leather?”
“I can bring you some skins if you like,” Harrec volunteers.
Pashov shoots him another irritated look, and I’m mystified. These two used to be good friends. Why does Harrec seem obsessed with needling him?
“I’m good,” I tell Harrec. “Thank you.” I turn to Pashov. “But I could use some more dung chips for the fire. I’m burning the last one right now.”
“I will gather you some,” Pashov says, leaning in and putting his hand on my knee. There’s a hint of a smile on his face as he glances down at Pacy, nursing at my breast.
“No need,” Harrec interrupts, surging to his feet. “There is an entire wall of dirtbeaks on the far side of the canyon. We’ve been harvesting their nests. There are so many of them that thebirds do not notice, and one good-sized nest can burn all day long.”
“Dirtbeaks?” I ask. “What the heck are those?”
“Bad eating,” Pashov says, making a face. “You do not want to taste one.”
“No one is going to eat the dirtbeaks,” Harrec says, amused. “We just want their nests. Shall I show you both? It is not so far from here.”
“Is it dangerous?” I ask. I am not a fan of the thought of being so close to an entire ‘wall’ of bird nests, but it surely can’t be dangerous or someone would have said something earlier, right? If it’s not dangerous, well, I’m curious to see these harvestable nests that will make good fuel.
Also, I have to admit I’m curious what a ‘dirtbeak’ looks like.
“Dirtbeaks?” Harrec snorts. “Dangerous? Not likely.”
I look at Pashov. He shrugs, indicating that it’s my choice. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them,” I say. “Let me finish feeding Pacy, then I can see if Asha can watch him for a bit.”
“I can take him to her while you get your boots and cloak.” Pashov leans in and traces a finger down Pacy’s chubby cheek. His hand is so close, I half-expect him to touch my breast, but he doesn’t. And then, of course, I’m disappointed.
What I wouldn’t give to be groped.
Asha is all toohappy to watch my son, and I set off with the two hunters. We are joined by Farli, who is walking her pet, Chompy. She jogs to Pashov’s side and gives her brother anadoring look. He hugs her and rumples her hair, and my mood lightens at the sight of their affection.
It’s not a bad walk. We wander through the twisting, narrow valley of the canyon, and I marvel at just how deep it is and how the wind howls above but we’re barely touched by it down here. It’s definitely colder and the weather looks dreary above, but it’s not uncomfortable. Maybe this brutal season won’t be too bad, not if we’re shielded from the snow and there’s an easy fuel source to grab nearby. The canyon winds away from Croatoan, snaking in a few different directions. “Stay to the left,” Harrec instructs as we walk. “If you get separated, just turn around, put your right hand on the wall, and follow it back to thevee-lage.”
“Got it,” I say, and pick up the pace. I don’t intend on getting separated. No one is leaving my sight. Not even Chompy.
After about fifteen minutes of walking, I start to hear…birds. Not just one or two, but dozens. Hundreds. It sounds like the birdhouse at the zoo I last went to, caw after caw layering in on each other, so loud that even the wind howling above us can’t drown it out.
I slide a little closer to Pashov and put my hand on his tunic. He encircles my waist with his arm and gives me a smile, and some of my tension eases.
Even though there’s a ton of noise, I’m still not prepared for the sight of the dirtbeaks. When we enter the side canyon, it’s like being hit by a wall of them. The stink of bird poop smacks you in the face, and the cawing and hooting gets even louder. From floor to ceiling, they cover one of the icy walls of the canyon, fluffy white birds nesting in crevices and on shallow lips of rock. There has to be thousands of nests, all piled on top of one another, covering the wall. About a third of the nests are empty,and the ones that are occupied are inhabited by fat, adorable-looking balls of snowy white fluff with brown triangular beaks. Each bird squats over its nest, occasionally shaking its feathered wings and calling out to its neighbors.
“They’re so damn cute,” I tell the others. “How come we don’t eat them?” I mean, I don’t think I mind because they’re adorable, but it seems strange to me to have this many birds roosting and not want to toss a few of them into the stewpot.
Farli makes a face.
“Not good eating,” Pashov says again. “Look closer at their nests.”
I do, though I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at. The nests look like they’re made of mud and form perfect little cups on the side of the canyon wall. I’m about to ask what I should be searching for when a bird flutters in and arrives at her nest. She’s got something big and round in her little beak, something far larger and flatter than she should be able to carry.
I realize a moment later that it’s a dvisti dung patty. My jaw drops. I watch as the bird flies to its nest and begins to pick the patty apart with its little beak, reinforcing its nest with what can only be a mix of bird poop and dvisti poop.
Lovely. It’s not a dirt nest at all. It’s a shit nest.
“Well, that explains the smell,” I say faintly.
