The Skyward Marta - 2

Marta is struck in the deepest disobedience of her heart and mind. Her heart craves freedom, thought, and the philosophical virtues of humans, while her mind guards her from the killer butcher, ruthless ninjas, a flirty flamboyant rooster, and the petty food that sustains her flightless existence. Marta is a magnificent soul with two burning dreams: to fly like a godwit, and to think and paint her imaginations like Da Vinci. She carries an outrageous sense of humor, grilling the lame in her laughter machine and grinding ugly roosters into shame and disgrace.

Marta looks at the sky, wondering where its vastness ends, and how much space is left for her wings to paddle through, leaving an indelible, prideful trace. She imagines swaying her wings along rainbows, trying to add an eighth color to them. She joins kestrels momentarily to feel the elegance of hovering in the air. She competes with airplanes, trying to look more majestic and animated in flight, and mothers on the ground tell their children stories about the distant, brave chicken they see gliding far above. Marta imagines the stars are closer to her now, as is the moon and every celestial being, making her feel like the only creature on earth to taste such proximity. Just as humans swiftly change browser tabs in the commitment to intelligent reading, Marta swiftly changes from one patch of sky to another, savoring the charm of its everlasting impermanence.

While delighting in her time with the sky, Marta hears Fumiko’s distant warning shrieks, sharper and steeper than usual. Moments later, the butcher’s sons, Adrian and Nigel, open the barbed fence, stomping through the mud with heavy feet. When these two clowns enter the pen, it means only one thing: they are looking for a healthy chicken for the evening feast. Marta is terrified. She knows she is a few pounds too light for the butcher’s hands, but the clueless brothers never bother with arithmetic. For them, anything that looks attractive is the best choice, regardless of weight. For a moment, Marta despises the sunset she once adored, as its golden light glitters too brightly on her feathers, marking her for danger. She tucks herself into the boggy soil, turning herself grey, severing all ties to the golden glow she once loved. Her feathers, now coated in ugly grey, slip past the brothers’ searching eyes, sending them toward another unassuming chicken a few yards away.

While chicken gets easily culled, roosters gives a way to clownish brothers for its legacy gender for rooster fights, and populating the poultry.

Thus, Marta’s mental acumen shrinks in fear as she crouches in the repugnant kill factory this so-called pen that brews hatred and schadenfreude. She despises herself for muttering, “It’s not today,” to comfort her fear, and she deeply hates humans for their appetite for birds, especially for eating chickens. In fact, Marta discovers her own deceit: a transformation from self-pity into slight crocodile tears, comforting herself that she isn’t the one being killed today, even if it means another innocent chicken will die. She questions: If humans are so powerful, why can’t they farm lusty vultures and eat them? Why can’t they raise a million falcons for their Sunday feasts? All their so-called power is used to breed powerless, flightless chickens by the millions, just to fill their plates.

The demeure luxueuse, royal house, is a mile from Marta’s residence, the cruel poultry pen. In a village of homes built from inferior wood, this house, usurped from rich timber, stands apart. It boasts a lawn with swans who will never see a butcher’s shop and has ministers of servants attending to the prince of the house, Lucien, who always appears in dandy clothes and speaks in thick Gascon French.

In Lucien’s world, language never carries anything foul or derogatory; it rewards only pleasant, loving conversation. The wealth of this house, built over generations, awes the nearby town. The attic is spectacular, a cynosure for passersby, and the air smells of fresh flowers decorating the wrought-iron balconies. The steep roofs speak of the best engineers and craftsmen who shaped them, while the living room is styled to spotlight Lucien’s shimmering face and majestic benevolence. The hallways are filled with ecumenical wooden décor, each piece a testament to collected wealth.

The rural bourgeoisie – wealth from the dishevelled feathers of chicken

Yet the collective wealth of this house is squarely proportional to the countless chickens who lost their wings for people’s diets across France. Lucien’s family legacy is built undeniably upon the sale of the finest chickens in the country, and Boris’s farm is just one among many that supply these flightless birds for the tables of the privileged.

To be continued ....

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