Quentin the Queer Quail

I've never been able to look at quails, or any bird for that matter, the same after writing this.


Quentin the Queer Quail
by
P.L. Ellars

Rural England, The Year 1746

“Quentin’s called a meetin’ tonight. At the ‘Tickle Yore Arse Wi’ A Feather Inn’. Pass it on”. Gully the Ghoul told a flock of feathered fiends hanging out in the town square.
“Right, Gully, see you there, then.” replied Bazza the Buzzard winking conspiratorially.
The feathered fiends flew off in separate directions to spread the word. Something big must be up; Quentin hasn’t called a meeting in over 6 months.
Later that evening…
“Arright, ducks, I’ve called…”
“We’re not all ducks, Quentin. Some of us are…”
“I know, Reg, I know! It’s just an expression!”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“As I was sayin’, I’ve called this ‘ere meetin’ becuz we’ve got to do sometin’ about Farmer Abattre. The barstid ‘as gone and hung nettin’ over his crops and it’s already killed a couple o’ the boys. I got it on good word from Choker the Chicken who lives out at Farmer Abattre’s. ‘E’s seen the old barstid stringin’ it up and yestiday Bazza the Buzzard was flyin’ over and saw Sammy Swallows, Wilson the Warbler and Bushy Bushtits all hangin’ deader ‘n hell from the fookin’ nettin’. We got to do sometin’ boys, and do sometin’ quick before we all end up hangin’ from it like a Christmas goose.”
“WHAT!” yelled Gander the Gooser.
“Relax, Gander, it’s just an expression. Nuthin’ personal.”
“Well, Quentin, you might’ve chosen some other expression! Oi don’t loik that one a’tall!” retorted Gander the Gooser.
“Anywize, as I wuz sayin’, we’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do it quick. So’s here’s what I propose…”
The fiends all huddled closer to hear Quentin’s devilish plan. There was much murmuring, squawking, cooing, head bobbing, wing fluttering and ground scratching. The fiends were all in a sweat after hearing Quentin’s plan.
“Crikey!” exclaimed Gully the Ghoul “I think it’ll work. It’s brilliant! When do we do the fooker in and the rest o’ his spawn from hell?”
“At dawn, day after tomorrow. That oughta give us enough time to “stock up”, shall we say, and give the barstid something he’ll never forget. Thinks he can kill us and get away wit’ it…well, no fookin’ way!”
At that, there was a loud chorus of agreement from all present. The rest of the night the feathered fiends spent drinking.
Dawn came early two days later. The feathered fiends had spent the day before scouring the countryside gorging themselves on everything they could find to eat. That night, they quietly roosted in the trees next to Farmer Abattre’s house. Farmer Abattre, his plump wife, their two sons and one daughter slept peacefully, little suspecting what lay in store for them the next day.
At daybreak Quentin had positioned himself at the peak of the barn to better lead the attack. Then they waited.
The little girl came out of the house first and headed for the chicken coop. Quentin whistled sharply two times…the signal for Choker the Chicken, who was lying in wait in the coop with the rest of the fowl fiends, to be on the alert; the little girl was on her way. Quentin gleefully watched from his perch, his topknot twitching uncontrollably with anticipation.
The little girl, dressed in calico with a clean, white apron around her, skipped merrily to the door of the coop, her basket swinging at her side in time to the sweet song she was singing.
She pushed the door open, skipped in and wondered why it was so quiet. As it was her job to collect the eggs each day, she was used to hearing the chickens chattering softly away. It was a familiar and comfortable sound to her. She loved the chickens and collecting the eggs was her favorite farm chore.
Choker and Shanghai the Rooster waited until she had gotten well inside the coop and had closed the door before making their move. Positioning themselves next to some eggs, they watched and waited. She finally was before them and, bending down to pick up the eggs, said, “Oh, thank you, thank you, dear sweet chickens for providing us with…” when Choker and Shanghai flew at her face pecking out her eyes. At that, she dropped her basket and fell to the ground shrieking. The rest of the chickens in the coop swooped in on her, continuing to peck at her eyes, her ears, and every part of her little six-year old body they could reach.
In the meantime, Quentin had given the signal for Bazza the Buzzard, Gander the Gooser, and Creepy Crow to fly down to the porch and quietly wait by the front door. The poor child’s hysterical shrieks brought her mother racing out of the house. When the three large birds waiting on the porch heard the front door open, they scurried in front of it. Mother Abattre, unaware of the birds at her feet, focused only on her child’s screams; the birds easily tripped the poor old woman.
“Take that, ya old hag!” yelled Bazza the Buzzard.
“Yeah, kill us, will ya, bitchy!” echoed Creepy Crow.
