Jobsin’s Bad Day

Rumple Jobsin owned a pet shop. He had inherited it from his dad, as he liked to put it: “ ‘kin years ago mate, ‘kin years ago”. He shared the Jobsin genes. Shared because no Jobsin had ever given anything to anybody; not even family. Sometimes especially if they were family. He could trace his fourfathers his mother couldn’t be sure, but had narrowed it down back to the 16th Century when Parsimonious Jobsin first went into business. Since this facilitated the use of two pistols, a black horse and intelligence and two out of three not being good enough, his first venture was simultaneously his last. A suspended sentence certainly meant something back then. But he had set a precedent. Where one Jobsin goes, others will sneak after. Two out of three was still not good enough, though.

Rumple’s day dawned. He awoke as he normally did: hungover and…… “kin hell! I’m bursting for a slash.” As he weaved to the bathroom he mumbled his prayer. “O, my ‘kin head, I’m not drinking no more - and I really mean it this time.” The double negative was not something our Rumple had ever encountered in his truancy days; he thought, vaguely, that irony was in some way connected to the metal trade. On one of his rare visits to school, when he had unluckily been caught by the Truancy Officer ‘Kin Toerag, his English master, ‘Swiper Phelps’, has said: “stop, stop! For the love of language, stop!” You call that reading, boy? Do you? Do you?” A prolonged assault on poor Rumple’s complete lack of linguistic comprehension had followed, with a flanking manoeuvre encompassing his disrespect; his stupidity; his moral lassitude; finishing with a snipe at his filthy appearance and….. “You stink, boy!” A wild boar would keep a respectful distance, never suspecting you are only an ignorant primate!” Swiper’s voice slowly descended to normal classroom volume. “Start again, Jobsin and this time I will hear no dropped aspirates, no tortured vowels, no contractions and,” he raised an admonitory finger, “I remind you that after K and before M is the letter L.” He rolled it along his tongue, “elllllll, elllllll, not elw. Begin.” Rumple, poor lad, had got no further than ‘tortured vowels’ and ‘contractions’. He had no idea what they could be; he only knew they couldn’t possibly be what he was thinking, He had stalled as long as he dared. His mouth opened, dry as dust. The rest of the class, raptors to a boy, stretches forward for the kill! And the bell went! The enormity of his salvation was not lost on either protagonist; they eyed each other warily, as around them flowed the class of disappointeds, anxious now for other sport. Rumple had watched them go.

The dawn has also greeted Saria, but she had hardly noticed. She has been up all night with her sick twins and now they were dead. Starvation. No food for her meant no milk for them. She had forgotten when her last meal was and still he had not come. A quiet keening came from her throat as she sat down to wait. She could do nothing else. Perhaps today would be her death, too; she didn’t care either way. “Oh, Lord” she prayed. “Truly am I so weary.”

Elsewhere, somewhere dawn doesn’t really apply, another heart was troubled; and not just because he faced a particularly difficult interview with his father. He was nervous, sure, but mostly angry. With a capital a, sorry, A. Waiting in the Branding Room did nothing to calm his mood. “Don’t be angry, don’t be angry,” he mantra’s. His mother had counselled him against it - all yesterday. “Be calm in his presence. You’ll only get what you want if you stay calm; the tiniest hint of temper will betray you. He cannot prevent you from going if you pass this Test, you know that.” Of course I know that, his thoughts turned unbidden, I knew that before the very first Test all those years ago. Where’s it got me eh, eh? I’ll tell me where it’s bloody got me there was an all too familiar tightness in his chest, absolutely bloody nowhere, that’s where! Coming here every year, grovelling like the common heard, who does he think he is? I’m not taking it I’m gonna give him a large slice see if I don’t sitting in there waitingforhimtogetoffhisfatar…..

“My son, good morning. You are well?” Age and experience combined to produce impeccable timing, as always; his father stood in the doorway.

“I ugh, er, y’yes father, I am well thank you. And yourself?” Damn, damn, damn, I’m as red as a beet and he knows I know he knows that I nearly lost standing here on my own. Five more seconds and it would have been……He tossed his head in the air, drew in a cleansing breath and let it go slowly from his nostrils. Facing his father-nemesis he made a show of relaxing; the message being: OK, you got me and it was a good one, but I’m ready for you now. “Are you sure you’re alright, boy? You look rather red.” Message received and understood. “Merely the flush of youth, father.” Hey, not bad.

