5. Chapter FiveMINA
Chapter Five
MINA
The storm slammed into the old farmhouse; a wild thing desperate to break inside. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and leaned toward the kitchen window. Fat droplets pelted the glass, driven sideways by gusts that twisted the trees in the yard to their limits. The panes rattled in their casements, threatening to give way.
“Looks like we’re in for it.”
The nest I’d built for him in the corner of the living room was a poor substitute for the roost he’d probably known in the forest. Leaving the kitchen, I padded down the hall, my stockinged feet making a soft sound on the worn wood.
His gaze, sharp and watchful, stayed on me as I came nearer. Despite his weakened condition, his eyes held a sharp intellect, a spark that distinguished him from any other injured animal I’d cared for. I bent low and smoothed his tousled feathers.
“Don’t worry,” I murmured. “We’re safe here.”
Thunder rumbled overhead. Thomas fidgeted and made a low, trilling noise.
“Storms aren’t your favorite, are they?” I already knew the answer but asked anyway. He’d likely weathered countless nights in the wild, yet something about this storm left him looking exposed. Or maybe I was just projecting my unease.
The power flickered once, then steadied. I stood up and walked back to the kitchen, hoping to salvage the dough I had been preparing for tomorrow’s baking. Outside, the trees bent low in the gusts of wind, and the sky took on an ominous, darker hue.
The power went out, plunging the house into early twilight. I paused, hands coated in flour, and listened to the wind whip around the eaves.
“Great.” I wiped my hands on my apron and felt my way toward the drawer where I kept the flashlight. A soft rustle behind me made me turn. Thomas must have gotten up from his nest.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”
He let out a chirp.
I found the flashlight and flicked it on. The beam cut through the darkness. Thomas looked up at me.
“Come here, you silly thing,” I said, awkwardly giving him a hug as best I could. These past few days at the farm really brought out his full weight. I directed the flashlight as we made our way around the kitchen.
Giving Thomas a pet on the back, I turned and rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a box of matches and a few candles. The flashlight’s beam wobbled and dimmed. Looks like its batteries were on their last legs.
I scraped a match and used it to light the first candle. The flame wavered, casting a warm glow. With my hands forming a protective cup around it, I lit the rest. “That should do it.”
But Thomas stretched out his wings and flapped, sending a gust of air across the candles. The flames flickered, one dying out with a puff.
“You’re quite the helper,” I said, smiling. Outside, the storm raged; inside the farmhouse, it felt like a haven.
A cannon-shot of thunder exploded overhead, and both Thomas and I jumped. I crouched down to hold on to him. His heart raced against my hand, but he didn’t struggle. Slowly, the tension in his muscles eased, and he nestled into me with a reluctant trust.
“I’m not scared, it’s you,” I murmured.
Thomas gobbled sharply.
“Alright, I’ll admit it’s me.”
After standing up, I took a candle with me. In the living room, the wind shrieked through the cracks in the old farmhouse. Pulling a shawl around my shoulders, I looked around the room. Thomas came inside, then flopped down near the door.
Glancing back at me, then at the door, he gave the bottom edge a firm peck. Thomas tried to wedge himself into it, as if his feathers could plug the drafts.
“What are you doing?” Before I knew it, he rolled onto his side, his legs kicking out. I rushed over and rolled him back up. “Silly, keep that up and you’ll hurt yourself. Come on, let’s warm you up.”
I stepped across to the fireplace and fed it a few logs. Sparks flew up the chimney, and the growing fire cast a flickering dance of shadows on the walls. I rubbed my hands together, feeling the first licks of heat, and thought about the dough I’d been working on.
No use now. The gas burners would light with a match, but the temperature controls wouldn’t work without power.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Are you?”
He made a soft clucking noise. We retraced our steps back to the kitchen. I pulled a pot from the stovetop and opened the fridge, examining my options. The cold was already seeping out, another casualty of the blackout.
“Let’s see,” I said, grabbing a few vegetables and some broth. “We can make a hearty vegetable stew. Simple, but it’ll keep us warm.”
I set a cutting board on the counter and started chopping carrots, sweet red peppers, zucchini, and onions. Thomas waddled over, his talons tapping the floor with each step. He stretched out his neck, trying to see what I was doing, then gave a peck at a stray carrot.
