Even a man who is pure of heart
And says his prayers at night
May become a hen when the henbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright.
     —ancient legend


MS. OUSPENSKAYA, you're Mr. Toblat's agent, is that correct?

—Please call me Mary.

—Mary then.

—Yes, his agent, his friend, his lady confessor.

—So, you know the story as well as anybody.

—Yes, the only person more closely associated with this extraordinary tale is Larry himself.

—Can you tell us how it started?

—How it started. My. It's been so long. I suppose it began when Larry knocked on the wrong door.

—Go on.

—He was looking for a therapist. My door is one floor up, 999 instead of 899.

—And you were, are a literary agent?

—Yes, multimedia really. Anyway. Larry knocked timidly, stuck his head inside. I said, Can I help you? He looked a sight. Hair mussed, unshaven, the two-day or more whisker growth looked like ... well, perhaps I'm projecting. Anyway, he looked a sight. And his voice was a whisper. Dr. Kluckatt? he said. He hit those consonants hard. No, I said, Dr. Kluckatt is right below me, I believe. Larry ran a hand over his face—his distress was evident. He put a hand on the jamb to steady himself and I thought he was going to keel over. I stood and guided him to a chair, got him a glass of water. It was many minutes before he could speak again.

—And it was then—during this very first visit—that he told you a tale?

—Some of the tale, yes.

—Go on, please.

—Well, after he recovered more or less, he looked about as if eyeing the bars of a cage. Then his eyes locked onto mine. He has very small eyes, and in the center, black, jet black. His gaze bore into me—like the Ancient Mariner's. And, I suppose, he had an analogous narrative, one that would not let him go. To this day I do not know why he opened up so readily—he was about to burst I think and could not have made it back down a flight to good Dr. Kluckatt, to unburden himself. I told him who I was, where he was, and bang! He just began to talk.


MARY, HE BEGAN, MARY. (He took my hand—he held my hand throughout.) Once I was just like you, once I was young, accomplished, a man respected and even loved. I had friends, I had a flourishing practice—I was a dentist, Mary—and the respect of my peers and neighbors. Why did I need to travel? What was there for me to see of the world that was worth putting everything at risk? I ask you, Mary, what did I need—why did I damn my soul? For curiosity, for wanderlust. For plain lust. I was without female companionship.

I planned a vacation, a few weeks away from the grind, the drill. I had heard that Carpathia was beautiful—it was a part of the world I had never seen. Even the travel agent was surprised by my choice—and this was interesting to me. This made me feel that I was doing something outré, something remarkable.

I traveled alone, first by plane and then by train across that blighted landscape of crag and cloud. It seemed as if I had entered a dream—not a nightmare then, oh no, a dream—and I was carefree as I gazed out my compartment window at the darkling world going by. My final destination was a small village, G—, and as to why I chose this quaint község I cannot say. It was no more scientific than throwing a dart at a map, spinning a globe and stopping it with a single digit.

In G— I found a small inn, the kind of inn that Carpathia creates like milk. They are ubiquitous and nearly identical in any way that matters. The innkeeper there was named Anton Szerb, and Szerb had a daughter, a beautiful, mountain maiden named Erzsi. I did what any man would have done faced with such innocent comeliness, such lack of guile so far from home. I fell for her. (Here Larry paused for a sip of water—he sat slumped over, his gaze on his shoes for a long time. I did not think he would ever resume.)

Erzsi, he continued, was a mountain girl, born of spring water and chill air. Her skin was as white as Carrara marble and she smelled of cotton grass. She smiled at me and I was hers, a suitor come from far away to die in her eyes. Soon we began taking walks together, farther and farther from hearth and home. Her father watched over us with something between consternation and pleasure—I do not think he quite believed I was real. I came from nowhere.

Finally, one afternoon as the gloaming began to blanket the hills and rills in grey, Erzsi and I lay down in the heather and made love. It was the most moving experience of my life, a love as physical as the winds yet as gentle as sleep. Erzsi moved onto me as if we had been lovers for centuries—I tell you, Man deserves not such divine passion.