“Ah, yes. All saliva and erection as we apres-acne men prefer to call it.” Just the right inflexion on ‘men’. He saw it go home.

“Mother sends her love. Perhaps you ought to visit her occasionally, I know she’s pining’” “The only thing she’s pining for is my demise, we all know that dear boy. How go your studies?”

“I now speak 327 languages.” Not that he was overly clever. There had been so many Tests. “Remarkable. And still so ignorant in your own. May I offer you some breakfast? A few kidneys, the odd sausage, rasher of bacon? No?”

How had he found out? Of all the secrets….

“No thank you, father. I’m a vegetarian.”

“You’re a vegetable? Which one? Turnip? Swede? Potato? Or are you just generally tuberous?”

“I don’t eat meat. A vegetarian. What’s wrong with that?” Gently, gently. He glanced at the clock. Over three minutes. His spirits rose. It’s a record. As his ship of hope found a strengthening wind and surged forward, common sense tried to hail him from the crow’s nest. There was a dirty, great reef ahead.

“Nnnyeaaaaaaah!” Rumple gave a moan of pleasure as his relief passed from body to porcelain. “There’s a good ‘kin six cans there all right.” Just like every other morning. Apart from the times when he only dreamt he was in the bathroom. Only occasionally, to be fair. Only occasionally. He repositioned his unmentionable back into his unspeakable and did up the two remaining buttons on his granddad’s trousers. As a youngster he’d looked up to those trousers. And they’d had three buttons then, too. He certainly looked down on them now. The ancient cistern groaned a protest when he yanked the rusty chain, sending a reluctant swoosh of water which sped round the bowl, anxious to be off. Wiping his hands on his not Grandad’s jumper, a futile gesture, he neatly side-stepped the shower and sneaked out to see if there was a swig left. There wasn’t. “O, ‘kin ellllw.”

“Nothing wrong with being a veggie, even if others do think you’re a sissy. I defend you of course, obviously, but you know how some people are set in their ways.” It was not a question. So, Everybody laughs. So what? I knew that anyway. Gosh, I took that well, didn’t I? Maybe, just maybe. I’m winning. A smirk was instantly frozen. Did he see it? No? Great! “…….had to tell you……,” his father was talking, “thought you ought to know, bring you up to speed and all that, bit delicate, sort of thing, happens sometimes, you know.”

“what, father?”

“Your mother and me.”

“What father?”

“I said, if you’d been listening, that your mother and I are getting a divorce. Well, technically, I am. She doesn’t want to of course, what with the exile and everything but she’s well past her sell-by date, you must agree.” Divorce? Exile? Sell-by date? My mum? The room now had a blood-red tinge to it’s edges, with an option on full colour wall-to-wall at an unmissable price. Just say yes. Common sense had already launched the lifeboat.

“you’re telling me that as my mum’s too old, and for what I might ask, you’re going to divorce her and send her into exile?”

“yes, now you’ve got it. It was a shock for me as well, you know. But I looked it up. Divorce equals exile. And rules is rules, especially round here.” He turned to walk away.

“Don’t you walk away from me. Please. Father.” the words were an effort now and his hand betrayed him by reaching out and grasping the bastard’s arm to pull him back. Not gripping, just grasping. They were equal in size mighty but while one had the edge in age he did not have the skills learned in battles against numerous legendary foes of other and a certain amount of mutual respect regarding hands-on was definitely needed at all times. The response was staggeringly swift. His father’s face was suddenly a whisker from his.

“I will do exactly as I wish.” Poke in the chest.

“None of your business.” Poke in the chest.

“What do you think of that, Peter?” Poke in the chest.

The ship splintered into irreparable matchwood as, full tilt, it rammed something far older than itself.

