Maj, as I said, was young, at seven years old. She loved her rough-weaved hood and her dark hair pulled back and tied with ribbons as any girl might in pre-war Tufaltha. She loved the woods, often scampering off with her friends on escapades through the southern edge of the Varjaw, catching worms and frogs, throwing things into the Jiccirka and watching as they sunk or as the current swept them off.

The woods kept her away from home. We didn’t know exactly what went on in the girl’s home, but we knew she was the thin, quiet girl with the bad daddy. She was loved and agreeable, but also generally shy and private in temperament. Her father was a Tufalthan ranger and hunter, and a known drunkard, and sometimes it showed in the dark circles under Maj’s big, brown eyes.

One day, ribboned and hooded, she was playing a game of run-hide-and-catch with the rest of us near the dam north of town. The dam became famous in later years when Donor Kingsman slashed through the chains and drowned the Tarmos. But that’s another tale entirely. That hadn’t happened yet; it wasn’t true yet, the way this story was becoming true.

After the game, Maj was strangely quiet. She seemed timid, scared or distracted. She didn’t tell us what had happened until months after it was all over. But now that I know, now that she told us, and now that I know how to read and write, I’ll fill in all the details that we were unaware of at the time… while it was becoming true.

She had run to hide. That’s how the game worked. With an expert duck and twist, she passed under a thick root and slipped down toward the Jiccirka’s bank. It was cold and muddy, but she didn’t mind. That wet ditch had always been a good place since the others were too big to get under that root. They always had to approach from the other side to accomplish the “catching” bit of the game, giving her enough time to crawl out and run in the other direction. Being the smallest of the group had always made her best at hiding and worst at running. Once the running began, it was normally over shortly.

Crouching and breathing heavily, she peeked once more through the gap under the root and then settled down for the waiting part of the game. A minute into it, after a few leaf-and-twig-crunching footsteps in the distance, she heard a little gurgle – a mud-squish. The sound was barely audible but still made her jump, her senses heightened by the hiding and listening. She looked about her, wondering what had made the sound and careful not to make any sudden movements that would give away her hiding spot. She saw a slight irregularity in the muddy bank. It looked like a little trampled patch of grass except that it was moving. It seemed to breathe. A tiny flick of what looked like a wing confirmed that the clump was alive.

“Aw,” Maj whimpered as she saw it.

She took a cautious step forward and caught sight of the ugly patches of pink skin under grey down. It did breathe. She crouched down over the clump, not sure what to do about it. A tiny groan escaped the little bird, scratchy and high-pitched. It gurgled, and she realized what must have been its face was halfway in the dirt. She grabbed a stick nearby and helped pull the head out. A sputter and another chirpy moan followed.

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“Thank you,” it said.

Her clear, round eyes widened. She gasped, took a step back, and covered her mouth, all in that order. (Or at least that’s how she later told the story.) “You… you can talk?” she stammered.

“Please help,” sounded from the baby bird’s throat. Then the head rolled back a degree, and the bulging eyes closed. It slept.

“Hey, little guy?” she said.

No reply. It only breathed and twitched.

She laid one of her hands next to the poor animal, and with the other hand she rolled it over onto her open palm. It fit perfectly in her tiny seven-year-old hand. She almost yanked her hands away when she saw four tiny paws instead of bird feet, and a rat-like tail with a few feathers on its tip. It wasn’t a bird. Neither was it a rat. And it had spoken to her. It was gross even without the mud, but it had spoken.

She set it in her shirt, rolling the cloth to make a sort of hammock for the strange little creature. She thought it best to keep it a secret from the others, fearing how they’d react, especially the boys. Even at seven years of age she knew they wouldn’t believe that it had spoken. It spoke. That simple fact changed everything.

Snatching a few scattered leaves and uprooting a weed near the river, she covered the sleeping rat-bird, and carefully made her way up the bank. She’d be spotted, but the game was the least of her concerns at that point.

She walked home, and I saw her. I remember asking her what was wrong as she passed. She said she was just tired and then skirted by. I wondered at what might have been hanging in her shirt, but in the end I just shrugged and let her go. It was still light out, and she knew the way. It wasn’t far.

When she reached her home, she laid the muddy, feathery lump and the pile of leaves and plants on a cloth on her bed. She quickly folded the cloth again, seeing the dirt seeping through, intent on staining her blanket.

“He needs a bath,” she thought out loud.

Sneaking down to the kitchen, she swiped a bowl and scooped a bit of hot water from the pot in the fireplace. Once it had cooled enough not to scald her hand or the speaking rat-bird, she lowered him into the basin and rubbed clots from the delicate feathers, careful not to bruise the tiny bones in his wings and legs. The water muddied quickly, and she wrapped up her little packet of skin, bone and feather in the cloth to keep him warm while she went back down to change out the water.

The rat-bird was shivering when she returned. She wanted to warm him, but the water was still too hot. She picked him up and began to breathe over him. It felt strange, but it was the only thing she could think of. Soon the water cooled. She washed and dried the creature, laying him in a clean scarf. She considered depositing him in her drawer but thought it better to keep an eye on him for a while.

She sat on the bed, her back against the wall, and with the rat-bird asleep in her lap. Her small fingers caressed the top of his head and pulled the knitted scarf more snuggly over the grey-pink body. Her body heat may well have saved his life. Maj knew nothing about that, of course. She just got lucky.

After a rushed supper with her mother, she asked to be excused early. Her mother didn’t mind. They never seemed to speak at dinner anyway. So, she hurried upstairs and continued her unintentional incubation. The sun was going down that autumn evening, and Maj drifted off to sleep with the rat-bird in her lap.