She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Refined

By Michael Ostrogorsky

I used to be a normal person, until I met a parrot. Not any parrot. Normal people don’t argue with parrots about coffee drinks. Even normal parrot people don’t argue with their parrots about coffee drinks. But Princess Tara isn’t a normal parrot. I stopped being a normal person the fateful day I walked into Charlie’s Bird Store below Seattle’s Pike Place Market and walked out with a gigantic beautiful blue hyacinth macaw parrot with a four foot wingspan.

Sure, she looks normal. Normal as any gigantic gorgeous brilliantly cobalt blue-feathered hyacinth macaw parrot might look. Completely blue from the tip of her lengthy tail to the crown of her enormous head. Completely blue except for that huge black beak and those inscrutable coal black eyes set on either side of her face. Coal black orbs set in rings of stunning bare yellow skin.

Although parrot people are thought to be crazy, I didn’t stop being a normal person because I got a parrot. I stopped being a normal person because I got a parrot who just happens to be a princess. And a witch. A witch with a coffee addiction. A witch named Princess Tara.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Ostrogorsky
• Release date: May 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463463765

Michael Ostrogorsky

Michael Ostrogorsky, Ph.D.s, History & Archaeology. Publisher. Blue Parrot Books. Parrot and coffee bean wrangler. Living in Seattle with two parrots. One of the parrots is big, blue, and a princess. A princess who just happens to be a witch. A witch with a coffee addiction. A witch named Princess Tara.Book One of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Blue Tara; Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess? now available.Book Two of the Princess Tara Chronicles, The Princess Witch; Or, It Isn't As Easy to Go Crazy As You Might Think, now available.Book Three of the Princess Tara Chronicles, completing the Blue Tara Trilogy, Parrots and Witches; Or, Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without Them, Life Is So Simple, Believe Me, now available.Book Four of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part One of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Refined, now available.Book Five of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part Two of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined, now available.How do you defeat a goddess who controls death and time? Can you? Find the answer in the hair-raising head-lopping caffeine fueled conclusion to the Kālarātri or Black Night Trilogy, She Was the Kind of Person That Keeps a Parrot, Book Six of the Princess Tara Chronicles, NOW AVAILABLE!

Book preview

Introduction

I used to be a normal person, until I met a parrot. Not any parrot. Normal people don’t argue with parrots about coffee drinks. Even normal parrot people don’t argue with their parrots about coffee drinks. But Princess Tara isn’t a normal parrot. I stopped being a normal person the fateful day I walked into Charlie’s Bird Store below Seattle’s Pike Place Market and walked out with a gigantic beautiful blue hyacinth macaw parrot with a four foot wingspan.

Sure, she looks normal. Normal as any gigantic gorgeous brilliantly cobalt blue-feathered hyacinth macaw parrot might look. Completely blue from the tip of her lengthy tail to the crown of her enormous head. Completely blue except for that huge black beak and those inscrutable coal black eyes set on either side of her face. Coal black orbs set in rings of stunning bare yellow skin.

Although parrot people are thought to be crazy, I didn’t stop being a normal person because I got a parrot. I stopped being a normal person because I got a parrot who just happens to be a princess. And a witch. A witch with a coffee addiction. A witch named Princess Tara.

She Was Not Quite What You

Would Call Refined

Chapter One

Part One

I kept reassuring myself that debating coffee preferences with a parrot is perfectly normal. Especially a parrot with a coffee addiction. I lounged on a metal chair outside my favorite Seattle coffee shop, Caffe Umbria, in the quaint village of Ballard, my neighborhood in north Seattle. My back leaned against the shop window. Princess Tara sat on my lap. She studied a cup of coffee I held in my hand, an iced americano in a plastic cup. I fixed my eyes on the old Ballard City Hall bell tower across the street to avoid the stares of customers scurrying into or out of the coffee shop. I tried to pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary about a gigantic gorgeous blue-feathered hyacinth macaw parrot sitting on my lap carrying on a conversation with me about my coffee.

Princess Tara pinned one of her big coal black eyes on my face. Because her eyes are set on opposite sides of her head she could only pin one big black eye at me at a time. This made the eye pinning even more disconcerting to me. I kept my eyes focused on the crows cavorting on the bell tower. Princess Tara dropped her head and seized my thumb with her beak. She squeezed. Hard.

