Chapter 14 Delicacy
Delicacy
We've named the little fuzz ball, well, little bird. No, that’s it—‘Little Bird’. I’m trying not to get too attached, though that didn’t go as well as I would’ve hoped with my last injured pet who showed up here.
I suddenly get the urge to reach out to Lir’s head of soft wavy hair and pet him, but stop myself to be satisfied by picking up one lonesome curl and running it between my fingers.
He hums happily as I play with it, twisting it over and over in my hand.
He strokes Little Bird tenderly with his claw, brushing off individual raindrops that have gathered on her downy back.
I wonder if it reminds them of their mother’s beak because she (we think they’re a she) no longer makes her stressed squawks, but instead only little peeps to get Lir’s attention.
She doesn’t much care for me. “Makes sense since she’s a gull,” I laugh to myself.
She tolerates me well enough, but she’s definitely a daddy’s girl.
Lir and her are inseparable during the day, and at night I've come into the habit of putting her in a little blanketed pile in the window of my room. I try to argue about the airy draft with him, but he insists on her being in the window so that he can see her from below. At least she is somewhat shielded from the cool night air while she heals because I can only stand to bicker with him so much about it. He usually dips completely under the water when he sleeps in short stretches, which wouldn’t be very helpful for her recovery routine.
When I take her away so that he can nap, I can tell he’s pouting as he sinks down leaving behind little bubbles popping on the surface of the pool.
He too is still healing after all and should rest as much as he can.
Today, I’ve decided we are in need of a hearty meal for my two patients.
In the food storage I found a little powdered milk and some lard which combine nicely together to make a sort of pseudo cream.
I peel potatoes, their skins falling in perfect spirals under my sharpened pairing knife while contributes Lir by cracking open little clams I found at low tide.
“Po-ta-toes.” I sound it out for him, but he looks at my feet. “No, nothing to do with those! But, some of the greatest food known to man! And soon mer-person.”
He feeds some dried corn to Little Bird before we soak the rest in boiling water to rehydrate it.
I’ve started having all of my meals with Lir.
The meager food from the supply ships feels much more appetizing with my new companions.
Little Bird lifts her head on her own to pluck a piece of corn from his hand.
She now moves the tiny wing at the joint stretching against the wrapping.
Soon, it will be time for her to fly away, hopefully only a few weeks behind her siblings.
Though Lir said it would take him longer to heal, his waning cuts and bruises are almost completely gone.
He’s beginning to look more like an ancient God and less human as they fade away.
The larger cuts on the tail are just deep purple and I think he only keeps the bandage on his chest now to conveniently tuck Little Bird into.
After combining all the fixings together in a large copper pot, it simmers down slowly over a few hours.
It needs time as an ingredient to thicken the stew that has cut corners with minimalistic provisions.
We laugh together as we wait for it to reduce down and the feeling of familial jest wafts in the air around us.
The lantern light glowing between us as the sky turns a more purplish hue reminds me of those late kitchen nights when all the ladies would gather and cluck together the evening before a holiday meal.
My stomach growls and I give the pot one last stir with a large ladle.
The oversized utensil is about the width of my face, but feels about as large as the size of my stomach.
The rich ivory stock flows hardily into the ceramic bowls, settling thickly into their round shape like I’m looking at an edible version of the moon.
His hip fins flutter as I hand him a hot serving of chowder and his smile widens from the warmth of the bowl.
I mime to him to blow on it a little so he doesn’t burn his mouth and he complies.
Lir sprinkles a little bit of dried seaweed onto the surface.
It’s reminiscent of parsley, which is both familiar, but also leaves me longing for something so simple.
Inhaling the steam in one breath, his voice resonates around the edge of the bowl in a satisfied hum, “You spoil me, Andrea.” The sound of my name in his mouth is as rich as the broth.
“You still sleep outside in a puddle, I don't do very much.” My head lowers, I know this tide pool is acting as his infirmary, but it also seems like a prison.
“You want me to climb those stairs and sleep in a bed instead? In your bed, Andrea?” He half smiles, his eyes peeking over the edge of the bowl, the steam whirling around him like a copper plate etching of fire and brimstone.
His words are pretty devilish—though as cheeky as he is, they are always punctuated with a softness, a dampened note just for my sake that they are all simply in jest.
I slap his uninjured shoulder lightly. “You’d dry out, and I’d have to drag you back down those stone steps.”
Remembering their hard angles from me tugging him around the day we first met, he rubs the back of his head shuddering. Then his eyes flicker up quickly, just visible over the edge of the bowl he lifts to his now transfixed glare. “You’ll just have to keep dreaming of me then.”
He inhales a big gulp of soup, the corners of his mouth dripping with the creamy mixture. My jaw drops a little and I inhale a quick breath almost choking on my meal.
I haven’t been telling him about my dreams.