Fresh Eggs (32 page)

The book Dr. Aram gave Rhea,
The Conference of the Birds
, was written centuries ago by the Persian poet Farid ud-Din Attar. Rhea used to read it to her chickens at night with a flashlight. It was how she met Joon. It was how she made sense of the many senseless things that were happening to her. She remembers what Dr. Aram wrote to her: “The book is about a journey. And I hope that you will find the time to read it during your journey.”

Rhea hopes the book will help tiny Joy on her journey. It is going to be a difficult journey. She finds the dog-earred page where she left off all those years ago. She reads:

“
A world of birds set out, and there remained

But thirty when the promised goal was gained
…”

Yes. That's right. Thousands of birds set out to find their king, the mysterious Simorgh. They were led by the Hoopoe. They flew through seven valleys, each one difficult and dangerous, until only thirty birds were left.

“
Thirty exhausted, wretched, broken things
,

With hopeless hearts and tattered, trailing wings
…”

Joy stops squirming and nestles against Rhea's puffy belly. There is a baby inside that belly, a baby that won't be born for another five months. Genetic meddling has seen to it that Joy will be both its aunt and its sister—just as she is already both a sister and a daughter to Rhea. Such are the difficult and dangerous valleys created by this much-too-modern world.

Rhea reads on: The thirty remaining birds finally reach the Simorgh's palace. A herald warns them to turn back, but they refuse. So the herald unlocks the gate and takes them inside. A hundred veils are drawn back. He leads them through blinding light to a throne and gives each bird a written page, on which their life stories are recorded. Only after they have finished reading do they see their king.

But the king they have endured so much to find is only a mirror. A mirror! And they see only themselves!

The ending does not surprise Rhea one little bit. “Would you like to hear it from the beginning?” she asks. “I can't read it all today—it's a long book—but I could read you a little bit?”

“Read,” says Joy. Her voice is as soft and sweet and vulnerable as the
peep
of a newly hatched chick.

So Rhea flips back to the first page:

“
Dear Hoopoe, welcome! You will be our guide
…”

Acknowledgments

Sometime in the 1950s my father cut a 26-inch section off a sheet of three-quarter-inch plywood. He first painted it white, then painted a half-inch black border around it. Then in bright red he painted this:

FRESH EGGS

He screwed hooks into the top of the sign and hung it on a post by the road. For years it swung there, inviting passersby to pull in for a dozen or two.

When the time came for me to begin a new novel in the summer of 1999, that FRESH EGGS sign started swinging in my mind. I searched the barn and found it. I scrubbed off the dust and mouse droppings, hung it on the wall above my computer and started writing. So thanks, Dad, for making that sign. And thanks, Mom, for not tossing it on the burn-up pile.

There are others to thank as well:

Like Karen Davis, Ph.D., whose book
Prisoned Chickens Poisoned Eggs
, proved to be an important resource, both technically and spiritually.

Like my dear friend and teacher, Dr. Manoucher Parvin, who introduced me to the rich history and culture of his homeland—in particular, the twelfth-century Persian masterpiece,
The Conference of the Birds
, by Sufi poet Faridud ud-Din Attar.

Like Dick Davis and Afkham Darbandi, whose beautiful translation of
The Conference of the Birds
I used.

Like Martin and Judith Shepard at The Permanent Press for making my dream—and the dreams of so many other writers—come true.

Like Anna Ghosh, my agent in faraway New York, who has waited patiently for me to find my way.

Like the Ohio Arts Council for its generous grant.

Like the helpful people at the Medina County District Library, which during the writing of this book, was named Library of the Year by the
American Library Journal
.

Like the Biliczky sisters, Carol and Joyce, and that ever-optimistic sheltie of theirs, Biscuit.

Like the little rag-tag flock of Buff Orpingtons and Bantams that run around our little farm here in Hinckley, Ohio.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2002 by Rob Levandoski

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1194-5

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