Ouch! I blurted out. My gaze fell to Princess Tara’s huge black beak squeezing my thumb. With the equipment to exert three hundred pounds per square inch, that beak could take my thumb clean off, if she wanted to. Thankfully, she generally did not want to. I yanked my thumb out of her beak.

I want a frappuccino, Princess Tara insisted. She knocked her beak against my iced americano, sloshing coffee onto my lap. A couple of people stopped to stare at us. I looked up. A young couple standing next to the table looked down at me. They held hands. Their other hands held coffee cups just purchased in the shop. I studied their hands. Dark skinned. Middle Eastern or North African. Most likely Amazon or Microsoft techies. The woman flashed a brilliant grin at me. What a beautiful bird, she said, with a distinctly British accent. Does it talk?

I could almost see my reflection in her gleaming ivory smile. Of course the bird talks, I thought to myself. The woman just heard her talk. Maybe she thought I was a ventriloquist. Oh yeah, I finally replied. When she wants to.

Can you make it talk? the man asked, with an accent more south Asian than Middle Eastern.

Princess Tara cocked her head to glare at the man. We are trying to drink our coffee! she exclaimed, in the sultriest voice this side of Lauren Bacall. The man jumped back a step. He almost dropped his coffee cup in surprise. The woman burst out laughing. She danced away, pulling her boyfriend with her. They parked at the table farthest from us. The man kept glancing, suspicious, at us.

Princess Tara yanked my thumb again to bring my attention back to her. I want a frappuccino, she repeated.

I glared at her. I took a sip of my iced americano. They don’t have frappuccinos here, I insisted. Frappuccinos aren’t good for you. Anyway, I drink americanos. I set the cup on the table next to Princess Tara. Princess Tara’s head dropped to the cup. Her beak bopped up and down like one of those plastic dunking birds.

Coffee can not be good for your parrot, a woman’s voice reproached me. I looked up. A woman stood next to the table, coffee cup in her hand, looking down at me. More precisely, she stared down at Princess Tara. Should your bird be drinking coffee? she continued. I glared at the woman. I made a mental note not to sit at the table next to the door again. Especially this time of day when the tables were mostly empty. Too late for the lunch crowd. Too early for the after-work rush.

Princess Tara stretched up her head. She shook coffee off her beak. She cocked her head to pin a coal black eye on the woman. Mind your own business, Princess Tara said, her voice expressing my annoyance.

The woman laughed. Not the response I expected. She set her coffee latte down. The woman swung a chair around from the adjacent table. She slid into the chair before I could respond. Did I hear that right? she asked, her bemused eyes fixed on Princess Tara. She glanced at me. Are you a ventriloquist? Or anything like that? she asked, peering into my face.

My eyes glared back at hers. What is she? A goddamned mind reader? I pondered.

The woman extended her hand across the table. My name is Circe, she offered.

Albeit reluctant, I took her hand. Jason, I replied. A shock, like static electricity, jumped from her fingers to mine. I reflexively tried to yank bank my hand. Her hand clamped onto mine.

Sorry, she said. I think that is the unusual dryness for Seattle this time of year. I get static shocks from just about anything I touch.

No problem, I lied. My fingers tingled, masking an alarm bell buried in the recesses of my mind that tinkled ever so slightly, almost imperceptible. The woman’s cobalt blue eyes captivated me. As cobalt blue as Princess Tara’s feathers. Penetrating as a winter rain squall blowing off Elliott Bay. Princess Tara nipped my thumb again. Ouch! I exclaimed. I pulled my hand out of Circe’s grip to rub my sore thumb.

Someone with good taste in coffee, Princess Tara remarked. She hopped off my lap onto the table to scamper to Circe’s cup. Princess Tara plunked her beak into the latte.

Careful that is too hot! Circle cried out. She tried to pull the cup away. Princess Tara batted Circe’s hand with her beak. Just like a hyacinth, Circe quipped, flashing me a broad smile.

You know what a hyacinth is? I blurted out, my voice reflecting my surprise.

Of course, Circe replied. I have one of my own.