(Here Larry broke off. He was near fainting and when I took him home I felt like it was the only thing to do—that my role was formed long before the tale began. That night Larry slept in my guest room, where once slept my son, gone ten summers. And in the morning, after coffee, a shower and a fresh suit of clothing, Larry began the story again. The morning sun seemed incongruous coming in my living room window, bathing Larry in gold.)

Erzsi and I continued to see each other, avoiding her father's overprotective eye as much as possible. Nights we would wander the lanes of the sleeping village or tread the silvery woodlands surrounding. And we made love often—like many lovers we felt as if we had originated something altogether unsullied and new, something startling. Erzsi, with moonlight on her downy limbs, appeared a creature from another century, from another world perhaps. She was so lovely I would weep. And, in turn, she loved me with a passion that seemed born of the night, born of the proximate atmosphere.

One night, after Erzsi snuck back into her father's home, I was feeling restless. I was awake in every extremity, animate with a nervous energy which may have just been love, only that. I felt as if I could walk forever, as if I could travel the tired old world and know its every contour. The moon was full, the grass looked like crystal.

I entered a part of the forest I had never visited. It was dark though the moon was as large as Charon's ferry. Something led me on. Something from deep within the trees led me on. I could feel that there was life up ahead, and, in my enthusiastic state, I felt connected to anything living.

After some difficult travel, through gorse and bramble, I fell upon a small cottage, thatch-roofed and with thick baked-mud walls. It seemed deserted. No smoke emerged from the chimney, no light from any of its small, rectangular windows. I pushed the splintered wooden door open and it swept inward like a breeze. It was too dark to see properly—I could just make out a rough table and chairs, a small, charred chauffer. The table was set for dinner, a dinner that never occurred perhaps. I put my hand on the plates and crude silverware, groping like a blind man. Where was the small family who once lived here? The hut smelled of old food and dust.

Outside I heard something scrabbling in the dirt. It was a disturbing sound. I was afraid suddenly, afraid to leave those dungy walls.

But the noise would not stop. Was it a spirit, something that wanted in? The door was open.

When I went outside the sound ceased. My head felt funny and when I turned, I saw the largest fowl I had ever seen, a pullet with a head like an anvil and eyes that burned an obsidian fire. It's just a chicken, I told myself. But it was the damnedest chicken I had ever seen. And it held me with its gaze, the way a snake charmer holds the snake, or vice versa.

I crouched to be on its level. I do not know what I hoped to achieve except I was simultaneously alarmed and awed. I felt as if I were in the presence of an élan vital that went back centuries, an essence as ancient as the heavens, as old as the deep. I did not see the bird move forward but it did so with supernatural speed. It was a paroxysmal explosion of feathers and obdurate talon. The night seemed to explode—a red fire behind my eyes—and I blacked out. I blacked out so thoroughly that my dreams were of unseen worlds, of hells and pits of damnation that exist only in the subterranean mythos of man. The night was rife with lamentation. There were messages in the stars.

When I awoke, it was dawn and the small clearing outside the hut was as if swept and tidied by imps and pixies. The light from the sun was enchanting and the small dwelling at my feet seemed a fairy tale hut, made perhaps of spun jaggery and muscovado. I stood up slowly, yet I felt hale and hearty in every limb. I felt strong and light as if I could leave behind the tethers of terra firma.

Back inside the hut, now that I could see, I found many useful things. A pump that still spouted fresh spring water and a small sink. I stripped down to skin and splashed my sensitive body with water as chill as blight of dew. My body felt different, stronger, sinewy and powerful. I ran my hand over my dampened surface and relished the feel of my own flesh under my palm.

Over the small crude sink was a glazed mirror the size of a man's face. In that mirror I looked long and hard, recognizing myself but realizing a change there, an improvement perhaps to the map of my face. Something was clearer, some mystery revealed.

Then I saw the marks on my upper breast and chin, scratchings and cross-hatchings, as if I had been used to sharpen a small tool. In addition, a few puncture marks, as black as demon's dread and tender to the touch. Then I remembered the fowl.

The walk back to the tavern cleared my head and by the time I reached my room all thoughts of gloom and dread had dissipated. I dressed in a new suit of clothes and set off to walk the quaint streets of the town. G— was one of those small villages which proliferate in that part of Eastern Europe, towns that seem outside of time, as if the ravages and horrors of the twentieth century had not occurred, did not reach the contented populace here.

