Parrots and Witches; Or, Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without Them, Life Is So Simple, Believe Me

Book Three Princess Tara Chronicles

Part Three Blue Tara Trilogy

By Michael Ostrogorsky

Copyright 2019 Michael Ostrogorsky

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Be sure to read Book One of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part One of the Blue Tara Trilogy: Blue Tara; Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess? available for FREE from Smashwords.

Follow Princess Tara’s continuing exploits with Book Two of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part Two of the Blue Tara Trilogy: The Princess Witch; Or, It Isn’t As Easy To Go Crazy As You Might Think, available from Smashwords.

Follow the continuing adventures of Princess Tara and her friends and villains with the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy. Part One of the Kālarātri Trilogy, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Refined, Book Four of the Princess Tara Chronicles, available from Smashwords.

Part Two of the Kālarātri Trilogy, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined, Book Five of the Princess Tara Chronicles, available from Smashwords.

How do you defeat a goddess who controls death and time? Can you? Find the answer in the third and last installment of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, She Was the Kind of Person That Keeps a Parrot, Book Six of the Princess Tara Chronicles, coming 2020.

The Princess Tara Chronicles are dedicated to the Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Princess Tara, my favorite witch. And yes, she really is a witch. I should know.

Special mention to the Blue and Gold Macaw Parrot Aboo, Princess Tara’s sidekick. Princess Tara is a hard act to follow, but rest assured, Aboo will get his place in the spotlight.

Special thank you to my editor, Helen O. Jones, for catching my mistakes.

Part Three of the Blue Tara Trilogy is dedicated to Anne. Anne is also a witch. But in a good way.

Introduction

My earliest memory ever is the first time I successfully walked. Me and my mom. Well, of course, my mom already knew how to walk. But not me. Me and my mom. We were in the kitchen of our first family home. Dad must have been at work. I can’t even remember how old I was. Couldn’t have been too old. I stood up by myself, leaning against a kitchen counter. My mom walked to the other side of the small kitchen, big to a little tot like me who had never successfully figured out this walking trick before. She wordlessly motioned for me to come to her. I remember feeling scared to death to try, fearing I would plop face down on the yellow linoleum floor if I dared, never to get up.

I desperately wanted my mom to come to me, but my mom kept motioning me to come to her. I finally relented and pushed off against the kitchen counter. One step. Then two. A third. A fourth and fifth. Thinking back on this adventure all these years later I can recall we had a small kitchen. Not too many steps required. I fell into my mother’s arms, upright, triumphant. Spent.

That’s life. Challenges and conquests. Falling flat on your face on the linoleum, picking yourself up, and trying again. They say death and taxes are the only things you can count on in life. I say bull. Taxes are for suckers. Just ask any politician. And death is a con game dreamed up by holy rollers, preachers and grifters. I have learned that death is just another challenge to overcome. Challenge itself is the only thing you can count on in life. No matter how many challenges you face and conquer, there will always be another challenge knocking you face down on the linoleum. Comes the true challenge when you grow up and become an adult. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. No, not the ones you think. Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. These are the greatest challenges of all. Overcoming these challenges is what makes life such a bitch. Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without them, life is so simple, believe me.

Prologue

We followed Kinqalatlala to the end of the hall. She waved her hand and a door appeared that I had not previously noticed. She entered the room beyond. We followed. Hamatsa stood in the center of an otherwise empty chamber, lit only by the florescent light flooding in from the hallway. I aimed my machine gun at him. What the fuck is this? I asked, glancing sideways at Kinqalatlala. She stepped to Hamatsa’s side.

You did well, my queen, Hamatsa said.

Capturing them proved easier than even you expected, my master.

A door opened at the back of the chamber and a squad of black clad Deportation Police decked out in black body armor filed in. Kill them! Hamatsa ordered. The goons lined up in front of Hamatsa and Kinqalatlala. They aimed their machine guns at us.

Wait! I cried out. You can’t do that.

Hamatsa repeated his order. Kill them! The goons pulled the triggers on their weapons. I closed my eyes. Nothing. I waited a few moments. Still nothing. I had been dead. This did not feel like being dead. I opened my eyes. Shoot them down, you fools! Hamatsa screamed.