“Careful,” I said, nudging it toward him with the back of my knife. “That’s supposed to be for the stew.”
He took it in his beak but lost his grip on the carrot. It rolled away, and he chased after it. I laughed and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, the onion fumes mingling with the sudden rush of joy.
I sauteed the carrots, zucchini, onion, and red pepper in a large Dutch oven until they were crisp-tender. Next, I stirred in the broth, kidney beans, tomatoes, corn, cumin, and cayenne pepper. The savory scent filled the kitchen.
Thomas returned, carrot still intact, and looked up at me. I took it from him and gave it a thorough glance.
“Not even a bite? You’re more disciplined than I thought.”
After giving it a good wash, I chopped it into small pieces and tossed them into a separate pot of kale and celery, stirring gently.
After dishing up the stew and plating the steamed vegetables, I carried the meal to the living room to find Thomas already relaxing. “Here you go,” I said, setting the platter down in front of him. “Steamed veggies to help warm up your belly.”
Thomas gobbled.
A loud crash rattled the house just as I was halfway through my stew. My hand froze, the spoon dangling, as the glass shards scattered across the floorboard. A blast of frigid, damp air swept into the room, and I turned to see a tree branch protruding through the shattered window.
“Oh, no.” Setting the bowl down, I turned toward the mess. Thomas stood; his feathers fluffed out. He rushed directly to the branch, hammering it with his beak as hard as he could.
“Be careful,” I cried out, but he didn’t understand. His gaze was fierce, as if he were facing not inanimate wood but a living threat. Each peck was deliberate, almost vengeful.
He was a ridiculous sight, this tame turkey with grand ideas. And silly, but I thought it was cute he wanted to protect the home he accepted as his.
“You’re far braver than I first gave you credit for.” I stroked his feathers, watching the rain pour in through the broken glass. “But I don’t want you to get sick from the rain.”
I tied a piece of tarp over the gaping hole, securing it with nails and a hammer I’d found in the hall closet. The wind played tug-of-war with the makeshift patch, but it held. For now.
Thomas had returned to his nest, his brief heroics leaving him exhausted. I walked back to the living room and collapsed onto the couch, wrapping a woolen blanket around my shoulders. The power outage had turned my farmhouse into an icebox, and I was thankful for the warmth of the fireplace.
“Do you want to sit with me?” I patted the couch. He looked up, hesitant, then walked over. I made a space for him beside me, and he jumped up with a hop. His feathers brushed against my skin, and I laughed at the ticklish feeling it gave.
He settled in, his body radiating a soft warmth. I thought about all the animals I’d cared for over the years. How each had come and gone, leaving their own small voids. Thomas was different. He needed more time and deeper patience. By giving him those, I realized I was filling a void in myself.
The storm was losing its intensity; the wind calming from a roar to a whisper. Rain tapped on the roof gently and the sound soothed me. Thomas tucked his beak into his chest.
“I’m going to make some tea,” I said, rousing myself. Thomas stayed put, his eyes half-lidded.
In the kitchen, I lit the oven burners by hand, filled a kettle with water, and set it on the stove before rummaging through a cabinet for my tea tins. The kettle whistled, and I poured the hot water into a teapot, letting the leaves steep. When I returned to the living room, Thomas sat in his nest.
I sipped the tea, letting the steam warm my face, and retrieved a book from the side table. It was one of Grandma’s old romances, the kind with faded covers of long-haired, barrel-chested men and brittle pages. I opened it and read the first line aloud, then the second.
Part of me thought Thomas might understand the words, picturing the story in his mind. I read slowly, savoring each sentence, each description of long-lost loves and windswept meadows. The tea worked its magic, and a drowsy warmth settled over me.
I closed the book after a few chapters, not wanting to rush through the only thing left unread in this house. Thomas slept undisturbed, and I couldn’t help but think about the odd but wonderful connection we’d created. Maybe we were both outcasts in our own way, finding a sort of comfort in each other’s company.
Or maybe I was projecting again, turning a lonely situation into a hearts-and-flowers scenario because that’s what humans do. We create stories, even when reality is enough of a plot twist on its own.