The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 8

Som appeared, an unlucky insect in his beak. "That one tastes a bit on the sour side," he said, wiping his beak. He promptly noticed Qulin's distraught, hollow gaze.

"What's going on in that old sorcerer mind?"

"Something..something out here has got to be the key," Qulin replied, walking across the back porch and onto the withered grass. "I don't know what but we're going to find it. We will tear up this yard fiber by fiber."

Som nodded in agreement, wisely choosing not to protest and glided above. They entered the plant shed. Three orchids were lined up in clay pots atop a makeshift table made of two-by-fours hastily secured by torn rope. Qulin examined each flower, caressing the wrinkled petals and assessing the soil's dampness, nodding emphatically and mumbling softly to each, as if complimenting them would improve their languid appearance. They seemed to loath the sunlight that poured through the broken sunroof panels. He reached for a nearby water pitcher, and watered his beloved plants.

Som watched Qulin dote over the orchids he loved so much, and felt such pity for him. The orchids looked, no other way to say it, dead.

"These are prepared as Cora described," Qulin said, "we will carry them with us around the yard. Something out there delivered my halos the other day and I will find it."

Som nodded, encouraging Qulin at every opportunity. He wished those fussy halos would just come out and say hello. Maybe if he was a songbird instead of a crow, he could pull those halos out with a beautiful song about crisp spring mornings and butterflies that tasted like sugar-coated grasshoppers. He'd do anything for Qulin.

"Remember that time you promised me you'd create a spell that would show me where all the delicious beetles and grasshoppers were hiding—any progress on that?" asked Som. He took a cursory glance at the orchids, and for an awkward moment, wondered if they were edible—but the realm of vegetarianism seemed quite repulsive.

"Maybe," Qulin said. "But I fear the bugs might begin talking like you. And that would be most displeasing." Just under a scar, a rare smirk emerged then faded.

Som puffed his feathered chest up and down, faking anger.

"Without my angelic voice keeping you company, you'd be driven further into insanity." He began to caw and hop in circles. "Take a listen to this beautiful harmony." He inhaled, his chest expanded. A shrieking trumpet-like noise billowed out from his tiny beak. He took a dignified bow, anticipating nothing but pleasure across Qulin's face.

"You crow's aren't much for poetry."

"Poetry? What's poetry?"

Qulin cringed. He should've held his tongue. Som's curiosity had been provoked and now the crow would insist on an exhaustive discussion till the very last sliver of air left his chest.

"Yes, poetry," Qulin restated, wiping his brow. "Words and verse used to convey a truth, sometimes a beautiful truth, or of you wanted, an ugly truth." He paused, his brows crinkled towards the center of his forehead as if trying to block a memory from entering. "Cora would recite poetry. Her artistry was unrivaled. People would come from all around just to hear her. Some paid her to write vows for their weddings."

Taken by this most fascinating of human conventions, Som felt the churning of his own 'poetic' mind begin to form. "Beautiful and ugly truth, huh? Intriguing, bewildering, and yet indeed so very fascinating. Where does this truth come from?"

Qulin thought about this for longer than he'd imagined would be necessary. It was a question he'd never thought he'd be asked but to recognize he'd never even considered truth as something that came from 'somewhere.' He thought back to Cora and subsequently Potter's Bluff. In every contour, movement and utterance, truth just seemed to be what she felt, and with a most effortless manner something that she lived without compromise. The embodiment of unconditional love was infused in her words. Outside, what others saw, was simply a reflection of her gorgeous soul.