The goons looked at their weapons, racked the charging handles, and pointed the barrels at us again. I could see their fingers pull the triggers. Nothing. Maybe this was my lucky day.

Hamatsa grabbed one of the goons and spun him around. Damn you. Give me your weapon! Hamatsa snatched the machine gun out of the goon’s hands. He racked the charging handle and pointed the weapon directly at me. I saw him pull the trigger. Still nothing. He ejected the clip, examined the clip closely, and smashed the clip back in place. He pointed the barrel at my head. I watched him pull the trigger. Nothing.

What the hell? I finally said. I turned to look at Blue Tara standing behind me. Are you doing this?

This is not my magic, Blue Tara replied. I do not know what kind of magic is in play here.

This is your magic, Kinqalatlala stated. I turned to stare at her, my jaw at my feet. Hamatsa turned to stare at her, his jaw at his feet.

Whose magic? I asked, as astonished as Hamatsa seemed to be.

You have been given the gift of the tlogwe.

I have?

Your destiny lies in your hands now.

I looked down at my hands.

The tlogwe is a gift of magic and power that you must master, Kinqalatlala said. If you fail to do so the magic will consume and destroy you. Hamatsa once grasped the gift of the tlogwe, but failed to master the magic. The power of the tlogwe corrupted and twisted him.

You fool! Hamatsa cried out. You really are the tlogwala. He pointed his machine gun at Kinqalatlala and pulled the trigger. A burst of bullets shredded her chest and flung her backwards into the dark room.

I pulled the trigger of my machine gun. Hamatsa’s head exploded into a cloud of blood red pulp. One of the Deportation Police goons pulled a bayonet from his gun belt and charged at me. A battle axe whirled past my ear and struck his head squarely between his eyes, flinging him backwards onto the floor. The other goons dropped their machine guns and drew their bayonets. An arrow pierced the skull of first one, and then another goon, knocking them on their backs. Jean opened fire with her machine gun and cut down the remaining goons.

I ran to where I saw Kinqalatlala fall. Even in the darkness I could see blood on the floor. But there was no body to be found. Jean dashed to my side. You okay sweetie? she asked.

Yeah. I guess so, I replied. I took a deep breath. I felt thoroughly exhausted. And scared.

Where did she go? Jean asked. Hamatsa shot her at point blank range. No way in hell could she have gotten up from that.

Yes he did, I replied. I assume she’s gone back to her world.

What do you mean gone back to her world?

Because I wished that for her. Call me crazy, but I visualized her flying free on Dluwulaxa the moment Hamatsa shot her.

It isn’t as easy to go crazy as you might think, Jean replied.

I dropped the machine gun and put my arms around Jean. I pulled her to me. I pressed my lips to hers. My tongue found her tongue. I see us spending the rest of our lives together, I told her. I love you.

I love you too, sweetie, she replied. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me to her chest.

Love

Chapter One

Part One

I closed my eyes. I could feel Jean’s breasts press into my chest. Loose strands of her long flowing brunette hair tickled my nose. Her breathes, initially short and rapid, slowed to a relaxed warm pulse against my cheek. Her clothes reeked of sweat infused with the stench of fired gunpowder. I could still hear the last echoes of machine gun fire fade across the darkened walls of the enclosure like the staccato clicking of a tap dancer’s shoes slowly drifting off a stage.

I popped my eyes open. I tried to step back from my girlfriend and focus on her face. My head commenced to swirl around my shoulders. Figuratively. Not literally. This isn’t a horror story, after all. I felt light footed, floating in air. In a windstorm. Whatever I ate last roiled my gut into a ball that kept inflating until I wished my gut would burst and end my misery. Puking did not seem out of the question. I tried to recall what I ate last. And immediately regretted the thought of food. I tried to turn off my brain.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I took a deep breath and focused my thoughts. A brilliant blue light manifested within my brain. I surrendered my will and let the light encompass me. A black shadow took form bathed in the blue light and gradually solidified into a human shape. Are you okay, baby? I heard the figure ask me.