What? I exclaimed, trying not to spit out my coffee. Princess Tara’s head popped out of Circe’s coffee cup. She stretched out her wings and commenced to flap excitedly. Circe retreated into her chair in surprise. I put my hand on Princess Tara’s foot to keep her from flying off. Easy girl, I said.

That is right, Circe said, watching Princess Tara fold her wings against her body. A sweetheart named Abigail.

I stared at Circe in bewilderment over my iced americano. Slight. Lithe. Unnaturally red hair. Short cropped to give her a tomboyish cast. Gold chain wrapped around her neck with an ivory talisman of some mythical winged creature dangling from the chain. Rings of every imaginable variety adorned her fingers. Sterling. Gold. Hemp. Leather. Jade. Brass. Copper. None appeared to be a wedding ring. Circe looked thoroughly northwest. Blue jeans. White running shoes. White T-shirt. Brown down vest. Blue fleece jacket. No discernable makeup. Abigail? I repeated the name as a question.

Circe smiled. I did not mean to interrupt you. Just that you do not see too many hyacinth macaw parrots around. Do you mind?

Are you kidding? I thought to myself. Quite all right, I replied. You seem to have made a new friend, I added, nodding at Princess Tara, her beak back to bobbing into Circe’s coffee.

Seriously, though, Circe continued, should your bird be drinking coffee? I have heard caffeine is bad for parrots.

I peered at Circe over my coffee cup. I took a sip of my iced americano, trying to figure out if she was putting me on. I guess a little coffee never hurt anybody, I suggested. I waved at Princess Tara. You better grab your coffee though, before Princess Tara empties your cup, I quipped.

Princess Tara? She is royalty? Circe gingerly reached her hand toward Tara’s beak to retrieve the cup. She is a she, then? Circe snatched back the coffee cup. Princess Tara flung her head up. She furiously shook coffee off her beak.

Yes. And yes. She’s a she. She’s also a real princess. Her parents are a Duke and a Duchess.

Oh my god! Circe jumped forward in her chair, nearly spilling what coffee remained in her cup. Those are Abigail’s parents! Abigail and Tara are sisters. I do not believe this. Princess Tara stretched out her wings again. She resumed flapping. How long have you had Tara?

Just a few months actually.

And you take her out without a harness? Her wings clipped?

Oh no. She’s fully flighted. She flies when she wants to.

My god! Circe exclaimed. You are not afraid she will fly away? I would be scared to death to take Abigail out of the house.

Princess Tara’s always come back so far, I chuckled, more wistful than humorous.

Where did you get her, if I might ask? Circe stretched her hand across the table. Her fingers brushed my arm. The hair on my arm stood at attention as my arm absorbed the static shock of her touch. Sorry to give you the third degree. Circe winked at me.

Oh, I’m used to that. Got Princess Tara at Charlie’s Bird Store down at the Market. True Seattleites refer to the famous Pike Place Market as ‘the Market’.

I know Charlie, Circe replied with a grin. She patted my arm. That is where I buy Abby’s food. Circe offered her coffee latte to Princess Tara. Tara fluffed up her feathers and retreated to my lap.

Remarkable, I thought. I had never seen Tara refuse coffee before.

Abby? I queried. That’s your bird’s name? And she’s a she, too?

Yep. Abby. Short for Abigail. She is also a female.

I felt Princess Tara’s claws clamp into my thigh. You live here in Ballard? I ventured, trying to suppress a grimace. Over Circe’s shoulder I noticed the young couple at the end table jump to their feet and hurriedly gather their possessions. I sensed something was wrong. Princess Tara did too. She hopped onto the table. She stretched up her head. Tara fluffed out her feathers like a giant blue pincushion.

Hold up! a voice commanded. The young couple froze. Goosebumps crawled up my back. A trio of cops surrounded the couple. Not blue clad Seattle Police. A trio of black clad federal Deportation Police. Black boots. Black pants. Black shirts. Black coats. Black sunglasses. Black bulletproof vests. Black machine guns slung over their shoulders. Only part of their uniforms not black were the words

ICE

POLICE

stamped across the back of their bulletproof vests in big white block letters. In a different century they would have worn brown shirts. Harbingers of chaos and fear. Perfectly suited to be Dear Leader’s personal Praetorian Guard.