I stopped in at a small bistro—The Schtuppon Inn—and fortified myself with strong coffee and a Saleratus Muffin. Something perplexing occurred. The waitress, a striking, ebon-haired woman who spoke no English, backed away from my table, her eyes brutish. She gasped and retreated to the kitchen. Shortly, the owner came by. He was a round man with eyebrows like hayricks.

So sorry, he crooned. She not god girl, not god girl. She—cigány, cigány. I don't understand, I told him. He searched the air for the answer and then he beamed. Gypsy, he said enthusiastically. Gypsy!

Nevertheless, when I left I was feeling chipper and the air outside was crisp and redolent of fall, a smell just this side of childhood, smoke and freshly cut wood.

As I walked the rough stone boulevards of G— I felt as one does right after a long illness, as if one were loosened from the planet's strictures. The sun seemed brighter, the way clearer. Then I heard my name called, and the voice was honeyed air.

It was Erzsi—she came running up breathless.

Where have you been, she asked me. Ah, Erzsi, my love, I answered. I have been to Albion, to Kur, to the Unruly Firmaments! She did not mind my japery, but she looked at me as if I were a thorny problem.

What is it, my sweet, I asked her. I don't know, she said, are you okay? I have never felt better, I said. Okay, she whispered. Can you come along with me? Of course, I told her.

She led me to an outlying backway, a row of houses that seemed painted against a stormy background, such brightly colored residences with the dark crags behind them. We stopped in at one. Erzsi explained to me that she had to see Professor Miles Markson, a friend of the family, and the retired Dean of Alternative Studies at the University of K—.

Prof. Markson greeted us ebulliently. He had a face like a creature of lore, an inhabitant of the Land of Feathered Men (more on this), or perhaps a Wood Sprite.

After introductions, we settled into his cozy den, a room of books and dust and weight. There was a golden glow to the space, or so it seemed. An elderly Chinese woman, who smiled at us as if we were her most wonderful children, served us good strong tea and biscuits.

The conversation was lively—the professor had not lost some of his pedagogical impulses, and at times, I just sat back and listened to his learned speech. Erzsi was visibly pleased that I was so spellbound by her friend. She had come to pass on her good father's invitation to dinner. The two older men were sporting companions of long standing.

Eventually, I found myself speaking, talking about the impulse that led me to this obscure corner of the world. And, as the conversation warmed and tilted this way and that, I began nattering about the previous night and the strange hut and its malevolent hen. Professor Markson sat forward, his ears pricking with interest and, seemingly, concern. He gazed at me intently as I explained what happened. Erzsi appeared alarmed all of a sudden. Yet I continued, like the Ancient Mariner, unburdening myself with my tale.

Finally, the professor spoke. This hen—how big did you say it was?

I told him that it seemed unnaturally large, and I chuckled at my own ostensible embellishment. He did not share my mirth but rather urged me into deeper description.

When I was done—after I explained that I had apparently fainted—Professor Markson sat back in his chair and lit a ruminative bowl of frowzy tobacco. After an uncomfortable lag in the discourse, he smiled.

My boy, he said. Do you know anything about necromancy, especially animal spells? I admitted that I did not. In addition, do you know about the ancient connection between bird and man?

I said again no. So he launched into a dissertation on bird cults, bird spirits, bird Gorgons. The Greek Keres, the Welsh Gwrach y Rhibyn, or Washer of the Ford. The Hindu Garuda Bird. The Cockatrice, the Furies, the Children of Lir. Icarus.

And men, back and back, have conjured bird-gods to aid them.

These are principally men who dress as birds, yes? Just that? I asked eagerly.

He said, Oh yes! Well, not just dress as birds, like a child's make-believe. There are the Feathered Men, Aborigines, who envelop themselves with feathers from head to foot, to make themselves look like fowl, who can rise into the cosmos more easily. The Phoenix Myth, if you will. Then there are the countless types of masks, which, if one likes, can all be interpreted along these lines. Many of the masks have branches with several forks springing from them like antennae, a feathery effect, a bird face. The modern act of tarring and feathering is perhaps sprung from this.

But possibly the Taoist Immortals—the Hsien—are more germane. These individuals, so it is told, drank of the Elixir of Life and are often portrayed in art as Featheredmen! Immortality, son!

