HOOTERS

BODIES,BODIES,BODIES

Not all spells last forever; some expire like milk, others just stick on you like a child you never asked for. The drunken spell cast by Shambayati turning soldiers into squeaking rodents didn’t last. Unfortunately, it wore off in the most inconvenient of places.

One spy re-materialized mid-chew inside the jaws of an unsuspecting housecat, whose skull was the first casualty of the transformation. Another reappeared beneath a couple’s bed as the bed screeched and went up and down clearly begging for mercy. Two came back into human form running away from another feline. The four, men again, run, legs trembling, dignity long gone, to report to the one person who still thought fear was a leadership strategy, King Aurel.

They arrived panting, bruised, and bleeding in places that shouldn’t bleed. And when they recounted what had happened, the transformation, the near deaths, the enchantment that melted away like hangover sweat, silence filled the hall like a held breath.

Aurel didn’t speak. He simply stood. The sound of his robe brushing the floor was louder than their words. Aurel snatched both swords from the guards beside him with the elegance of a dancer and drove both blades into two of the spies like it was his signature move in a ballet choreography. Perfect sync. No hesitation.

The room fell still. The remaining two spies still, scared by mouse trauma and the mad tyrant before stood frozen.

“Run,” Aurel said, voice low, eyes empty.

They hesitated, just a heartbeat before bolting for the palace gates, a glimmer of hope tucked in the eyes as they glanced at each other, just a few feet away from the gate. They almost made it. Almost.

But the king’s archers were quicker than mercy. Two arrows, one for each, sank clean into their necks through their mouths just before their hands could touch the iron bars of freedom. They died sprawled on top of each other with blood quickly cleaning the floors.

That’s one way to kill hope.

There stood a king, blood-soaked robe, and quiet glances torn between allowing the disrespect of his and saving face.

Meanwhile, Pearl awoke to an empty bed. No Shambayati. Only silence. Dread slipped into her chest like a thief. She ran to the beach, wind slapping her face, heart pounding. Nothing. Not a soul. Just the whispering waves and a few crows with trust issues. She returned to Al-Kane’s hut and collapsed onto his bed, clutching his sheets like they could give her answers. For hours she cried until exhaustion led her into a tear-soaked sleep. Just before dark, she awoke to howling of wolves which was unusual and could only be associated to Shambayati. Pearl burst outside and saw two silhouettes approaching—Shambayati and Al-Kane, one limping, the other dragging a long, and a wrapped body. A hooter-sized body. She ran. “What… who is that?!” Shambayati answered first. “Your father.”

Al-Kane’s demeanor was that of desensitization. His voice barely hung together. “He was dying… He summoned us. Told us things. Things that…” His voice cracked.

Pearl stopped breathing.

Al-Kane continued, choking on every syllable.

“Barton was the one who had the affair with the queen… but he was sterile. He couldn’t reproduce. Meaning King Alfred turned his own son—me—into a hooter.” He swallowed hard, like the truth was stone.

“And he said my mother… the queen… is still alive. Somewhere in the palace.”

Pearl collapsed, her knees failing. Shambayati caught her just before she hit the ground.

She sobbed into his chest. “Aurel… he killed her. I saw it. I saw everything in the village.” Recounting the gruesome details of the bloody scene.

Grief erupted in Al-kane like pompeii. His usually bold demeanor suddenly changed with a drop of a tear escaping from the corner of his left eye. He wiped quickly to salvage his toughness.

They buried Moufaka under the old tree where he used to hum lullabies that never made sense. No candles. No prayers. Just silence, Dirt. And loss.

Later, back in the hut, Al-Kane sat alone. Still.

The king who cursed him was dead. The brother who replaced him had murdered his mother.

Something inside him clicked, and it was not peaceful. He would make them all pay.