∆∆∆

The young couple turned to face the cops, their heads drooped, submissive. We are not doing anything wrong, the man pleaded. Circe pivoted in her chair to take in the scene.

One of the three goons put out a gloved hand. The hand shoved the man backwards. That is for us to decide! the cop barked. The cop stepped forward, arm extended. He pushed the man back into his chair. Stand up! the cop ordered.

To say I was surprised to see Deportation Police in Seattle would be a gross understatement. More like astonished. The goons had made themselves scarce within the city limits following the recent collapse of Dear Leader’s puppet regime. With the restoration of the lawfully elected mayor, loyal Seattle Police assisted by the Washington National Guard flushed the Deportation Police out of the city. The appearance of uniformed Deportation Police on the streets of Seattle this soon after the restoration of civil government could only be interpreted as a provocation by federal authorities.

Stand up! the cop demanded again. Tall. Gaunt. Unusually pale face even by Seattle standards. Head capped with a shock of unruly white hair. Eyes hidden under black wraparound sunglasses. His victim jumped to his feet, perplexed. The cop shoved him back into the chair. Stand up! the cop barked at the visibly distressed man. The cop grabbed the man’s shoulders and yanked him to his feet. Stand up when I tell you to stand up! the cop snarled. I thought I caught a glimpse of a fang protruding through his lips. The cop’s gloved hand whipped out to strike the man across his chin. The man fell back into the chair. The chair toppled over onto the sidewalk.

The young woman screamed. Circe rose out of her chair. I reached across the table to grab Circe’s arm to restrain her. Circe looked at me, her cobalt blue eyes plaintive. I shook my head. I mouthed the word ‘no’.

The young woman rushed to her friend’s side. One of the cops seized the shoulders of her jacket. The cop pulled her away from the man. The cop spun her around. His gloved hand smacked the side of her head. The blow knocked her across the curb. The woman toppled onto the street.

Circe jumped to her feet. What are you doing? she cried out. The third cop slipped his machine gun off his shoulder. I put my hand to my face. This day was not going to end well, I thought to myself. I peeked through the fingers of my hand. One of Princess Tara’s coal black eyes burned back into mine. Circe ran to the woman sprawled across the pavement. She pulled the woman to a sitting position. Blood trickled down her neck from a nasty bruise across the side of her face.

Mind your own business, the tall cop responded, before I arrest you for aiding and abetting.

Circe jumped to her feet, her face flushed red as her hair with anger. The cop towered over her. She craned her neck to yell at the cop. You do not have any jurisdiction here! The cop seized Circe’s arm. Stop! Circe screamed. You are hurting me.

I jumped to my feet, knocking the table over. The coffee cups crashed to the sidewalk. Princess Tara squawked. Wings flapping, she leaped into the air. The third cop pointed his machine gun at me. He racked the charging handle. I could see his finger squeeze the trigger. Circe could too. She screamed. Hands raised defensively I squeezed my eyes closed. Princess Tara screeched. I waited for the burst of machine gun fire. I heard. . . silence. I pressed my hands to my chest. I could feel my heart racing.

Oh my god! Circe exclaimed.

∆∆∆

My eyes popped open. I examined my hands. No blood. I found myself standing next to my chair. I could see two coffee cups on the upright table next to me. I looked to see the young couple running down the sidewalk. The man, his arm draped over the woman’s back, kept glancing over his shoulder at me, his face frozen in terror. My eyes searched up and down the sidewalk. No Deportation Police. The goons had vanished. Disappeared. No cops. No black uniforms. No machine guns. Princess Tara rested on the back of Circe’s chair, one foot tucked up into her feathers. One coal black eye stared at me. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Circe rushed to me. She grabbed my arms. What just happened? she asked, breathless, her face blanched white as a Cascade snowpack.

I peered into her frightened eyes. You don’t want to know, I replied. I gave Princess Tara a questioning glance. Tara returned her inscrutable stare.