I jumped out of my stupor with all the alacrity of a cowboy stepping on a rattlesnake. My eyes opened wide as saucers. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. I found myself prone on a sheet of pure white crystal, extending in every direction as far as the eye could see. I struggled to my knees. My eyes squinted from the brilliant rainbow-hued light streaming through the massive translucent wall of the crystal city of Dluwulaxa spread out before me. I was back on the crystal world of the bird people, the Dluwulaxa, floating in the sky on the lenticular clouds anchored to the summit of Mount Rainier. The black shadow stepped to me and blocked the blinding light from my face deflected by the crystal walls.

She stood before me. Tall. Svelte. Muscular. Dark skinned. Naked. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders and across her sculpted breasts. The seductress. Kinqalatlala. The black witch. Oh shit! I blurted out.

You are not happy to see me? Kinqalatlala grabbed my arms with her firm hands and pulled me to my feet. She could as easily have stabbed me with her hands. In fact, she had stabbed me with her hand. She had killed me. Killed me by stabbing me through my chest with her hand. Kinqalatlala was a shapeshifter with the disconcerting ability to transform her hands into steel blades. She had stabbed me through my chest and killed me, sending me to the spirit world to help her search for the tlogwe, the special gift of magical powers. The magic which, among other things, allowed one to travel between the worlds of the living and the dead. This was a magic which could only be bestowed by the tlogwala, the keeper of the tlogwe. This was a magic which could only be bestowed by the tlogwala on someone deemed worthy enough, brave enough, or foolish enough to enter the spirit world, willingly or not. The world of the dead. Problem was, the only way for a mere mortal like me to enter the world of the dead was by becoming, well, dead. By dying. By giving up the world of the living. Kinqalatlala killed me to send me into the world of the dead on a fool’s errand. As I learned, with the connivance of my own parrot, the hyacinth macaw Princess Tara, the manifestation of the blue witch Blue Tara, the mother of all the Taras, the coven of witches comprised of a pandemonium of parrots and one black cat.

Turns out, Kinqalatlala didn’t actually need my help to find the tlogwala or to discover the magic of the tlogwe. That’s because I learned she was the tlogwala. And the tlogwe was hers to give to anyone she chose. So she chose me. But her gift to me, if you can call killing me a gift, was not altogether altruistic.

Kinqalatlala is a creature of the sky. A composer of magic. A black witch. A shapeshifter. The cannibal warlock Hamatsa had enslaved her to make her his queen. She became Hamatsa’s slave when she fell to Earth from her sky world of Dluwulaxa and took human form. She served Hamatsa as his procurer of bodies. Because a cannibal warlock needs bodies to build his army of the dead. The laxsa. An army of the dead to seize control of the world of the living. Kinqalatlala dreamed of one day escaping from Hamatsa to return to her world in the sky. She needed me to help her break the spell Hamatsa cast over her. The magic that made her a slave to Hamatsa’s will. Well, maybe not so much me. She needed me only insofar as I could influence the coven of witches, the Taras, to use their powers and magic to fight Hamatsa and destroy his army of the dead.

Are you okay, baby? she repeated.

There was a complication. There is always a complication. In this case, love. My experience from years of failure taught me that complications always made love complicating. Regardless what the poets say, love is never simple. Or uncomplicated. At least that’s what I remember the poets saying. Some poets anyway. In my years of experience dealing with the futility of love I never experienced the novelty of a real live witch falling in love with me. Let alone two real live witches.

The reason I found myself enmeshed with the coven of witches known as the Taras was because one particular Tara, Blue Tara specifically, bewitched me. Blue Tara is not just any Tara. I encountered her first as the brilliantly cobalt blue feathered hyacinth macaw parrot Princess Tara. Her real name is Ekajati, the mother of all the Taras. Twenty-one of them, as a matter of fact.

