The horse’s name was Clive, and Abigail knew him, so at twilight she swept down to the paddock where the horses were munching their timothy hay and grain and drinking out of the trough that Bertie had broken the ice off for them; he was a good boy, Abigail thought, and took good care of the animals it was his job to care for. Though, she thought as she settled on the fence post closest to Clive, if you let the horses and dogs and sheep out to fend for themselves in the woods, they’d likely do just fine now that the men had hunted the bears and wolves to just about nothing.
“You didn’t tell me the girl could understand us,” Abigail said to him with no preamble. She and Clive were nearly the same age and had known each other ever since he was a colt who would wander into the big spruces out of curiosity.
“You didn’t ask,” Clive said around a mouth of grain. “And I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Well, it might,” Abigail said. “We’re trying to find a way to stop the train from being built.”
“Why?”
Abigail rolled her eyes owl-style, which is to say, she closed them all the way up from the bottom long enough for Clive to notice and then opened them again. “You tame animals. You think if you just keep letting the men do what they want, it’s going to end well for you?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Why, you ask? Because they’re collapsing our burrows and cutting our trees down. They’re scaring off and tramping down our food in places they always left to us. The train is pushing us out of our woods. And I worry that the next wood over, there’s going to be a train, and so on and so on.”
Clive seemed to think this over. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail shook her wings out, disgusted, mostly with herself. “It’s not like you’re the one building the thing. I shouldn’t take it out on you. We’re just scared, Clive. And the foxes are going to take things into their own paws if we don’t figure something out.”
Clive just chewed for a minute. The other horses were watching them sideways. “If you need me to tell Violet something for you, I can make her understand. Or if you want me to bring her to you so you can talk to her. I can’t make you understand her because she doesn’t speak our language. But somehow, she understands it, that’s for sure. She’s a good person, Abigail. Her and Bertie and their parents. Most folks in this village for that matter. The train is going to make their life better, they think, and that’s all they’re thinking about. That’s people for you. Their heads are like their roads—very straight, very narrow.”
Abigail nodded. “Thanks. Want a back scratch?”
“Aw, would you?” Clive nickered. In the winter with their long hair, the horses got itchy on their backs. Abigail was careful not to dig in with her talons. The other horses begged her, too, and chuckling, she jumped from one to another and walked up and down their backs until it was dark and time for them to sleep, and her to hunt.
The Rookery 