“Go on, gitorfahtofit. ‘kin kids. Go on then, beat it!” The kids, in the face of his verbal assault and flashing hobnails, raced off down the street. “Rumple, Rumple, Rumple tiddley umple,” they sang. And he’d missed them. Every morning, they were there outside his shop, peering in through the grime at his merchandise. He hated kids. They never had the money. Grown-ups now, that’s different. They’re the ones who give the little sods the money. Gotta be nice to them. He sneaked through the door, causing the ancient bell to clank it’s dispirited welcome and went to the room at the back where he put down this evening’s six-pack that he’d brought from Aji’s off-licence on the way. Aji was the only person ever to call him Mr Jobsin. Allah is wise and a valued customer is a valued customer. To his numerous nephews and nieces he would point out Rumple and say: “Now you see the wisdom of Allah that he allows no alcohol to pass our lips.” Allah said nothing against hookahs, though. Rumple put the kettle on and glanced briefly out to the breeding cages in the back-yard. “I’ll feed ‘em in a minute, want a cuppa first.” He settled back with a new issue of ‘Mates ‘R’ us. It was the only way he could meet women. Fate had not been kind to him in the looks department; in fact she he always pictured her as a she had been downright bloody vindictive. Oh, he had all the right bits, but no proportion: thin lips, wide mouth, piggy eyes, droopy jowls and a squashed nose with large nostrils. Put that on a body that’s five feet two at a strain and what have you got? An upright warthog. He didn’t attempt to date women any more, but he couldn’t face that bitch in the newsagents; cancelling the subscription was not an option. He could imagine her face only too well…. When he’d started the caper, the ‘women still in their prime’ would take in his appearance and a) scream, b) run, c) call a policeman, or d) any combination of a, b and c. But your modern women, well they’re much more empowered. He had finally given them the best after he’d been maced for the third time. He slurped his tea and tried to think of better days.

“He’s coming, he’s coming,” she squeaked with excitement. “thank you, Lord, thank you.” She had heard him now and she could see him just across the yard in the doorway. A drop of water, a crumb of bread would be a banquet and now, at last, he was here. But the didn’t come. He went away again. Saria fell all the way back into her misery; uncaring now she settled down for the death she felt so near.

Peter. The name never to be named. The name that even as a boy had sent him into the most violent of all his rages and only his father could hold him until the flash-forged rage had been tempered by time and quenched by tearful contrition. He could remember so clearly finding the story. He had destroyed the library. And now his own father had used it against him! Unforgiveable. And very maddening. Killingly so. Fortunately, common sense hadn’t given up. It spotted him in the water and began rowing like never before. Pulling alongside the floundering fool he hauled him aboard. How can he not swim? With a body like his he should be able to cross an ocean. Or drink it.

“listen,” he yelled, “it’s a trick. Right?” you’re gonna lose again.” for an answer a pair of blood-red eyes stared back at nothing in particular. Leaning closer this time: “YOU ARE GONNA LOSE.” no response. “You bastard. You want temper, do you? I’ll give you bloody temper my lad.” he shipped the oars and kept the one in his right hand, swinging it round his head to gather momentum. It connected with ‘his lordships’ temple and felt really good for one of them. “cor, should’ve done that years ago!” far across on the physical side of life, where dreams are not only experienced but felt, the effect was a revelation. Peter’s hand, drawn back to strike, fell unnoticed to his side as understanding burst. His father resolved back into something that, all things considered, really shouldn’t be attacked.

“my dear boy, my dear, dear successful boy, you may go.”

“what, go? Did I fail?” there were disturbing gaps in his recall of recent events.

“no, lad, you may go.”

Terrified of spoiling things, our hero floated to the door feeling ten feet tall and not his usual eight feet six. Pausing in the doorway, he turned and grinned. “by the way, sire, it’s rules are rules. See you. Got to go.” the door closed very quietly. There were truly is a first time for everything. Father had watched him go and, waiting until he was sure his son had gone, sank gratefully into his favourite armchair. A long whoosh of air, part whistle, part sigh, did nothing to relieve him. “Chamberlain!” he summoned.

“sire?” his secretary appeared like magic. It wasn’t, of course. Just very, very good secretary.

“do gods have heart attacks, chamberlain?” those maddened eyes had yet to fade from his memory.

“I don’t believe they do sire.”

“how about trembling? Do gods tremble?”

“oh, yes sire.”

“good.” He’d been a whisker away from more trouble then he knew he could handle. Thank the heavens the boy had finally come through it. Why had he taken so long? After all it takes is a little common sense. Now he could go and there would be no more Tests, even if rules are rules. “Chamberlain?”

“I’ve told the Royal Guard to stand down, sire.”

“ah, good man.”

He settled down for a damn good tremble. He’d earned it.