Circe’s hands gripped my hands. I saw a. . . a blue woman, she offered, her voice quivering. A. . . glowing. . . naked. . . blue. . . woman, she added, her words halting. Circe’s deep blue eyes burrowed into mine, digging for answers. All the hair on my body stood on end, either from the static discharge of Circe’s fingers, the pressure of her penetrating eyes, or my brush with death. My eyes, shy and sheepish, returned Circe’s gaze. You know something you are not telling me. What the fuck just happened? Circe repeated, her voice more heated.

I don’t know, I replied, my words truthful. I honestly didn’t know. My eyes were closed, I clarified. I thought that cop was going to shoot me.

I heard your bird screech. This blue woman appeared out of a flash of blue light, Circe explained. I could feel my face flush. Circe’s eyes grew wide as coffee cups. A tall naked woman with glowing crystalline blue skin. She held an enormous battle axe in her hand. She lopped off the head of the cop with the machine gun. His head flew off his body. The head rolled down the sidewalk. She took off the heads of the other two cops when they tried to shoot her. Then there was another flash of blue light and the naked blue woman, the battle axe, the cops, the heads, they all disappeared. And that is not the strangest thing, Circe insisted. I held my breath in anticipation of the strangest thing. The naked blue woman had just one gleaming yellow eye. And just one breast. I smiled weakly. Circe shook my arms. You know something you are not telling me.

∆∆∆

I see you met my house mate, a woman’s voice interrupted Circe. Princess Tara squealed. She hopped off the table onto the outstretched arm of a woman standing on the sidewalk next to us. Reasonably tall. Attractive. Athletic build. Pale Seattle skin. Long brunette hair tied back in a ponytail. Northwest casual attire. She favored capri pants and cashmere sweaters.

Circe glanced at the woman. Her hands fell from my arms. Hi Jean! she exclaimed, her face brightening. You missed all the excitement.

He’s mine, you know? Jean replied, nodding at me, a grin across her face.

My eyes bounced back and forth between Circe and Jean in confusion. You. . . know. . . each. . . other? I stammered.

Hi hon, Jean said to me, her words cheerful as her demeanor. Jean’s fingers rubbed Princess Tara’s head. Tara purred, her beak buried in Jean’s arm. I smiled. My eyes ran up and down Jean’s toned body. Damn, she made the most casual clothes look good, I thought. I admired her black capris. Blue cashmere sweater. Navy blue pea coat. Red Saucony running shoes. A red silk scarf wrapped around her neck. Linda Jean was her name. Her friends called her Jean. I called her my girlfriend. Are you okay, baby? Jean asked me, a questioning look across her face. She rested her hand on my shoulder. I peered into her big brown brooding eyes. I tried to collect my scattered thoughts. I am glad to see you too, Jean smirked.

I stepped to Jean’s side. Her hand slid down my back. I threw my arm around her back. Sorry sweetie. This has been a very strange day. I glanced, wary, at Princess Tara as I kissed Jean. I’m happy to see you too, I added. But the weirdest shit just went down.

Part Two

What’d I miss? Jean asked.

I need to sit down, Circe said. She dropped into her chair. What I really need is a beer, she said, to no one in particular, but I would settle for an espresso.

I returned to my chair. How do you two know each other? I asked.

Are you kidding? Jean replied. Circe is my house mate. Jean grabbed a nearby chair. She dropped onto the seat.

I guess you said that, I replied. But I don’t believe you ever told me her name.

Of course I did. Didn’t I? Jean responded with a shrug.

Princess Tara hopped onto the table. She tilted her head to peer up at Circe. Did someone mention coffee? Tara blurted out. Circe and Jean laughed.

Someone needs to explain to me how this parrot talks this well, Circe said. Abigail says maybe half a dozen words. You really are a ventriloquist? Right? she added, studying me.

Guess we could all use some coffee, I said, wanting to change the subject. I started to get up.

Jean grabbed my arm to stop me. My treat, she offered. She jumped up and disappeared into the coffee shop.

Frappuccino, Princess Tara belatedly called out after Jean slipped through the door.

Circe’s cobalt blue eyes burrowed, inquisitive, into mine. How do you do that? she pressed me.

So, you’re Jean’s house mate, I deflected.

I am. She never told you about me?

Not so much as your name, I said. Just that you’d probably kill her for being absent so much.

