Pigeons (2)
Having wrapped up the site survey, I pointed the truck straight toward downtown and Miss Jeong. The mere thought of whatever scolding was waiting for me drew a sigh right out of my chest — but watching a genuine fox beastfolk run a cafe and a Western restaurant under the same roof never got old. And aside from the village elders, she was the only person who doted on Hana and Hayeon that fiercely. Dropping by with the excuse that we'd just gained a new member of the family didn't seem like a bad idea at all.
I parked the battered truck near Miss Jeong's cafe and stepped inside. A rush of cool air-conditioning swept across my face, but the look waiting for me behind the counter was colder still.
"Why are you here?"
"The kids said they were craving your cooking."
"Then you should've brought the kids. What do I look like, a delivery joint?"
Cold didn't cover it. She was downright sharp. Times like these, though, the only move was to be shameless.
"I'm looking after another kid now. That's why I couldn't bring them."
At that, her pointed fox ears gave a little twitch.
"A mermaid. Her name's Eunseo... she ran away from home, so I'm watching her for a while."
"...So what's the order?"
"Whatever the kids like. I need to take it with me, so make it something you can pack."
"Fine. And the mermaid?"
"She'll eat just about anything."
"So you're leaving her order to me."
"Yeah. The kids love everything Unnie makes."
"...Then don't ruin my business. Go crumple yourself into that corner over there."
Miss Jeong snapped it off and strode toward the kitchen. I watched her go, sneaking a glance at her back. She could play it as frosty as she liked — that lush tail of hers was swaying, ever so pleased.
While Miss Jeong put the food together, I sank into the problem of how to finish off the chicken-pigeons. They loved liquor more than water and would bolt down anything you put in front of them, a flock of bottomless pits. Getting them collectively smashed on feed soaked in booze looked like the cleanest plan. They were already so heavy they wounded their own legs just carrying themselves around. Even if they tried to pick a drunken fight, putting them down would be easier than handling the village elders after a few bowls of makgeolli.
The real problem was what to do with a pile of giant chicken-pigeons once they'd drunk themselves senseless. I couldn't use a gun this close to people's houses, which left me seriously considering borrowing a Chinese cleaver from some Chinese restaurant.
But could I even take those necks off properly with a Chinese cleaver?
Chicken necks thicker than a human throat, and one knife to do the job. The more I turned it over, the more hopeless it looked. Stewing on it alone wasn't going to spit out an answer, so I decided to ask the person who would actually know — the official from the Ministry of Environment.
I pulled out my smartphone and called him. A moment later, his voice came through.
I hung up and glanced toward the kitchen. Miss Jeong seemed to have finished cooking; she was packing everything up. Because it was for the kids and not for me, the care in her hands looked unusually tender.
When she set the packed food out, I reached for it. She got there first, giving the back of my hand a light tap.
"It's dirty. Put it in a bag."
Quasi-Awakened or not, a fox's touch still stung. Rubbing the back of my hand, I started settling Miss Jeong's cooking into a black plastic bag nearby, piece by careful piece. Three bags. No share for me, of course. She'd clearly put real thought into it, though — the bags were stuffed with things the kids would love.
"You've been on the phone this whole time. What was that about?"
"I've got some chicken necks to wring tomorrow."
"...If you come waltzing in here thrilled about catching chickens and tracking blood all over my shop, I will call the police."
"I'll wash up thoroughly before I come..."
"And bring that Eunseo kid next time, too."
"Got it."
I paid up and stepped out with both arms full of food for the kids, feeling considerably lighter. I glanced back into the shop as I went. Miss Jeong was standing by the window, watching me with that same expressionless face. The instant our eyes met, a chill ran down my spine. If I held her gaze any longer I really was going to freeze solid, so I hurried back to the truck.
I settled the food carefully across the back seat and drove straight to a nearby brewery, where I bought a whole crate of traditional liquor. The employee gave me an odd look, but once I said it was for the elders in Dohwang-ri, he handed it over without another word. He probably figured it was for some old men's drinking party.
I came home with a crate of liquor in my arms, and what greeted me was, of course, a lecture.
"And what's with that liquor?"
"Don't tell me you're going to drink again, Unnie?"
Faced with Hayeon and Hana's entirely reasonable suspicion, I waved both hands.
"No! It's for the chicken-pigeons' banquet tomorrow! I am not drinking a single drop—"
"Then just leave it in the truck."
"I said I got it."
While I was still taking Hana's scolding, Hayeon must have caught the smell of the food. Before I knew it she had snatched up the bags I'd brought and vanished into the house like a shot.
"Well, Hayeon's gone in, so let's have dinner too."
"Yes. Eunseo said she was hungry anyway."
Looking after even the youngest so carefully — every inch the eldest sister. I gave Hana's head a pat, and we went inside together.
The next morning, before dawn. I slipped quietly outside, leaving the children sleeping hard behind me. It was time to feed the chicken-pigeons with yesterday's liquor.
