Rory had just turned nine when he first visited Nana’s house in Everdeen. His mom told him time and time again that he had visited many times before, but for some reason, Rory could never remember those earlier visits. It was as if trying to remember the earliest memories was a competition with himself, seeing how far back he could remember, where the memories became fuzzy and tumbled over themselves into a confusion of sensations and feelings. Those weren’t real memories, they were something else pretending to be memories. He knew that he had been here before, the house was familiar, but the years in between visits made it feel like eternity had passed in the intervening time.
He definitely would remember this birthday because of the new bike. Nana had given him fair warning before he set out for his first ride.
She grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him over carefully, her brown hair and barely lined face made her look like she was only but the older sister of Mom, something that Mom always grumbled about saying that Nana just had great jeans. Rory had no idea why blue jeans made Nana seem a lot younger than Rory’s friend’s grandmothers.
“Wear your helmet and mind my neighbors’ cars.”
“Yes Nana,” Rory replied dutifully.
“Ring your bell if you pass anyone, even if they see you ahead of time.”
“Yes Nana,” Rory repeated. He just wanted to go ride his new bike. Dad had set it up for him before they left for their mom-n-dad holiday. Lots of hugging and giggling involved, Rory had rolled his eyes every time they said it.
“And whatever else you do, remember to stay on the path around the Gulch.” Nana tugged on his shoulder sleeve to get his attention. It was straying like a kitten. “What did I just say, young man?”
“Stay on the path at the Gulch. Is that the first one or the second one?” Rory always got the ponds confused. They were called lakes, even though they were just ponds, but they all had different names, even though they were nearly the same. It didn’t make any sense.
Nana smiled kindly. “The big one across the street is Reservoir Three, that’s called Prince Lake, the dried out one behind the neighborhood is Reservoir Two, that’s Branson’s Gulch, that has the paved path around the big wooded area.”
“Where is Reservoir One then?” Rory shook his head. Another reason why it was confusing.
“There is no Reservoir One. Only two and three.” Nana stood up straight and adjusted her apron. She was baking a bunch of pies for Thanksgiving. “Stay on the path.”
Rory’s mom and dad were coming back from their holiday for Thanksgiving, and eventually, trudge back to the city to return to normal life. And that meant he had to go back to school. School was ok, but not going to school was way better.
“Yeah, yeah, I will stay on the path, Nana.” Rory wrinkled his nose and made one of his classic faces.
Nana grinned and lovingly patted his head. “I will know if you don’t. Grandmothers are given special powers when their grandbabies are born. We see everything.”
Rory was already running to the garage by the time she finished her declaration of grandmotherly super powers. He snapped the helmet around his chin, pushed the kickstand up, and tore out of the open garage and down the long driveway. Wind whistled through his handlebars and he turned towards the first lake. That was actually the third lake. Prince Lake. The other one wasn’t a lake because it was dried out, but it was still called a lake, but also Branson’s Gulch.
Rory shook his head. Adults could be silly with such things. They said odd things that just did not make any sense.
He turned down the street, and looked both ways for traffic (even though there were rarely any cars on the street), and pedaled his way towards the gravel path around the lake. He could see the other side, so it was not a like an actual lake that he was used to, the kind that disappeared at the edges as it carried onwards, blending into a fuzzy horizon. This lake was too wide to throw a rock across, but big enough that riding around it took a good twenty minutes or so. Prince Lake was also a wildlife sanctuary so there was no fishing allowed, no boats allowed, and there were birds everywhere. Little tiny birds all the way to owls, hawks, and storks… but the most of it was stupid geese and those mismatched ducks where the girl is an ugly brown and the boys have all the bright colors.
He biked all the away around the lake on the wide rolling gravel path, and turned between neighborhoods to follow a pavement path to the other reservoir that was not a reservoir, but still had a number, but was not a lake at all, just a wide forested area. It was about the same size as the actual lake though. If Rory squinted, he could imagine it filled with water.
Strange thing was this empty lake that was called the Gulch had hardly any birds. Just grasshoppers, crickets, and those invisible bugs that buzz buzz way up in the tree tops. The path was mostly paved on one side, with houses on the far side, and long empty creek bed that blocked off another side. It was nestled in between things, like it was a forgotten place. That is why Rory liked riding around it… it was ignored by all the moms with strollers and the fat joggers and the old ladies with their tiny white dogs that barked too much. It was just Rory, the stands of elm and cotton trees, and the thick tangled brush that kind of looked like a tree and a bush had babies all over the place. It looked like a place to have an adventure.
There could be treasure out there! Something like a long lost castle crumbling above with a kingly sum hidden deep in the earth somewhere in it’s courtyard. There could be a secret encampment of thieves in that brush, hiding away while they plan their next big job!
Rory pulled off the path onto a small overlook and pushed the kickstand with his toe. The overlook has a statue of what looked like angry chicken. He walked up to it, and laid a hand against one up raised claw, letting his hand rest on the burnished bronze. He glanced out among the brush and the trees, listening to the murmur of a breeze moving among the convoluted twisting maze of intertwined branches.