Blue Tara first and foremost is a goddess. Or a witch. Take your pick of the word you’d like to use. That’s a semantical exercise basically meaning the same thing. Any being with the power to shape the world to her liking, to give life and take life, to bend time and shape space, is a goddess and a witch. Manifested as Blue Tara, she appears as a six foot plus tall muscular Amazonian warrior. Amazonian not in the jungle sense but the Jason and the Argonauts sense. A warrior goddess. An Amazonian warrior with one pendulous breast and one piercing yellow eye. Jagged scars cutting across her chest and face where her second breast and second eye should have been bore testament to countless battles with the gods and demons of the underworld. Moreover, Blue Tara literally is blue. From toe to head. Except her hair. Her untamed vigorous short-cropped jet black hair gave her a wild aspect.

The blue of Blue Tara is not just any old blue. Her crystalline blue skin glows like a Rainier glacier, muting the edges of her form, making her appear almost as an apparition. Except for her one piercing yellow eye. Her mesmerizing eye. Her one feature that stood out more than any other. Even when she stood totally naked. Which she always did when she manifested herself as Blue Tara. Her only adornment a huge blue steel battle axe slung from a belt around her waist.

Going out in public with a tall muscular crystalline blue-skinned Amazonian warrior totally naked except for a battle axe could be a problem, even in the free-spirited city of Seattle. In public she typically manifested herself as an enormous brilliantly cobalt blue feathered hyacinth macaw parrot. A hyacinth macaw parrot with a huge black beak capable of wrenching your fingers off. A hyacinth macaw parrot with piercing coal black eyes set in rings of yellow skin on each side of her giant blue head. A hyacinth macaw parrot named Princess Tara. That’s how I discovered her at a dumpy little bird store below Seattle’s Pike Place Market, run by an old black guy named Charlie. The store appropriately called Charlie’s Bird Store.

Truth be told, Princess Tara discovered me. I didn’t even have an interest in parrots at the time. But fate compelled me to walk through the door into Charlie’s Bird Store to meet this gigantic blue parrot. Somehow Charlie convinced me that getting myself a parrot would help me pick up chicks. And I don’t mean the poultry kind. I had been trying to snag a date with this cute barista at a coffee shop in my neighborhood for the longest time. I was getting desperate. But I didn’t pick Princess Tara. Princess Tara picked me. Princess Tara cast a spell over me. Princess Tara needed me to rescue her from the bird store before she could rescue me and my world from a diabolically evil cannibal warlock and his zombie army of the dead.

Are you okay, baby? Kinqalatlala repeated a third time.

This was the complication. I already had a girlfriend. Remember that barista I told you about? A girlfriend I loved. Okay, I will admit Princess Tara may have helped me out with that. I had a parrot that I had fallen in love with. A parrot that I discovered just happened to be a witch. A witch with a coffee addiction. And a fondness for pizza and beer. And then there was the black witch, Kinqalatlala. I had the distinct impression that when she wasn’t trying to kill me she was trying to make love to me. Like now.

Kinqalatlala took my hands in hers and pulled me to her. I closed my eyes as I inhaled the pungently sweet aroma of her body, like a freshly pulled arabica espresso. She draped her hands across my shoulders. Her breasts pressed into my chest. I knew you would come back, she whispered in my ear.

She pressed her lips to mine. Her tongue licked my lips and effortlessly slipped into my mouth. My tongue pressed against her tongue. And stayed pressed against her tongue. I opened my eyes. I stared directly into her burning coal black eyes. My will succumbed to hers. I wrapped my arms around her back and squeezed her body into mine. I sensed her spirit merging with mine. I felt my body melting into hers.

My body shook violently. Are you okay, baby? The abrupt question startled me. I opened my eyes. The brilliant light of the crystal world of Dluwulaxa, the city in the clouds, disappeared. The black witch Kinqalatlala disappeared. I found myself entombed in blackness. The blackness of the basement of Seattle’s City Hall.

My girlfriend Jean stood in front of me. Her hands grasped my shoulders. She shook me as hard as she possibly could, as if trying to awake me from the dead. A look of desperate concern creased her face. Jean had been my favorite barista in my favorite coffee shop back in my old Seattle neighborhood of Ballard, what seemed eons ago. I favored this particular coffee shop because Jean worked there. And she pulled a damn fine shot of espresso.