I smiled at his dynamism. He rose from his chair, pipe in hand.

He continued, as if compelled, as he ran a hand along the spines of his books. Consider, he said: a being who realized this spiritual transcendence through comprehension of the Tao was called a hsien, the same word used to illustrate angelic "feathered folk" with winged or feathered images appearing in Chou art of the period. The book of Chuang-Tzu pictures hsien as white-skinned, graceful and fragile superhuman beings. He paused, plucked a book from the shelves and found the passage he sought. Professor Ed Schafer says this: "These are divine persons, whose flesh and skin resemble ice and snow, soft and delicate like sequestered girl-children; they do not eat the five cereals; they suck the wind and drink the dew; they mount on clouds and vapors and drive the flying dragons—thus they rove beyond the four seas."

This is fascinating, Professor Markson, I said. However, really, what does it have to do with me? He looked me over with a medical eye. Nothing, my boy, don't worry about it. Chalk it up to an old man's logorrhea. A lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing, no?

Soon thereafter, we left the professor's house with hearty valedictions and promises of more visits anon.

Erzsi took my arm—I could not help thinking that it was with an equivalent combination of affection and concern. She kept looking at me with dewy eyes. Oh, how I loved her!

That evening we dined with Erzsi's father at the inn. It was a watershed event—the first time we had publicly acknowledged our relationship. And her father—albeit gruffly and in his studied, offhand manner—accepted me in his home as more than a paying guest.

After dinner, Erzsi and I took our accustomed stroll, though this time it was openly and with more outright affection. We visited our usual knolls and valleys, the warmth of our bodies like some diabolical admixture of chemicals. We made love with new vigor—I bit Erzsi so hard on the neck she startled, but did not quit our rhythm. Afterwards, there was a red and purple mark there, like a bloody paraph. I apologized for my schwärmerei and kissed her there numerous times.

When I went to bed that night I was restless—my blood was up—and the moonlight coming in through my small dormer window was as white as a gravestone. I finally threw the coverlet from me in disgust. My skin prickled, my heart beat fast.

I went out into the moonlight—it seemed to draw me as if I could travel up a beam into other worlds. This seems fancy, yet it was as distinct a feeling as I have ever felt in my life. The more I walked in the night the stronger I felt—really, I felt as if I could fly.

The rest of that evening is a black blaze—I fell off the edge of the world into Erebus and darkness. When I awoke, it was vivid day and I was lying prone on a small tumulus. There was blood on my mouth.

(Here Larry stopped. It had been a long, draining morning. Outside, a thunderstorm was gathering—the air was electric. Larry's eyes were world-weary. He lay his head down on the divan and fell into a swooning sleep.

(By the time Larry began to stir, the storm had already passed—the air had that silvery quiver to it. He stretched and asked for strong coffee. After fortifying himself with this and some gorp he continued his strange narrative.)


THERE WAS BLOOD ON MY MOUTH. A small smear in the corner, like a birthmark. And I tasted something dreadful: black earth, grave dirt. There was grit in my teeth. I sat up and my head was swimming. I did not know what day it was—it seemed I had slumbered for a week, or an hour. My limbs were sore from sleeping on the hard ground. I slowly made my way back to the village. The sun was an orange slur in the east.

I arrived before the inn just as a small cluster of townspeople was pushing through the streets, their faces twisted with grief and horror. They did not even see me—they had their sights set on the home of Constable Stern, the local rendor. His home was just around a small jackleg in the road. I watched in mute consternation as they rumbled around the corner. I felt begrimed, and somehow guilty.

When I attained my room, I looked at my face in the mirror and was aghast at what was there. A rough, stubbled face, not mine yet mine. The fuzz on my chin was white—nothing like my characteristic thick beard. And it rubbed off easily—I ran my thumb around my jaw and watched it flake away. There was also something odd about my eyes—they seemed smaller, blacker.

In addition, my clothing was a mess—small splatters of mud, ooze, and perhaps blood. And stuck to my shirt, like a postmodern painting, were feathery daubs, as if I had been lightly tarred and feathered. My thoughts went back to what Miles Markson had said. And I knew I had to see him right away.