“The statue is a local legend…”
The voice came out of nowhere and Rory jumped nearly out of his skin. He spun in a quick half circle to find an old woman reading a book on a secluded bench peering at him with sly smile on her face.
“Sorry to startle you, young man. You must be Dennis and Leanne’s grandson? Rory is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rory finally managed. “I-I am.”
“You like the statue? My father made it.” She peered curiously at Rory over her half-moon spectacles.
“It is a nice statue. But why is that mad chicken a local legend?” Rory dropped his hand guiltily from the raised talon as if suddenly remembering it was there.
The old woman laughed brightly. “That’s not a chicken, its a dragon.”
Rory glanced back to the statue and studied closely. He had not noticed before, but the chicken was longer than it should have been and it looked like it had a long tail with a clump of feathers at the tip. Those details were hidden in the base if you weren’t looking for it. At first glance, yeah, just an angry chicken. Beak open, claw extended, and one wing raised in the air as if it was warning a rattlesnake off. The wing had talons too… that was odd.
“A particularly clever dragon species at that,” the old woman touched the side of her nose. “A survivor! Most places have their local wildlife… racoons, coyotes, maybe a bear or a mountain lion. Here at Branson’s Gulch, we have ourselves a Cockatrice.”
“That sounds like a bad word,” Rory grinned.
“I suppose it does.” She nodded thoughtfully. “My name is Mrs. Givins. But you can call me Merry, I don’t mind at all.”
“Merry?” Rory’s eyebrow went up.
“Like Christmas. Are you staying for a while?”
“I am out riding my bike… Merry.” Rory replied hesitantly.
Mrs. Givins laughed again. “I meant for the holiday, not here at the overlook. You are welcome to stay here as long as you want though. You are not bothering me… feel free to ‘hang out.’ Is that what it is called still? It has been a long time since I have ‘hung out.'”
“Yeah. I hang out all the time,” Rory grinned.
“‘Cool’ still a word?” Mrs. Given winked. “It was when I used it in the sixties.”
“Yes.” Rory nodded appraisingly.
“Cool,” she nodded in return.
“Why is the Cocka… Cocker… Coker-” Rory tried.
“Cockatrice.” She finished for him.
“Cockatrice, right. Why is it a legend?”
Mrs. Givins folded her book carefully into her lap and set it aside. “In Kenya, if you can across a Giraffe… would that be weird?”
“No?”
“And if you were above the arctic circle and came across a polar bear?”
“Definitely not. That would be normal, right?” Rory shrugged.
“A long time ago, other creatures roamed the world, and those creatures would be right at home in a place like this. Humans learned very early on to leave them alone, just like a human would avoid a mountain lion or grizzly bear. Some creatures are not worth disturbing.”
“Dragons aren’t real.” Rory grinned.
“What about dinosaurs?”
“Those are real, but they are not around any more. They died out millions of years ago.”
“Some dinosaurs died out, but some just changed along the way,” Mrs. Givins smiled a secretive smile, one that implied she was letting something slip. “You think all those birds at the Lake are there because birds have been always been around? They are just miniature dinosaurs, millions of years removed from their ancestors. And some didn’t die out or change.”
“Like the Cockatrice,” Rory said.
“Yes. Exactly. A little imagination and wonder is good for everybody, Rory. Even us old folks. Imagining that there are bigger, scarier things in the world helps us remember our own pasts when there were those scary things beyond our hut. There is a reason the dark is a primordial fear for all human beings. Because we are wired to remember that there are bigger things out in the dark. Things with sharp teeth, sharp claws, and large stomachs.”
“But not any more.” Rory smiled hesitantly.
“Maybe. Did your grandmother tell you to stay on the path?”
Rory felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yes?”
Mrs. Givins raised an eyebrow and made a humming sound. “Good advice for Branson’s Gulch, Rory.”
There was a soft rumble as if on queue from deep in the tree stands, something that sounded like the earth had resettled itself arbitrarily.
She smirked at Rory again.
“And that is Wella. Her mother,” Mrs. Givins pointed at the statue, “was called Ember. Dark red feathers, like crimson. Nearly. Wella has beautiful plumage, but not like her mother. Wella should be fairly active while you are here.”
“What.” Rory asked deadpan. He felt like Mrs. Givins was teasing him, but there was something in her voice that sounded like she was not teasing at all. Like a teacher sounded. Reliable. Truthful. It kind of made his stomach do a loop and then fall into his knees.
“She is brooding. Most likely there are two eggs in the clutch. They both hatch, the strongest one survives. Life goes on. Sometimes there are three and the strongest two make it, but it has been a lean cycle. Cockatrices are nothing but survivors, so three is very unlikely.”
“What.” Rory repeated. His stomach was now somewhere in his shins.
“She hasn’t eaten any kids for decades, but it could always happen. So stay on the path?”
Finally something broke in Rory and he jumped for his bike. It was mad. “Uh, bye, Mrs. Givins.”
“Say hello to your grandmother for me!” She called after him.
Rory rode like hell. His legs pumped until he screamed into the driveway, climbed off his bike in the garage, and puked into Grandpa’s garbage can.