Actually, Jean did me a favor. Circe noticed the look of surprise on my face. For my social life, if you know what I mean, she explained. And her parrot is such a sweetie. He is no trouble at all. Low maintenance. That is why I decided to get my own parrot.

Low maintenance my ass, I muttered to myself. Is she going to be in for a surprise.

I am sorry? Circe added, noticing my lips moving.

Jean never told you why she was absent so much?

Circe winked one of her cobalt blue eyes at me. Just that she met this incredible guy.

Really?

So. You are the guy?

I saw a glimmer of a snicker creep across Circe’s face. Sorry to disappoint you.

Circe blushed. Oh, not at all.

Jean walked out of the shop with three coffees in her hands. She set the cups on the table. An iced americano and two lattes. Apparently I’m not the George Clooney you led Circe to believe I was, I smirked.

Jean dropped into her chair. She picked up a latte. Harrison Ford. Not George Clooney. She grinned at me.

Which one is mine? Princess Tara asked.

See. Like that! Circe exclaimed. How does she do that?

Some parrots are just better talkers than others, Jean suggested, glancing wary at me.

Even your grey parrot does not talk as well as Tara, Circe replied. Princess Tara waddled across the table. She dunked her beak in Circe’s latte. Circe grabbed the cup. Here, we can share, she offered.

You never told me your house mate got a parrot, I scolded Jean.

I was going to, Jean replied defensively, but stuff kept getting in the way.

A hyacinth of all things, I added.

I’m sorry sweetie. I meant to tell you. Jean took my hand in hers. Now what were you going to tell me? Jean’s brooding brown eyes questioned mine. I frantically tried to figure out what I could safely tell Jean without telling Circe anything she’d be better off not knowing.

A bunch of Deportation Police goons assaulted an immigrant couple who were just minding their own business, drinking coffee, Circe blurted out. Jean stared at Circe in surprise.

There was more, I suggested.

There was a naked woman with glowing blue skin, Circe interrupted. And a big axe. I looked down at Princess Tara. Her head bopped up and down into Circe’s latte.

Deportation Police? In Seattle? Jean replied, with a sideways glance at me. What happened to the cops?

One of the cops tried to shoot us. . . Tried to shoot Jason, Circe stammered.

Jean gasped. She glanced up and down the sidewalk. What happened? she ventured. Her eyes looked fearful at me.

The blue woman took the cops’ heads clean off with her axe, is what happened! Circe cried out. A couple of people exiting the coffee shop gave us a worried look and hurried away. Circe leaned toward Jean. She dampened her voice. There was blood everywhere. Then they disappeared. Vanished! The glowing blue lady. The cops. The heads. The blood. All just disappeared. Circe’s face turned red as her hair. I am not making this up! she insisted.

Jean took Circe’s hand. I believe you.

You do? Circe replied.

Yes.

Circe stared at me. I stared, squirming, into my coffee. What the fuck is going on? Circe pressed me. You know who that glowing blue woman is? Right?

I took a long sip of my iced americano. I peered into Circe’s pleading eyes. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to get up this morning. Yes, I do, I finally replied.

Jason! Jean exclaimed. I wanted to keep Circe out of this.

Out of what? Circe responded, her voice reflecting her bewilderment.

I knew I was in trouble whenever Jean called me by my real name, but I pushed my luck. She deserves to know, I replied. This is not a good sign that the Deportation Police are showing themselves in the city again. Jean glared at me with the iciness of a Rainier glacier. Something is happening. We need to alert Michael and Charlie. Michael is my good friend and office mate from my teaching days at the U Dub, Seattle speak for the University of Washington. Dr. Michael Bulgakov, adjunct professor of history. Charlie is the Charlie of Charlie’s Bird Store at Pike Place Market, where I first encountered Princess Tara.

So, who is the blue woman? Circe insisted.

You are looking at her, I replied.

What? Circe jerked her head up to stare at me. Who?

Princess Tara, I clarified, nodding at the bird bobbing her beak into Circe’s latte. Princess Tara is Blue Tara, I added. The mother of all the Taras. Circe’s jaw dropped to the table.

∆∆∆

Michael cared to teach the banalities of the Peloponnesian War as much as his Western Civilization 101 students cared to learn. Which is not much at all. Michael couldn’t stop staring at the clock hanging on the back wall of the