I cleaned myself up and, avoiding contact with Erzsi or her father, I slipped out and walked briskly to Professor Markson's. His cottage was dark—odd for midmorning. I knocked tentatively and, when that produced no results, I rapped vigorously. After a considerable wait, Markson himself opened the door. He looked haggard.

His jaw was set when he spoke. Come in, he said, grimly. He looked at me with concern as I passed into the parlor. I hoped you might come today, he said.

We sat in the same high-backed chairs as last time. He fixed me with his gaze. My boy, he said, this is ghastly. What? I asked, in some alarm. He seemed almost angry with me.

You know, don't you? he continued. About Becca Lourdes? My expression told him that I did not. She's dead, son. Seemingly punctured to death. Her face was almost unrecognizable.

Horror stirred in my bowels. What kind of beast—, I said. My entire body roiled. I wished to be detached from it. Somehow, this grisly business was connected to me.

My God, Professor Markson said. You don't know, do you? You really don't know. Larry, he laid a consoling hand on my forearm. There is talk of a birdman at large—a murderous fowl. Larry, do you remember anything about last night?

My head felt funny. I told him what I could.

This blackout, he said. I fear the worst, son. I fear you are the beast. He sat back in his chair, his face drained of color. When I heard the news, he said, barely above a whisper, I knew. I knew, Larry. It was that damned hen that pecked you. Son, you are a werehen!

I was physically ill. I had to remove myself to the facilities and evil bile spilled from me in hot streams. I felt like I had to urinate but I could not. I was sick, sick.

I returned to Professor Markson. I was as weak as a strand of rain.

Larry, he began. He had ruminated and, instantly, he was prepared for action. I think it would be best if you stayed here with me, he said. I have a guest room. Jun will fix it up for you. You must stay here where I can observe you—care for you—restrain you, if I must. He said this last phrase with particular fervor. And trimming your, eh, beak, may be in order.

Erzsi, I peeped. I'll send for her, son. Now, do you need to lie down? I allowed as to how I did and he summoned Jun. The kindly, old woman looked at me with great sympathy and led me to the guest room. After fixing me up with a small daybed, she departed. I collapsed again into a sleep of turbid dreams—blood, feathers, darkness, schrecklichkeit.

When I woke, it was early evening. I sat up feeling 100% better, durable in limb and trunk. Just then, the door opened and Erzsi stuck her head in. I thought I heard you stirring, she said. She was as lovely as peace after vicious battle. She came and laid her head on my chest. Her hair smelled of hyacinths. I kissed her fresh mouth as if drinking from a sweet rill.

Erzsi and Professor Markson had formulated a plan, one designed to keep me from harm, from further misdeeds. What was my state of mind at this time? Dr. Kluckatt (I did not correct Larry here), I tell you, it was a capharnaum, a place of foul misalignment and dread. It was slowly dawning on me what had occurred, what foul sea change had taken place in my body. It was like a spell, and like a spell, it was inexplicable, at least by all the laws of logic that govern our everyday lives. That I had become some kind of between-species creature seemed fantastic, yet that was what I had to accept, however beyond reason. Was it possible for evil to be visited upon Man in the form of some kind of possessed animal? This I had to agree was not only the possibility but also the probability. It was panic to an existential degree unprecedented: what I had to escape was myself, the cage of my own tabernacle, my body. I put myself entirely into Markson's self-assured hands, hands that he wrung all afternoon while pacing up and down in his own parlor. Erzsi sat next to me, as if she were my once and future wife, her arm draped over my shoulder in the vein of a protective husbandry. She had earlier attempted a joke about my being henpecked. We both laughed with a cemetery cackle, a poor performance indeed.

The problem we face, Prof. Markson said, is what to do when the transformation begins. My idea—if you will accept it, Larry—is to bind you. Physically prevent you from leaving your volary. Then, we will see if we can drain your body of the avinechemical toxin that has taken it over.

I nodded meekly. I only wanted to return to my daybed. My feeling of physical well-being, so evident only an hour before, had dissipated. I felt aching, scratchy, antsy. My left leg felt scaly. There was a distinct throbbing in the area of my prostate—I feared cancer, or some formerly unknown pullet disease. When I lay back down, I iterated my concerns to the kindly professor. He looked thoughtful and then sat next to me on the edge of the bed. Son, he said, I believe you might be trying to lay an egg. An inadvertent cluck came from my throat. The professor smiled as if in pain. Just take it easy, he said.