Mother Abattre crashed hard at the top of the steps, her head going over the side and smashing her face into the top step. Her weight and momentum kept her body moving on down the steps while her head was firmly wedged at the top, bending her neck backwards until Farmer Abattre, who was now standing in the doorway, heard it snap like a handful of celery being twisted.
He raced down the steps and stood next to his wife’s crumpled body. He could hear his daughter’s screams from the chicken coop growing fainter and fainter. By now the two boys, aged 8 and 10 had appeared on the porch and were staring in disbelief at their mother, then father and then at the chicken coop.
“Da! Da! What’s goin’ on? Is Ma arright? Da!”
Quentin whistled and a dark cloud erupted from the tree next to the house and headed straight for the dumbstruck old man and his two boys. The first pass of the birds covered Farmer Abattre and his boys from head to foot in thick grey and white and brown excrement.
“Ducks! Do your worst!” ordered Quentin, now looking down at the scene below him from his new position above the porch.
The ducks came in low and fast, releasing their load with deadly accuracy. Now Farmer Abattre and the boys were completely whitewashed with slimy, foul smelling duck dung.
“Da! Help me! Help Da! Help!” screamed the two boys.
“Run boys, run, back into the house. Quick now!” yelled the father.
Both boys, covered in duck dung and unable to see, ran in the direction of the house only to trip over their mother.
“Now, Gooser, Now! You and the other geese have at ‘em!” bellowed Quentin, his topknot quivering with rage and joy. Gander and five other geese left the ground at a run from nearby. Two of the geese dropped their loads as they flew over Farmer Abattre’s head scoring direct hits. Gander and the other three geese headed for the boys who, not being able to see, were trying to stand up but kept stumbling over their mother and the steps. The foul fowls released their loads with unerring accuracy.
“Aye! Take that, ye shitheads!” thundered Quentin. “Maybe ye’ll think twice next time afore ye string nettin’ out!”
Farmer Abattre and the boys could barely breathe after the goose attack. The excrement was so thick on their heads and faces that they were inhaling it and spitting it out, gasping for air.
“ARRIGHT! THEY REST OF YE, HAVE AT ‘EM! AND SHOW NO MERCY!” commanded Quentin.
At that hundreds of birds took to the air and proceeded to unload the previous days digested engorgement on the helpless farmer, his dead wife and the two boys. Several of the larger birds pushed open the door to the coop and let the chickens free. The poor little girl lay there in the straw, pecked to death; her face unrecognizable even to her own family.
All the birds now converged on Farmer Abattre and the two boys, pecking at their eyes, ears, and throat. They withstood the onslaught as long as they could, swatting away at the birds, but now blind, gasping for air and bleeding from hundreds of wounds, they finally collapsed in a heap on top of Mother Abattre where the feathered fiends continued the attack until there was no sign of life left.
“Right!” boomed Quentin “Smells like the old bitch was makin’ breakfast. Let’s go in and have a looksee, eh?”
Quentin led the army of birds up the steps, through the door and into the house.
“Arright, ye knows what to do. Start breakin’ the fookin’ place up. Knock over anything and everything ye can.”
Quentin left the birds to the destruction of the farmhouse and went into the kitchen. He was right: Mother Abattre had been in the process of making breakfast for her family and had just got the fire started in the stove. How convenient. How bloody, marvelously convenient.
“Creepy, look here, in the old hag’s haste to save her smelly little kid, the bitch went off and left the firebox door open. You and some of the boys keep feedin’ as much tinder and kindling into it as ye can. I want that fire big and I want it to spill out on to the floor.”
“Right, Quentin, she’s as good as done”
“Arright, my fine feathered fiends, I want a few of ye to grab those napkins off the table and get ‘em burnin’. Then fly ‘em out to the chicken coop and the barn and drop ‘em in the hay. We’ll burn it all down, all of it! Think they can kill a few of us and get away with it, do they? By God and the devil’s twisted tail, the stupid barstids don’t know much about birds!”
All was done as Quentin ordered. The birds then flew back to the tree to watch and make sure the fire consumed everything. Three thick black columns of smoke rose high into the sky. Looking up the road, Quentin could see Farmer Abattre’s neighbors running to help put out the fire. His lips curled up in a tight little smile and he cocked his topknot over at a jaunty angle.
“Well, well, me lads, would ye look at that? I don’t know about you, but I have an overpowerin’ urge for some target practice.”
And with that he took off in the direction of the road.