Her name is Linda Jean. Her friends call her Jean. I call her my girlfriend. Turned out she was a crazy parrot person too. She lived with an African Grey parrot named Corky. Reasonably tall, Jean appeared athletic without being an athlete. Good genes or healthy living or a copious coffee consumption gave her a perpetually youthful appearance. She tied her long shiny brunette hair back in a ponytail. Mournfully large pale brown eyes gave her a Slavic mystic like a ballerina in a Tchaikovsky ballet. I focused my eyes on hers.

We need to get out of here, Jean insisted. She shook me. Are you with me? she pleaded. The stench of lingering gunpowder brought me to my senses, as if Jean had smacked me over the head with a two by four. Snap out of it! Jean demanded, shaking me again. Where did you go?

I put my hands on Jean’s shoulders to try to restrain her. I stretched myself up. The strangest thing, I managed to reply. I stood on the crystal plain of Dluwulaxa just now. I could see my weak smile reflected in Jean’s questioning eyes.

Was Kinq. . . was she there? Jean stammered. That witch?

Which witch? I lamely joked.

Her brown eyes glared back at me. Don’t fuck with me. You know who I’m talking about. That black witch.

I don’t know if that wasn’t a dream, I replied. How could I be there when I’m right here?

You were there. Blue Tara’s voice struck me with the impact of a slap to my face. She grabbed my shoulder and pulled me around to face her. For whatever reason she chose, the black witch has granted you the gift of the tlogwe. You have the magic to be in two places at one time.

Blue Tara stepped to me. Her one breast pressed into my chest. She craned her head down and pinned her one gleaming yellow eye at me. I am five foot six tall. I had to bend my head back severely to return her stare. I felt mighty uncomfortable. And not just because of her moist hot breath washing down my face. The unsettling noxiousness of my roiling gut began to demand my attention. I wished I had skipped that last pizza I ate. My head bent back awkwardly, I started to feel very lightheaded and unsteady on my feet. Sensing my discomfort, Blue Tara grabbed my arms to steady me. Stay with me, she commanded. You must fight to control the tlogwe. Or the tlogwe will control you. If you do not master the magic the tlogwe will destroy you.

Buck up kid. My friend Michael stepped to my side. Dr. Michael Bulgakov taught history and archaeology at the U Dub, Seattle speak for the University of Washington. We shared an office back in my previous life as a struggling academic when I strived, and failed, to achieve tenure at the U Dub. Michael adopted a black cat he named Margarita. Not coincidentally, Margarita turned out to be one of the witches, one of the twenty-one Taras. Black Tara specifically, the Tara of vengeance.

Michael looked up at Blue Tara, a picture of incongruity. The contrast between the two seemed almost comical. Blue Tara, a towering statue of a Greek warrior goddess, ethereal in her glowing crystalline blue skin, wielding a battle axe in her hand. Michael, about my height. Mustachioed. Thinning hair. Noticeably pudgy in all the wrong places. Waving a machine gun around the room. How do we even know he’s got the tlogwe? Michael asked Blue Tara. He looked back at me. Do something, he asked.

Do something, what? I responded, perplexed.

I don’t know. Make something disappear. Disappear one of these bodies. Michael waved the barrel of his machine gun at the bodies of the dead Deportation Police goons scattered around the floor, lit only by the florescent light streaming through the door from the hallway outside. Prove you possess the magic.

I stepped back from Blue Tara and surveyed the enclosure. I closed my eyes. In my mind I rewound the recent events that transpired in this space like rewinding an old video tape. I replayed the events in my mind like a graphic novel, scene by scene. Kinqalatlala, the black witch, leading us into the trap set by the cannibal warlock Hamatsa. Blue Tara sporting her battle axe. Black Tara, the black steel-clawed feline dervish running between Michael’s feet. Red Tara. Kurukulla as she called herself. Red skin, except for her white face. The Tara of sensuality. Her four arms made her pretty handy with a longbow. White Tara. The