I was able to eat some leafy greens and some cornmeal cakes that Jun fixed. Erzsi sat by me the whole long afternoon and early evening, sipping tea, smiling with her gentle eyes. Sleep, she said, brushing my hair off my forehead.

This evening was dissimilar—what fresh horror was I to expect each night? I awoke and was fully mindful of an acute and excruciating metamorphosis taking place. The autumnal moon lit the room as if with hoar. My limbs fairly screamed with pain, my mind flashed extreme white light. I felt as if I were being turned inside out. Then it was all over in a burst.

My first reaction I felt through Erzsi. She stood so quickly she turned over the chair in which she was dozing. Her face was a rigor of alarm, her eyes wide like the hands of the dead. She let out an inadvertent gasp. It is one thing to understand what was about to happen—it was quite another to witness it in all its horrific beastliness.

My limbs were bound with heavy fabric and tied to the bed. I thrashed only once, recognizing my helplessness instantly. A mirror, I said, my voice clicking, my tongue clapping the top of my jaw, which felt unnaturally distended. Erzsi stood by in frozen fear—she clearly did not know the right thing to do. Professor Markson entered then. He started much as Erzsi had, but quickly gathered himself. Remarkable, he muttered as he hurried toward me. I repeated, Mirror!

Markson nodded toward Erzsi, who found a hand mirror nearby. She passed it to Markson, who gripped my arm tightly. Larry—prepare yourself, he said, through grit teeth. He held the mirror a short distance from my face.

It was as corrupt as I had anticipated—horrid, vile! I was a creature out of mythology, a manticore, a harpy, an opinicus! Theriomorph! Yet in my revulsion was also the seed of calm, almost pride. I was venturing into uncharted waters—few humans knew what I knew. Few could even dream such a thing were possible. I was staring into the black eyes of a monstrous hen. And what eyes! Almost human, though the center was as cinereous as pitch and there was no top lid. But most astonishing, the most staggering change was in my jaw, which stood out a good four inches from my chin and came to a sharp point. It was the dreadful melding of human and fowl, right there in my lower face. As rare as hen's teeth. Ha! I had a teethéd beak!

I lay back, my head teeming with ideas—some malevolent, some pitifully human. I was of two worlds and welcome in neither. Yet I was powerful and liberated. That I felt free, though bound head and foot, was evidence of my authority, which coursed through my distended body, down into my scaly toes. My transformation had ripped the clothing from me, so that under the covers I was all flesh and feather. The pressure in my crotch had disappeared and I reached down to discover something miraculous—my first egg! I lay in silent contentedness. My time was still to come. I would soon be free to range about as I wished. To be top of the pecking order.

Erzsi still stood, her back to the wall. Her expression had been swept clean. She was spent, torn between love and terror. Poor Erzsi—it is for her I still weep. She could not get past my vileness—could not—but I get ahead of myself.

I spoke calmly to Markson and my beloved. I told them I was in pain but resigned to my new state, as a man who has died must resign himself to being incorporeal. I assured them that I was calm and in full possession of my faculties. I was peckish. I asked for water and some grain. Professor Markson instructed Jun to wait on me, to bring me whatever I needed. They had no idea what I needed. Who has seen inside the chicken's heart?

I sat up, sipped water, and swallowed some cereal. I smiled, though I had no idea what that could resemble. I tried to reach them through my eyes. All the time, see, I was calculating. I needed them to untie me. I needed to make it so.

And gradually, as the night wore on, they grew soothed and more laissez faire. We talked of many things, never touching really on what we would do, what our next step might be. Occasionally, the professor's brow wrinkled in dismay—he was intent on overthrowing this—this nightmare, this enchantment. He spoke of leeches, antitoxins. As one day bled into another, I stirred in my manacles and asked Markson if he could loosen them. He hesitated, glanced once at Erzsi who had been silent most of the evening, and then—blessed relief—he loosed the heavy material binding me. I thanked him and sat up straighter.