“Come on. ‘kin wake up will you? How am I gonna sell you if you’re all out of sight?” He sneaked along the rows of cages, rattling the bars with his hand in the manner of a small boy with a stick and a length if railing. A dull-coloured parrot, chained to his perch, eyed him with pure hatred; little avian thoughts that should be soaring under a tropical sun focused down to the sharp tip of his considerable beak. One day, pal, he thought. One day you’re going to forget how long this chain is. Then you’ll get a beaking you’ll never recover from, or my name isn’t Polly. “Phoowheeet! Rumple smells, Rumple smells,” he, well, parroted. The kids had taught him that. The recipient of this abuse, advice, the kids called it, shook his fist and retired to a neutral corner behind the counter. “’kin parritt. ‘kin kids.” he flipped open the magazine: ‘Respectable lady in her prime, music lover, passionate walker, seeks experienced male to share mutual interests. Please include recent photo.’ “old cow with a replacement hip, desperate for a shag,” interpreted Rumple. “Pitty about the photo though,” he was certainly a music lover as his one record bore elderly witness, although Roy Rogers singing ‘A four legged friend’ didn’t always qualify in everyone’s book. And he knew nearly all the words. He dismissed her, in the face of all evidence, from what he called his mind: ‘probably plus ugly and NTTSO (no tits to speak of).” around him, things were quiet. A feeling crept over him, only because it had too, and he became slowly aware that it wasn’t just the quiet but furtively quiet. The kind of quiet that has a mugger’s cosh on the end. He glanced up. All the animals were pressed up against the bars of their cages, stock still, with their attention riveted to the shop front. Polly was perch-rigid, straining forward at a dangerous angle, lasering his eyes at a point down the street. A giant magnet was pulling them in the same direction. Rumple’s instincts took over. Hide, they said. He hid.

‘Malcolm the Meths’ was as happy as two litres of cheap lager could make him. He was deliriously happy. “there really are pink elephants!” he slurred at the bus shelter. “And they’re dancing’, see?” he capered with them as they rumba’d round him, their beaming smiles matching his in all its madness. “Da dah da dah da bum bum,” he yelled. There was no one to hear him. Nobody ever waited for a bus there and no bus ever stopped. The people of the town always made sure that they were always where Malcolm wasn’t. Apart from the good citizens at the DHSS; they handled him with all the office equivalent of tongs: “it’s your turn, I saw him last time. Oh no you didn’t . Eventually, someone had seen to him which explains his present state. Well, how he got the finance for it. The elephants had picked up quite a speed and were whirling Malcolm faster and faster and round and round and if two litres of cheap lager is an alcoholic’s delight it is also a gastronomic disaster. “Stop, stop, I’m getting giddy, see?” to an elephant, they stopped. Malcolm didn’t but continued spinning, arms a la Nureyev, legs a la pisshead, across the pavement to the fence where his legs said stop but his body said go and they compromised by somersaulting him over it. He lay upon the cool grass, gratefully, there being no further to fall and watched his pink creations form up into a guard of honour, flanking an imaginary path, their trunks raised in salutation. Striding down this Appian Way came the biggest thing that Malcolm had ever seen walking upright. And he’d been to Cardiff Arms Park! The monster waved away its welcome and the elephants vanished. Good job I’m drunk, thought our rugby fan, that kind of thing can seriously do your head in, see? I mean, how can he be in control of my elephants, boy? I wonder if he’s Welsh? A face he would never forget turned to him: “from now on there will be no more pink animals for you. You’re on your own, understand?” It suddenly became very soberingly sensible to agree. Malcolm nodded himself stupid. A very short distance. The face withdrew, took its bearings and strode quickly off. Malcolm swore: “Wembley bloody stadium” and was then two litres sick. It was probably the best sick in the world.

Down here, I can feel them, he thought. He walked to the end of the alley, plucked the gate from its hinges and surveyed the breeding cages. What he saw did not best please him. “Filth.” he growled. “Squalor.” he rumbled. Death. Intense rage threatened to consume him but he kept it under tight control. Good job I passed the test. Cant kill humans. Rules are rules. But I’m certainly going to deal with him. Oh, yes. Opening the prisons he released the inmates and gently lifted out the lifeless one, noting the older death nestling under the straw. A deep, angry growl shook mortar loose in the yard walls. The animals chattered respectfully. “Yes, you’re right. Let’s get the others.” Out the gateway, back up the alley, round the corner and in through the door. Polly was completely boggled. In a dream of pure ecstasy he watched a myth reach out and with a hand impossibly large, remove his chain. Polly bowed low.