I scraped every last bit of leftover rice from the pot and dumped it into a huge plastic sack. For giant chicken-pigeons it wouldn't have filled a hollow tooth, but a bird was still a bird, no matter how big it got. A few enormous rice balls soaked through with liquor would be more than enough to get the whole flock falling-down drunk.
I tipped the rice into the sack and upended the entire crate of traditional liquor over it. A sour reek of alcohol tangled with the smell of rice and punched me in the nose. Is this what the inside of my stomach smells like the morning after a bender? The thought alone killed any craving I had left.
I gritted my teeth and started stirring the sodden rice, packing it into clumps. For a finishing touch I dumped in a whole jar of fruit jam that had been rolling around the house, and what I ended up with was a horror so vile that a real stray yellow dog — never mind our Hana — would have spat it straight back out. Liquor, cloying fruit, and stale rice. My stomach turned just smelling it.
I tied the sack as tight as I could so the stench wouldn't leak, loaded it onto the truck, and drove out to the chicken-pigeons' banquet hall from the day before.
When I arrived, the official and a handful of officers were waiting for me in front of yesterday's barricade, sipping coffee or smoking. A sword hung across the official's back — the one he'd said he used in his heyday. He'd given it some kind of polish, too; even from inside the truck I could see the blade gleaming.
I climbed down, slung the sack of pigeon feed over my shoulder, and walked over. The officers caught the smell and recoiled, clapping their hands over their noses.
"What on earth is that?"
"Pigeon feed. Forty percent alcohol."
"Even a passing dog wouldn't eat that."
Even the official was looking at me sideways. I just shrugged.
"You said they go looking for liquor before water. Traditional grain spirits, rice, and a sweet fruit aroma on top. I doubt those things will see a spread like this again in their lives."
"Ah, get that out of here! I'm getting drunk just looking at it."
"Don't be such a baby."
I hiked the pigeon feed onto my shoulder, crossed the barricade, and headed into the shopping street. A chorus of coo-coo-coo rolled out to meet me, almost homey at first — except the size of them turned it into something ugly, like a pig having its throat cut.
I picked the spot where the giant pigeon droppings were piled thickest, tore the plastic open, and shook the feed out. A vicious blast of liquor-stink rolled off it. A reek like that, and the chicken-pigeons would come find it all on their own.
I climbed a low garden wall belonging to a nearby house and pulled myself up to a second-story window — and locked eyes with the homeowner, who had been watching the whole thing from inside.
Well. This was awkward.
I lifted a hand in a sheepish little greeting. The person in the window startled, then opened it and waved me in.
"Aigoo, I'm so sorry about this..."
"Are you a civil servant? Or... a Hunter?"
"It's easier if you just think of me as a Hunter."
"Oof, that liquor smell... what is that?"
"Pigeon bait. Eat that and even a decent Hunter would be on the floor."
"...Will they really go for something like that?"
"Who knows. If they don't, I suppose I'll just have to wring their necks myself."
I said it mildly, and the homeowner finally seemed to unclench, murmuring that they'd go grab me a cup of coffee before stepping out of the room. In situations like this, a little swagger goes a long way toward putting people at ease.
I sipped the warm coffee they'd brought me and watched the street below. A short while later, today's targets — the chicken-pigeon foursome — announced themselves with a run of booming footsteps. Seeing them in the flesh, bigger than a person, I even wondered whether I should have brought more rice.
"Wow... at that size, no wonder the police didn't want to touch them."
"I don't know what the Hunters think they're doing, not showing up."
"There's no money in it. Wring those chicken-pigeons' necks and all you get is the stink. You wouldn't even recoup the laundry bill."
"Then what about you?"
"I'm not picky."
I took another sip of coffee. Down below, the chicken-pigeons had found the boozy rice balls I'd laid out and started pecking. At first the four of them took turns, each one sampling a bite as if testing the waters. Then the flavor hooked them, and every last head went down as they tore into it like they'd never eat again.
"Ugh, look at them gorge."
"I know. Did you put something in that?"
"No. I just bought some traditional liquor from the brewery nearby."
"That... couldn't have been cheap..."
"What choice did I have? No guns, no damage to the houses. In the end you spend the money."
The homeowner huffed out a laugh.
We were still trading jokes when the chicken-pigeons finished their tasting menu and started peering around. One by one their eyelids began to droop. After checking that nobody was nearby, all four of them — as if they'd planned it — flopped down right where they stood and went to sleep.
"If they can't hold their liquor, why do they love the stuff so much?"
"They probably had no idea it was that strong. Around here, near the industrial complex, all they get is beer."
Fair enough. Low-alcohol beer would have been barley tea to bodies that size. They'd never have dreamed that forty-percent spirits were about to go down their throats.
"Thanks for the coffee. I should go wring some chicken necks now, so please shut the window tight. It'll be a problem if the place starts smelling like blood."
"Of course. Good luck."
I slipped back out through the window the homeowner had opened for me and eased myself down the wall. Looking at the four of them dead to the world, with no idea the reaper had just arrived, I had to admit it: a bird really is just a bird-brain.