February 13, 2017

PodCastle Miniature 96: Blackbird Pastry

* Author : Megan Branning

* Narrator : Louise Ratcliffe

* Host : Matt Dovey

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

PodCastle Miniature 96: Blackbird Pastry is a PodCastle original.

Rated PG

Blackbird Pastry

by Megan Branning

Sing a song of sixpence

A pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing.

Wasn’t that a dainty dish

To set before the king?

A dainty dish? Oh, I suppose, but did you never wonder how four and twenty blackbirds fit inside an ordinary pie? Well, just you ask my mother; she cooked it. She’s known for her baking skills—almost magical, some folks say. That’s why the king wanted her for his castle kitchens.

I saw that pie for myself, you know. They wasn’t blackbirds, not really. Magpies and rooks, they was. But mainly, it were the pastry what was interesting.

Mum had left me kneading dough while she went out to fetch more butter. Just like her. She always gives me the dull tasks. Who knows when she’ll teach me the good bits. I been asking her that for years.

Anyhow, I had the whole kitchen to myself, for once. But I wouldn’t for long. Some duke had ordered us to make a feast, to celebrate the king getting married to a new queen from some far-off country. My mother’s pie would be the most important part of the meal, the duke said. We’d been working since afore dawn.

So I sat down to have a rest while I could. That’s when I heard a bird squawking. It didn’t come from outside, neither. I went into the larder and noticed a cloth I’d never seen. I pulled it back, and what do you think I found underneath it? A cage full of birds, all fluttering about, noisy as you please.

One of them came right up to the bars and looked at me. And then he spoke. He truly did.

“Miss,” he said. “Let us out.”

“My name’s Belinda,” I told him.

“Belinda,” he said. “The cook means to put us in a pie today.”

I’d seen the crust cooling out on the table. Mum had asked me not to touch it. But it weren’t big enough for half the birds in that cage. “What, all of you?” I asked.

“All of us,” said the magpie. “Open the cage, please.”

“My mother’d have my hide if I let you lot escape.”

“Just me, then,” he said, and hopped to the door. “Please.”

“I don’t believe she means to put you all in the pie,” I said, and crossed my arms over my chest to show he didn’t have me fooled. “You wouldn’t fit.”

“I heard her say it. I’ll prove it to you if you’ll open the door.”

I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I were curious, and didn’t want to knead bread dough all morning, neither. I opened the door, and the magpie flew up onto my arm. The other birds didn’t even try to get out, but I shut the cage anyway.

I took him to the pie crust, and saw that it surely weren’t big enough to hold more than two or three birds his size.

“There, you see,” I said.

Well, he didn’t say a word, just jumped onto the table and swaggered about. Then he stopped, peered at the pastry, and in he went. He vanished, like he’d gone straight down a well. I swear, he did.

I knew my mum would tan my behind if I let that bird get away, so I jumped in after him. What else could I do?

It didn’t hurt when I landed. The ground felt like half-cooked dough. I sat up and looked about, and do you know something? It looked like dough, too. Hills and rocks all made of pastry crust dusted with flour, and smelling better than anything, let me tell you. Made me hungry.

I tilted back my head to see where I’d come in,

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