Perhaps it was the work of a fox.
That is most unlikely; foxes, rats and suchlike vermin have long been obliterated.
Maybe there still remain some in the Mists.
What lives in the Mists, keeps to the Mists.
Gallan and Raddia sat opposite to each other at the dining table of Lorn and Navva, slowly and soundlessly consuming a bowl of whiteroot soup. As all Mates in the presence of their Makers, they didn’t speak unless explicitly addressed – which suited them fine, especially on an occasion like this, when there was a important matter for the elders to discuss. At first, Raddia had been apprehensive about reporting the bizarre and ghastly slaying of the fowl, (in fact, it was Gallan who broke the unfortunate news), but no suspicion had fallen upon them, for no Mate could ever conceal an act of such irrational cruelty and its emotional repercussions from the penetrating mind-dissecting his or her Maker.
A trick learnt instinctively by all Mates in their childhood was to concentrate on the image of a specific thing, because worldess thoughts were harder to perceive. Gallan, for instance, was at present thinking hard of the whiteroot plant, its sharp sour taste when eaten raw and the surprising sweetness brought out by its cooking. However, the mind being a skittish beast, the moment he heard the word ‘fox’ – a creature he knew only by description, as a voracious killer – a sentence formed before he could stop it: But the chickens hadn’t been devoured.
Instantly, Lorn turned his long, wrinkled face and his moist eyes (showing a faint spot of grey in the centre, though Gallan had only overheard about it in a fragment of Navva’s thought – for there was no greater impudence than to look one’s Maker in the eye), settled upon Gallan’s face; he could feel the touch of the old man’s inquisitve gaze making his skin dry, as if by a thin coating of grit. You mean the carcasses were intact? Lorn enquired.
Indeed they were, o Wise and Noble One, Gallan replied, frenziedly trying to decide whether he should go back to thinking about whiteroots or if it would seem suspicious.
Don’t fear, Navva said, her whispery voice filling his mind like sweet-smelling smoke; though it was easier said than done, for Navva, like many women her age who considered the gradual colouring of their eyes a very private affair, to be shared solely with their Mates, wore a long veil that hid her face completely, so that whenever she spoke, the words were for a moment indistinguishable from the sound of her breath and the rustle of the milcloth, like an obscure utterance in the Original Language. Give us a thorough account of what you saw, she added.
As you wish, o Wise and Gentle One. I searched the chicken coop meticulously, using our brightest glowstone; at first it appeared that someone or something had merely cut the fowl’s heads off, without harming their bodies; but in the corner of the coop, half hidden beneath an upturned nest, there was a hen whose head was still connected to its neck by a tendril of bloody gristle.
Obviously bored with the subject, Lorn sat back, took his bowl in his hands and tipped its contents into his mouth, noisily draining the soup despite Navva’s quiet tutting.
And how do you interpret this fact? she asked Gallan.
It was a fox, I tell you, Lorn insisted, but was ignored.
I – I thought... Gallan faltered, that perhaps the chicken... attacked each other?
The Makers briefly considered this in silence; then Navva spoke again.
Granted, they are revolting things, little better than the worms they kill, and prone to eating their own kind – but only if they’re starving. I take it yours were sufficiently fed?
Though shaking from her own insolence, Raddia jumped to her Mate’s defence. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, o Wise and Gentle One, but they most certainly were. Their feeders were brimming with corn, as always.
It’s a mystery then, Lorn said. Or, should I say, another mystery. Oh dear; I suppose we shall have to inform the Circle.
One should refrain from speaking of the Circle beyond the Domicile, Navva chided him, like she often did, as if she were not Lorn’s Mate but his Maker; a quick mind-grin passed between Gallan and Raddia, who enjoyed these reprimands, as well as the fact that, for all their wisdom, nobleness and gentleness, Makers were equally unable to mask the sound of their mind-talk. Then the red faceless form sighed and said, You two, finish up and hurry home to pluck and cure the chickens; there’s no point in wasting the meat.
They both muttered obediently, but the thought of the beheaded hens made Raddia’s stomach turn; all food was dead, but there was eating a dead thing and then there was eating a corpse.