Then, Dear Doctor, I tore my shackles! Uhuru! Liberty! I was possessed of foul power. I fairly erupted from the bed. I swatted Markson with one of my massive arms as he moved toward me. Erzsi screamed and backed against the door, the door through which I had to abscond. I looked at her with hungry attention. She was not, at that moment, my beloved Erzsi—no!—she was an impediment. I moved toward her and struck her once, twice, three times about the face and neck with my beak. She screeched once more as blood burst from her chin, then fell back against the wall in syncope. I stood for a moment over her prostrate form—her swan's neck and lovely pallid breastbones were exposed where my actions had torn her garment. It was a queer pause—I was filled with concupiscence—yet I was a female chicken. Though the etymology is strange—I have learned since—the Old English word henn is akin to hana, or rooster. At that moment, I felt like both, a hermaphrodite. I felt like the Cock of the Walk and I was torn—only momentarily, only briefly.

I escaped from the professor's house and entered the argentine night of the sleeping town. All around me were new sounds, new sensations. The Carpathian night was alive! I heard the wings of the hawk overhead, the shy prattle of a female kestrel, the mumblings from the barnyard. I was stirred in my very blood—more alive than I had ever been. I had never felt so connected to the earth, or more unbound. I was beyond guilt or justice or sentiment. As I loped, my feet lifted from the ground. I could keep myself aloft for many seconds. I made good time leaping through the deserted lanes and byways of G—. The yellowy glim through closed blinds drew me, soft voices in the public houses. It was as if the town were under the spell, not I.

I spent a long time utilizing my senses, enjoying the force of new sight, the vigor in my self-determination.

After an hour or more flitting here and there, enjoying the obscurity, the singular aloneness, I was drawn to some refuse near a tavern, discarded bits and pieces of foodstuff. In them I found grain and greens, as fresh as need be. I ate heartily. It was then that I encountered her.

She stepped out of the back door of the tavern. Presumably she was a doxy, a Magdalene, finished for the night with the commerce of the flesh. She saw me there in the alley's dim illumination, a figure out of nightmare. She gasped and attempted to vault back inside and close the door. I was too quick. I struck her suddenly with my great pennon, felling her there in the doorway. I quickly closed the door and stood over her, now my prey.

Pity her—she was still conscious. She looked at me with eyes that showed dread, awe, a horrid wonder. I brought my beastly avian face close to hers. I could feel her hot breath on my feathers. She was stunned into stillness.

She put one hand to her collar, a gesture of primness that belied her trade. I pecked the back of that hand, striking deep into vein and bone. She sucked in her breath and pulled her hand to her mouth. I took the front of her dress in my beak and ripped it away. Her ample breasts spilled out into the air. I felt—what?—a pleasure beyond desire, a need.

Now her fear was more focused. Something incomprehensible was about to happen. I saw her breasts there before me—the sweet flesh of meretricious duty—and I wanted to mar them, to destroy beauty and craving and want. I pecked downward hard, time and time again, opening spouts of fresh blood from bosom and nipple. Her sweet, warm flesh was as tender as fresh bread. Now she squirmed, trying to crawl away. Yet still no sound emerged from her. I pulled her back by the material of her dress, opening her to further revilement. I pecked the soft flesh of her belly—lower! She then put a hand to the side of my head—an almost tender gesture—and took a handful of feathers in her desperate grip and tore. I struck her once—hard—in her neck and in a flash she was still. Her body gave up her soul to Holy Judgment.

In the distance, I heard a fieldfare, its plaintive nighttime tchack tchack like a changeling's squall. I was reminded of my Hungarian friend who signed her letters csòk csòk, that is, with kisses. In this case, they seemed to me kisses of death.

I wandered now, drunk on murder. I stumbled. I was tired, bone-deep tired. I did not feel like flying. I only wanted sleep. Oblivion.

Around a bend in the lane I heard voices, soused rowdies. My first impulse was to flee. Then my blood answered and I stood in the middle of the street, Ozymandias. They came around the bend, preceded by their loud revelry. They stopped as if pole-axed. Jesus, one of them said. There were four of them, substantial lads, workers or sportsmen. What in the name of all that is holy are you? one asked, emboldened by inebriate.

I took one step toward them. They, as a group, stepped back.

