Page 17 of Following Their Heart

“Bernard, the pelican?” Doc asked.

“No, the other Bernard,” I deadpanned, feeling cheeky after our fun.

He reached across Cora and gave me the finger right in front of my face, like a twelve-year old. And like a fellow twelve-year-old, I grabbed that finger and twisted it—not hard enough to injure, of course, but hard enough to make him shake it out with a scowl.

“What did we say to him?” I asked.

Cora lay between us, yawning and covered in blankets. She completely ignored our antics, so focused was she on describing her dream. “I didn’t actually hear what you said to him, but I think the gist was that you, uh, used your Gifts on him.” At our confused expressions, she adds, “There was magic swirling around you. It was all shimmery. Doc touched Bernard first, and—” She pauses and makes a face like she stepped in manure. “Well, I guess Doc healed him from something. And then you petted him and talked to him and sort of, I don’t know, encouraged him while Doc was healing him.” She frowned. “I know it sounds weird, but it felt so real. It felt important.”

“Then I’m sure it was,” Doc said, and I agreed, and we held her together as she drifted to sleep, safe and sated in our arms. I had never been happier in my life.

“I guess, we play it by ear,” Doc says, and he struts into the cave with all the confidence of a seasoned trainer entering a lion’s den.

“All righty, then.” I follow with the fish. I have no idea what we will do, or how to use our Gifts on a pelican, of all things, but I trust in Cora, so I will try my best to do what she said.

Bernard’s cage isn’t deep inside the cave, only twenty paces or so. Mostly, he’s here because it’s far from the lodge, and he can’t see much of anything to report back to Raptor, however that works. There is plenty of ambient light from the cave’s mouth to make out the bird’s pale, beady eyes, pink beak resting on its chest, and gnarled, gray feet clinging to a make-shift perch of rope-wrapped PVC pipe. His feathers are the dingy color of a long-used dishrag, and the wispy ones on top of his head look like a crooked toupee.

I can tell this is a male bird, and an old one. Don’t ask me how I know. I am not an avian expert. My experience with animals is limited to what I learned on my family’s farm in Norway and my husbandry here at Eagle Peak. Yet somehow, I just seem to know that not only is Bernard old, he is weary, and he wants to return to his home in New Orleans. He misses his mate.

Wait. What? How did I know that?

“He needs healing,” Doc says beside me. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

We exchange wary glances, and I tell him what I feel about Bernard.

“Weird,” is his assessment.

“Yes,” I agree. “Weird.”

“Uh, hey, buddy,” Doc says, coming close to the cage. “How’s it hangin’?” He pauses, as if waiting for a response. Not getting one, he says, “I’m Doc, and this, here, is Shep. We’re here to, I guess, help you.”

Bernard blinks. His head tilts. He’s eyeing the bag of fish.

“Oh,ja.” I set the bag down and undo the hastily twisted tie. “These are for you.” I lift out a five-inch specimen and hold it near the cage for Bernard to examine. I suppose, when he lowers his jaw, it means he approves the gift. “Okay, friend. Here you are.” I reach through the bars and drop the fish into the lower part of his beak.

The lower jaw expands to accommodate the snack, and I see striations in it. The skin is soft and surprisingly pliable. The form of the fish is perfectly distinguishable.

I expect Bernard to snap his beak shut, but instead he seems to play with the fish. He tosses his head, making the fish’s form flop from the throaty-back part of his pouch to the front, where he sort of nibbles it with the hooked tip of his beak. Then he tosses it to the back again.

“Savoring it, huh?” Doc says. “Or maybe you’re making it seem like it’s alive? Flopping around in your mouth.”

“My mother always told me not to play with my food,” I say, but I’m smiling. It’s fun watching Bernard eat.

Ignoring my mother’s advice, he plays with it some more before finally tucking his beak to his neck and swallowing it with a shiver of his whole body.

“Can I give him one?” Doc says, and I hold out the bag to him.

For a while, we take turns feeding Bernard. He enjoys the freshwater fish, but he prefers species from the ocean. It is strange that I know that. I wonder if this is how Rev’s Gift works. Do thoughts just pop into his head as if they are known facts? How does he know he’s not simply making it up?

“I feel like I need to pet him,” Doc says. “Do you think he bites?”

“Only one way to find out,” I say.

Doc snorts. “You go first, then.”

“You’re the one who wants to pet him.”

“I don’twantto. I feel like I need to. It’s the same way I feel like he needs healing.”

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