Kate slowly crept through the park. She looked around before taking each step, even on the grassy lawn, careful not to put a foot by mistake on a single fallen dry leaf that might crackle beneath the soles of her sneakers.

 

She slipped in between the first sheltering trees of a little copse of woodland. The noonday sun ceased to burn against her back. She stopped. Looked. Listened.

 

A rustle of leaves up ahead, and close too. And was that a brief skritch-skritch of tiny-toed bird feet skittering away?

 

Hefting the awkward bulk of the net-gun with her right hand, Kate reached down with her left and slid the slim length of a willow switch from between the confining straps wrapped around her leg.

 

She first held the willow wand horizontally in front of her, parallel to the ground, the thin narrow end in a loose grip between her fingers. Then, slowly, she lifted it up to a vertical position. Or almost vertical. Before it was quite erect, the limber butt end of the divining rod bent slightly, then straightened, bent again and straightened, only to bend once more in steady repetition. Each time it bent a little further, forward and to the left, to the right, up and down. Until it stopped its bob and weave and pointed its blunt tip forward and a little to the right of where Kate stood. Towards a small bush.

 

Kate couldn’t see anything through the leafy growth of the shrubbery. But she trusted her rod’s instinct without question.

 

She slipped the divining rod back under its holding straps on her leg. Then, keeping her eyes fixed on the bush, she slowly crouched down and felt around the ground with her free hand. Fingers wrapped around the smooth, hard surface of a small stone.

 

Still crouching, fist closed around the pebble, Kate took a moment to use both arms to re-settle the net-gun and rest it on her right knee, nylon-plastic butt stock tucked secure in her armpit, her right hand holding the trigger grip firm and ready.

 

With one swift motion of her hand, she tossed the pebble at the bush then grasped the gun’s forestock, balancing the weapon.

 

An outraged squawk. A golden-brown feathered fury erupted, shrieking, from the bush.

 

POOM! The net-gun bucked slightly in Kate’s arms as the CO2 cartridge discharged. The net spiraled out and away in an expanding whirling tangle of weighted filaments. The bird tried to dodge too late. It collided with the spinning net, the nylon meshes wrapped around it, pinioning its stubby little wings to its body. It fell, a prisoner, to the ground.

 

Kate set down the net-gun, rose to her feet and stretched, hands pressed behind her back, grimacing. Even a short stalk with the heavy net-gun was no picnic these days. But it was the best way for her to hunt with as little noise as possible in some of the places where she ventured. She never wanted to attract the attention of anything other than her prey, and even that was just at the very last

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moment before capture. A bow was not an option. Her aim on a fast draw sucked at the best of times, and her prey rarely gave her the luxury of a stationary target.

 

Speaking of prey, she thought. Bending down, Kate picked up one end of the nylon rope on the net-gun’s retrieval reel attachment. The other end of the rope was firmly secured to the net itself. The slim nylon slid between her fingers as she crossed the short space to the shifting bundle of net and bird.

 

The bird stopped struggling as she knelt down. One beady yellow eye watched as she drew out a medium-sized Bowie-style knife from a sheathe strapped around a calf.

 

One hand held down both bird and net. Kate slid the knife blade underneath the strands and began carefully cutting them until she had sliced enough of them apart to make a small hole. Still keeping a good grip on the captured bird, she stuck the knife in the ground and used her free hand to push the uncut net strands over and down from its head.

 

Not much bigger than a fat grouse at best, Kate thought, as she worked. Not going to be a whole lot of eating here.

 

Then the bird’s head emerged from the confining net. Kate could not help taking a breath in admiration.

 

Golden-brown plumage, with an almost metallic sheen, covered the head. Crowning the head was a tightly-clustered feathered topknot of old gold hue. Golden-yellow eyes, set closer together than normal for most birds regarded Kate with what seemed almost-human intelligence.

 

“Well,” Kate whispered, reaching for the knife stuck in the ground. “Pity to have to do this but ―”

 

Please, miss, said a wheedling voice in Kate’s head. Please don’t kill me.

 

Kate’s eyes widened. The bird’s beak remained closed but she had no doubt that the creature was speaking to her somehow.

 

Please, don’t eat me, the bird pleaded. If you spare me, I’ll grant you a wish.

 

Kate cocked her head to one side. “A wish? Really?”

 

The bird nodded. Just rub the feathers on top of my head and wish for whatever you want. Within reason, of course.

 

Kate nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Always within reason.”

 

Her arm swung up and across. The knife’s razor-sharp blade sliced clean through the bird’s thin neck. Blood spurted out. The head landed on the ground, beak frozen open in a silent surprised squawk of protest.

 

Kate held the body upside down to let the blood finish draining from the neck stump while she cut enough of the remaining strands to allow removal of the now-dead bird. She popped both the blood-bedraggled body and the little head in a large zipper plastic bag, unslung a canvas haversack from her back, and stuffed the game bag inside. She frowned down at the blood spatters staining her

T-shirt. Sighing, she used a shirt end to wipe the knife clean then slid it back in its sheathe. She gathered up the pieces of netting, pulled a large nylon carryall bag out of the haversack, and soon had netting and net-gun stowed away in the carryall before zipping it closed. She then slung the haversack onto her back again, hefted the carryall by its carry straps, and headed out of the woods.

 

As she left the park, Kate bumped into a short, very stout man with a wispy fringe of moustache under his nose and a very small and round bowler-style hat on his head.

 

“Excuse me, miss,” the man said, in a cultured but also somewhat whining tone of voice, “but I wonder if you might be able to assist me?”

 

Ignoring the man’s effort to engage her attention, Kate set down the carryall and consulted the pan-dimensional synchronizer on her wrist.

 

“I find myself in a bit of a quandary, I dare say,” the stout little man continued. “I seem to have left the bulk of my change in my evening clothes.”

 

Kate set the coordinates on the PDS and then the timer.

 

“I should be very glad to pay you Tuesday,” the man said, in a familiar wheedling tone.

 

Kate hefted the carryall again.

 

“For a hamburger todaaaaaay! Bless my soul!”

 

An electric blue nimbus surrounded Kate and her bag. Both winked out.

 

~ * ~

 

Al shook his head, while lifting a meat-filled fork to his mouth.

 

“I still cannot believe you actually went and killed it.”

 

Kate shrugged as she finished filling her own plate with meat, potatoes, mixed vegetables, a spoon-sized portion of cranberry sauce, and a liberal helping of gravy. “Wasn’t all that hard, really.”

 

“But it was the Magical Whiffle Hen!” Al exclaimed. “A classic bit of Popeye the Sailor folklore. I mean, the Whiffle Hen is the reason Popeye survived his first appearance in Elsie Segar’s Thimble Theatre comic strip.” Al chewed thoughtfully. “Kind of dry, though.”

 

Kate reached over and lifted up a small dish. “Try a little more gravy.”

 

They ate without speaking for a few minutes.

 

“Still can’t believe you killed the Whiffle Hen.”

 

Kate shrugged. “What else was I going to use for my Dame Fortune’s Thanksgiving Blessing recipe? It was either that or go to Duckburg and kidnap Gladstone Gander. And you know how I feel about eating anything that wears clothes.”

 

Al nodded. “True.”

 

“Besides,” Kate continued, “the real challenge with Grandma’s recipe was finding enough pesticide-free organic four-leaf clovers and three-leaf shamrocks to make the stuffing. You know, for a guy who spends most of his time hawking cereal, that leprechaun really likes to haggle.”

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