Little Bird

Adnela slipped the still-warm duck egg into her apron pocket and smiled. For the first time in weeks she would have something to eat besides thin porridge. On her hands and knees, she backed out of the coop, straw fouling her skirts.

She was halfway across the poultry yard when something struck her in the back of the head.

“Jebemti!” If the Belavićs caught her on their farm, she’d be flogged or worse, but there was no one out in the dark winter morning except Adnela and the ducks.

Rubbing the sore spot, she hurried for the gate. An unseen force yanked her ankles and sent her sprawling.

“Who’s there?”

A woman appeared, like a flash of sun on water. She was stout and curvy with a downy cloud of brown hair that puffed out around her head. She was clothed in mismatched feathers—duck, goose, and quail—and her fingers ended in chicken claws. It’d been many years since Adnela saw a spirit; most had faded, deserted in favour of the Christian God, and she’d never seen one like this.

“What are you?”

“I am Živinica.” Little bird.

Adnela pushed herself to her feet, sodden skirts chilling her legs. “Is that your name, or what you are?”

Živinica tilted her head, regarding Adnela with beady eyes. “Both. What are you? Other than a thief.”

“I’m a woman.” Adnela crossed her arms. “What else would I be?”

She felt Živinica’s attention on her face, on the dark birthmark spread across half of it.

“I never saw a woman who looked like you, with hair loose like a child’s.” The bird-woman darted forward, hissing like a goose. “But whatever you are, stay away from my birds. Iš iš.”

Her taloned fist dug into the ground, making a ball of slush and duck shit. She lobbed it right at Adnela’s face.

Adnela ran, spitting. When she looked back, Živinica was gone. She patted her pocket and found the egg still whole.

But the next morning, when she cracked it over her porridge, a rock fell out instead of a yolk.

* * *

Hunger drove Adnela to the Belavić farm again two weeks later. No one else in the village had food to spare.

Bright morning sun sparkled on the snow, but Adnela wasn’t worried about being seen—the other villagers were in church. Skipping church would earn her disapproving mutterings, but she received those anyway, a side-effect of her poverty and the off-putting mark covering her left cheek—enough to draw suspicion of witchcraft. If they knew she saw spirits too, they would have killed her ages ago.

Hoping Živinica was a nocturnal creature, Adnela let herself into the poultry yard, armed with a small wooden cross, just in case.

Apron heavy—with two eggs this time, to make it worth her efforts—Adnela crawled backwards from the coop, and right into a closed door. The opening was barred shut.

“Sranje! Let me out.”

 Živinica appeared, her torso seeming to sprout from the coop floor. “Give back my eggs!” She held out her chicken-foot hand.

Adnela grasped her cross and thrust it towards the spirit-woman. Živinica cringed back, her essence fading into translucence.

“Let me out!” Adnela shuffled closer, cross outstretched.

“No.” Živinica’s voice went soft as a breeze, as if travelling from far away. 

But this time, when Adnela nudged the door with her boot, it swung open.

She scrambled down the plank to the ground and set off towards the gate at a near run. Her hand was on it, when Živinica spoke again.

“It’s been a long time since someone saw.”

Adnela’s hand fell to her side. Živinica looked even worse in the full light of the sun, barely there at all.

Adnela shrugged. “The Lord comes for us all, they say.” Christian prayers or spirit offerings—neither had proved useful in her experience.

 Živinica clucked her tongue. “Then why aren’t you in church with the others?”

Adnela laughed, leaning back to rest against the stone fence. “You said it yourself. What sort of a woman am I? Talking to duck spirits and stealing eggs to survive.”

With one claw, Živinica stroked the wine-red stain across Adnela’s cheek. It tingled under her touch.

“They are scared of things that are different.”

Adnela looked away. “Why do you protect their birds, if they don’t even remember you?”

“The old housemaid remembered, but she died last year.” Živinica jumped onto the fence, perched next to Adnela like a roosting hen. “It’s my nature.”

Already half regretting it, Adnela reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the large brown eggs. “Here, take one as an offering? We can both survive.”

 Živinica snatched the egg and jumped to the ground. Then she spun and brought her lips to Adnela’s cheek in a soft, feathery kiss. “Thank you.”

* * *

Adnela made the trek to the Belavić farm almost every day after that. She didn’t take anything and staved off her hunger with scraps pilfered from animal troughs and middens. Instead, she left offerings—small things that didn’t cost her like polished river stones or the iridescent feathers of ravens. With every gift, Živinica grew more substantial and more beautiful. She could stray further from her ducks, if Adnela was there to sustain her, and they would wander, hand-in-hand, in the marshes beyond the village.

They sat together on a log, basking in the spring sun. Živinica played with Adnela’s hair, braiding it and unbraiding it. Adnela savoured the touch, the taming and un-taming of her wild hair.

“You seem sad,” said Živinica, “even though the weather is beautiful.”

Adnela leaned against Živinica. “Gđa Belavić didn’t give me the rye loaves she owed me for my embroidery.”

They both knew there was no point disputing the snub.

Živinica hissed. “I’ll fill her stockings with duck shit.”

They laughed together, devising punishments.

The next morning, Adnela awoke to find three speckled duck eggs, nestled in the pot by her stove.

* * *

Ⓒ Aggie Novak