“where is he, my child? He’s obviously hiding.”

“Under the counter, Lord. He always hides there” Get the bastard. Get the bastard.

“Come, then.” Polly flew to his shoulder and settled down for the fun, flexing his wings and bobbing while the shop animals were freed.

“Right. Let’s be having you whatever your name is.” He could smell the gender but not the name. Polly told him “Rumple? Strange name, even for a human. Come on, chop chop.”

He rapped on the counter, doing nothing to persuade Rumple to show himself. “I will count to three, don’t be still concealed by then. it’s the best advice I can give you. Coming out? No? Right then, three.” His free hand smashed down on the counter’s middle; it cracked like an egg and opened just as easily, revealing a Rumple embryo in the centre. That wasn’t yolk he was laying in, though. Gingerly, after all who wants that over one’s hand, the petrified miscreant was separated from his wastes and brought before his judge and jurors.

“Brand me with an X, it’s a warthog! Must be. Smells human, though. Well, under all that sh……well, if you say so, Polly. Well, well, well” He held it up for inspection. Of all the things it could have been, of all the wild scenarios Rumple had constructed under the counter, he had never imagined the truth. He dangled from the monster’s hand whilst his sanity fled for safer climes.

“what do you have to say for yourself, warthog Rumple?”

“ ‘K, ‘k, ‘k, ‘k, ‘k,” offered Rumple.

“Yeeeees. A completely unexpected and, I would wager, original answer but definitely lacking in content and meaning. Care for another try?”

“ ‘K, ‘k, ‘k, ‘k, ‘k,”

“Oh, dear. Never mind, I have an idea. I’ll talk and you listen, okay? Cutting a very long story extremely short, I am here to reclaim my children. All of them. I came, I saw and you are the first. I trust you are suitably overwhelmed at the honour. Veni, vidi, Rumple, eh?” My name is Pan. I have no other names. Not frying, not sauce, not Sam and not, you’re going to laugh at this, Peter. There, I said it. Splendid! Didn’t get a tiny bit cross. Mother will be so proud.” He looked at Rumple’s head lolling uselessly on his not Grandad’s jumper. “Are you listening to m, oh my father in the manger he’s dead!” So it was. Poor Rumple’s artery clogged, cholesterol choked excuse for a heart had been unable to keep up with events. That is to say, events were still happening but his heart wasn’t .

“But I didn’t lose my temper! How can he just pop off like that? I was very polite, wasn’t I?

Yes that’s true Polly. I can be a bit intimidating at times, but it’s not my fault. I’ve grown up. Those pictures are out of date. I mean, how can a little goat boy with pipes be a god? And those little goat legs?” He shuddered at the memory. His journey to manhood had been more metamorphosis than just being taller with a deeper voice. And he’d been crap at the pipes. “Father will have an eppy. A big one. I’ll be up before Gabriel, at least. It’s not fair. If he was going to die anyway, I might just as well have lost my temper and got some fun out of it. What’s the point? What is the point? He was also aware that he had gone from towering, vengeful god to whinging existentialist. “Why has it turned out so ba-a-a-a-a, sod it, now I’m bleating! I’m going home,” he glanced around, “and you’re coming with me, children.” Carefully placing Rumple Jobsin deceased back where he’d found him, ‘Keeping the mess in one place’, he attended to the contents of his other hand. Tenderly, he raised the dead creature to his mouth and blew against her lips. Saria twitched and awoke. “You are safe now, little one. Life will be good, I promise.” Her tiny eyes stared back, unafraid. Animals have no reason to fear their god. “I cannot do the same for your children, they have been dead too long. You will have others. Be comforted with the knowledge that the perpetrator of your grief is not someone who can put his hand up to the question: are you alive? Yes, that is good. But it’s also very bad. I have been a naughty god. Mustn’t kill humans, you see.” She slipped into his breast pocket and poked her head out from the top, basking in her god’s radiance while, unnoticed, he faded the pain from her memory. Polly, who was bursting to get a squawk in edgeways, whistled politely.

“What is it Polly?”

“That thing you did with Saria, Lord?”

“Yes?”

“I’m only a humble parrot, but why can’t you do that to bastard features over there?”

“Because it doesn’t work on humans, Polly. I have no dominion over them. They don’t belong to me. Mustn’t kill ’em and can’t bring them back and for your further information I have never met a humble parrot and mind your language.”