I recognized the group leader—I had that kind of instinct. The pecking order is a flimsy and mercurial thing unless you have a bird's eye. I moved quickly toward him and pecked him once, sharply, in the middle of his forehead, right in his pineal gland, obliterating his inner perception and snuffing out his ruffian life.

In the end, three of them were killed. The one who survived is responsible for my capture, although initially his description of the events met with a great deal of skepticism. How they tracked me back to Professor Markson's is still a mystery to me. The next morning I woke up in the daybed in his guest room and there was Constable Stern with a set of manacles that would have held Houdini. Behind him Erzsi wept, inconsolable, and this still breaks my ever-loving heart. As I was led out, Miles Markson placed a warm hand on my shoulder and reassured me with his gentle ways. I spent two weeks in G—'s fogda, awaiting my fate.

It may seem strange now, but I did not again turn into a cockatrice while in captivity. I think, in retrospect, this may have been what they were waiting for. I do not know what held the bloody transformation in check. I only know that I sat in that fetid cell, a saddened man, a man who had lost the world, and possibly his own mortal soul.

After two weeks they set me free. The charges were too fantastic. The district judge was queried and it was his opinion that the whole tale was too incredible, too unbelievable. This is how they settled on deportation. I never saw Erzsi again.

They led me, shackled, to a train. At the airport, Constable Stern himself led me to the plane. Standing on the scarred and scoured tarmac, he looked at me as if I were Old Bendy himself. I hung my head and boarded.

(Here Larry stopped. He asked for some food and then fell into one of those instantaneous sleeps he is capable of—the sleep of the dead.)


IS THAT ALL HE TOLD YOU? Is that the tale's end?

—Not entirely. You know some of the details since his return to the States.

—Enlighten me.

—Of course. First, let us take care of the fee.

—The check has been cut. My assistant will present it to you right away.

—I'll see it now, thank you.

—Joe?

—Thank you. Now.


LARRY BEGAN AGAIN THE NEXT MORNING. He had had an agitated night—the unburdening had awakened his own demons and he wrestled with them in his dreamland.

Once stateside, Larry began over pastry and coffee (like a fool I offered him eggs, only to see his brow knit in repulsion and anger), once stateside, I returned to my home, miserable, shattered, feeble, a wafting smell. I started to say toothless, yet I had a practice still. I returned to work and, for a while, everything was fine. My patients missed me, they said, and I suppose I had missed them, the routine, the work itself.

Then—it was one afternoon in November—a young woman came to me, a new patient. She was lovely, both blonde and dark. I do not make it a habit to think of my patients in this way. But there was something about her, about the way she carried herself, that was like a powerful drug. I knew immediately that I had to have this woman. It was the first emotion, the first mark of humanity I had displayed since Erzsi. The young woman's name was Syrie Cossen (originally Cosanzeana) and she was receptive to my unprofessional advances.

That very evening we began to see each other. We were like two animals thrown together. We spent a large amount of time sniffing each other—circling, trying to ascertain what this was, what was happening. Syrie seemed wary of me at first. Then it all came out in the open the night of the blue moon.

Mary, in short, we changed together. We were both bird spirits, destined to meet, as inevitable as the unfolding of the lily bud to the sun. She told me her story—it was as fantastic as my own—a real Bloody Bones and Rawhead tale—and we have been together ever since. Contented, peaceful, open to amorous happiness. Neither of us returned to our murderous ways—her episode is still much discussed in the V— area of Hungary.

The rest you know.


FASCINATING.

—The rest we know. Larry ended up at Dr. Kluckatt's eventually, where he was diagnosed with Body Dismorphic Disorder. In essence, his beastly side was relegated to the darkened chambers of his mind. This is not to Dr. Kluckatt's discredit. Really, what else could she diagnose?

—And no one would know any different had it not been for television?

—That is correct. We ended up booking Larry and Syrie on Horrible Creatures Among Us! on Fox. And the couple is as happy as spirits cleansed, and rich as kings, and really they are that—the Royalty of an Ancient Cult, as old as Sibylla, as deep as the River Jordan.

—Well, I think that will do it. Thank you for your time. We'll be out of your hair shortly.

—Not at all. And don't forget—Thursdays at 8 PM Eastern Standard Time.


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