>>5500646The bird can wait. You need meat.
The clams are slow, heavy as rocks, and give much of the appearance thereof. There's no wave that could have washed them up so high, no. They're <span class="mu-i">climbing</span>. They're after the old nests in the cracks. Perhaps they eat guano. Perhaps they eat bones. After nights without food, you're ready to do the same.
Whatever. They're the food now.
The first clam is the size of two fists, and puts up a fight, drawing the slippery tentacle back into its mouth before you can get a grip on it. The shell is immovable. No matter, the beasts are blind- you approach the next one knife-first, and sever the violet-blooded tongue.
Your hand stuffs the oozing meat between your teeth before you can think about it. It's raw, tasteless, tough. You feel your stomach churn as you swallow, and expect to vomit, to shit yourself and die poisoned on this awful rock, but it stays down. It's just the chewed tentacle contracting and flexing inside you, refusing to die. Disgusting. You eat two more before you finally take the time to light a little fire and scorch them to death. They don't taste any more cooked than they did before, but they writhe less.
You keep a wary eye on the raven-gull as a little strength returns, and it stares back, mocking your desperation. Hark, it cries. Hark, hark, hark! A pitiful wretch! Your hideous sacrifice has been sucked dry, but the bird hasn't moved an inch over the carcass. All laughter, no haste.
At last you take up your oar and approach the tree. The raven-gull pipes down but doesn't flinch. There's a ruddy tinge on the bark of the nearly leafless cliff-tree, and only when you're within touching distance do you realise that it's not lichen but twine, a single scarlet thread tangled tightly 'round every bough and twig of the plant, wrapped one thousand times around without beginning or end. The tightest loops are around the claw of the raven-gull itself, binding it to its perch. Small wonder the bird has neither fled nor descended to peck your eyes out in your sleep. It's more trapped than you are. It's just less afraid.
You're certain there was no bird here last night. Someone tied it here, or spirited it and its cord here while you slept. There are rudimentary clawtips on its wrists, and its pupils are flat, like a horse. It's a strange bird.
Hark!
"Hark," you respond. "Good day, bird. Thank you for welcoming me to your... Home."
The bird throws back its head and cackles, shrieking, cawing, clattering its beak with tangible mirth. You feel oddly humiliated. Not threatened, just pathetic. You are a man of arms talking to a snared bird, and it still has the upper hand.
"Hark," it says once more, bored of your feeble attempt at humility.
"Maybe I'll share my next meal with you," you mutter before stepping back from the tree. It's true both ways. There's some meat on that bird, and you're willing to eat crow.