“Beg pardon.” said an unrepentant Polly, “but. I know he’s human, right? But only sort of technically kind of speaking. Even you said he should’ve been a warthog.”

“That’s ridic, it could nev, Oh, no.”

“Get us out of a really tight spot, wouldn’t it?”

“But look at it! Absolutely disgusting! It puts the hum in human! I’ll be sick!”

“You said ‘it’, not ‘he’.”

“I did, didn’t I? The truly horrible thing is, it might work.”

“Only one way to find out,” agreed Polly.

“Right, I’ll do it then. You will turn your heads away first.” An encrusted ex-pet shop owner’s mortal remains were once more face to face with what had killed it’s occupant.

“It’s sort of ironic, isn’t it?” said our Poll. “Here we are trying to save the very bloke responsible for all the trouble, so he can get us out of the trouble we’re in. Life, eh? Pick him up. Kill him. Put him down. Pick him up. Give him a kiss. Bring him back. I must say I’ve wanted to give him a peck or two myself, what’s the matter, Lord?”

“Shut up, it’s not a kiss, turn your head.” Muttering about missing it all, Polly dutifully complied. Do it, do it, do it, do it, urgh done it. “You can look again, I’ve done it.”

“Has it worked? Has it worked?”

“I’m rather afraid it has. Hello, my trusty warthog. How goes the day?”

“ ’k, ’k, ’k,’, k, ’k.”

“Good, everything seems normal. Listen, I’ve got good news and bad news. Here, let me put you down. That’s it. No more questions. Unless it’s: what is the eleventh letter of the alphabet? Which we both already know.” He was wrong there. “Relax.” Rumple found the voice wondrously soothing. “Good news first. You are alive. The bad news: you are more warthog than human; you are in my power and I can control you; you have hurt so many of your own kind; I am going to punish you. All you had to do, Rumple, was use the warthog and not the man. Listen.” Rumple listened. All the animals were shouting at him and he understood every curse and gesture. One voice sounded over the tumult.

“may the warthog be with you.” sneered Polly. “Boy, are you gonna get it. I can’t wait I can’t wait.” Born-again Rumple watched his new master go out to the yard and wished he’d gone mad and stayed there. The terrible pain that he’d had in his chest was gone, which was a plus. He thought hard. Nope, it was the only one. This morning he had been the owner of a business sure in the knowledge that animals don’t talk and there was lager for supper; now, not only could he talk to the animals, he was one. Mine you, it certainly explained the snuffling. He thought of all the money he’d wasted on sinus products, “’Kin typical, innit? I was a warthog trying to be human and getting into trouble, then this big geezer comes in, tells me he’s not Peter Pan, kills me, brings me back to life and tells me I’m in trouble! ‘Kin what?” Hid god returned carrying one of the breeding cages.

“Come here, Rumple. There’s something I want to do to you.” He chuckled. “Hey, Poll. Do you remember his face when he came back to life? Real picture, wasn’t it?”

“Caw yeah! Thought I was gonna squawk myself.”

“You looked. I knew you would.” He frowned at his charge, who now had the expression of a school parrot who had just been caught in the cracker barrel with a beakful of crumbs.

“Who’s a cheeky boy, then?”

Dusk was gently turning to nightfall when it was decided safe to leave. Pan didn’t want to be followed to the Leaving Place, so had decided to wait. The risk of meeting a real human was too great. After killing one who wasn’t, he didn’t want to kill one who really was. It was his first day and he’d had enough of a scare. “I thought they would have been tougher, somehow. Ah, well. Are we ready, my children? Good, off we go.” He swept up the cage and brought it to eye height. Inside was an exercise wheel and running on I was a very sweaty miniaturised Rumple who, having seen his Lord and Master peering in at him, redoubled his efforts. He was going like the clappers. “Go on, my Rumple! Give it plenty! I need a fit warthog for a servant and you will be both. Do you know the previous guests could run for hours? Course you don’t. But you will learn!”

Polly was draped along his saviour’s shoulder with a wing hanging down either side of that enormous frame. His head hung slackly, his beak opening and closing spasmodically, while his feet, stuck out behind him, tensed and relaxed to an unseen internal rhythm. His body shook alarmingly and tried, muted caws were forced from his throat. Polly was laughing his feathers off.