A week had passed since the rooster and his adoring harem of hens had arrived on Hopeless. Pyralia Skant had hinted that this small flock of domesticated fowl might be special, though so far they had behaved in exactly the way one might expect of chickens. They scratched at the earth, indulged in petty squabbles, and deposited the occasional egg in some inaccessible corner.

As for the rooster, he spent his days strutting importantly around the yard, occasionally attempting a rough sort of romance upon his companions. When five-year-old Caitlin overheard an off-colour remark from Reggie Upton upon this very subject, she reached the not-unreasonable conclusion that the rooster’s name must be Roger. And so Roger he became.

It was just past midnight when Roger crowed. Not the cheery herald of dawn, but a deep, rasping sound that seemed to rattle the shutters of The Squid and Teapot.

Philomena sat bolt upright in bed. From childhood she had learned that roosters do not crow in the middle of the night without good reason. She hurried into the passage and met Tenzin coming from the children’s room, Oswald half-asleep in his arms, Caitlin wide awake and grinning.

“Roger says it means something is coming,” Caitlin whispered, as though reporting on a secret pact between herself and the bird.

By morning the story had already run the length of the island: the cock had crowed at midnight. According to long-established pub-lore (which, in truth, had been invented on the spur of the moment), this foretold the arrival of a stranger.

And so it proved. Just before noon, a boat appeared out of the fog. Its single occupant was a gaunt woman in a tattered dress, her eyes sharp as fish-hooks. She claimed to have been blown off course, though no one believed it. No one ever “just arrived” at Hopeless.

The rooster met her on the quay. He crowed once, then strutted in circles around her, feathers bristling, eyes glittering with something far older than any barnyard fowl ought to possess. The woman hissed like a cat and backed away, muttering in a language that tasted of salt and brine.

“That’s no fisherwoman,” Pyralia said grimly, suddenly at Philomena’s shoulder. “The rooster knows her. She’s one of the Sluagh, the Soul Hunters. She is looking for shelter, and as many souls as she can carry.”

Philomena’s blood ran cold. She had heard of the Sluagh, but always believed they were no more than tales to keep unruly children in order. 

As Roger advanced once more, the woman shrieked and flung herself back into the sea, vanishing into the fog with scarcely a ripple. Roger crowed again, this time with a note of triumph.

By supper, the tale had already grown. Some swore he had spat fire; others claimed his hens rose in a glowing circle to drive the intruder away. Whatever the details, all agreed on one thing: Roger had saved them.

Even Drury, usually disdainful, gave a grudging clack of bone and sniffed about the bird in what might almost have been respect.

That night, long after the children were asleep, Philomena sat by the fire with Pyralia, while Roger perched outside on the windowsill, silhouetted against the misty moon.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Philomena said quietly.

Pyralia didn’t answer at once. She was watching Roger with a look half-respect, half-apprehension. At length she said, “Of course… and young Caitlin knew what she was asking for when she wanted a rooster. Guardian spirits take odd shapes. He may strut and crow like any common cock, but he is no barnyard bird. Not anymore.”

Roger hopped from the sill, ruffled his feathers, and with a low, satisfied cluck, tucked his head beneath a wing. His hens gathered close, shifting in their sleep with the faint rustle of silk.

Philomena shivered, though the fire was warm. She remembered Pyralia’s vow to change the island and begin what she called ‘The Unmaking’. And she wondered whether Hopeless itself had just accepted its new sentinel.

The following morning, Philomena was jolted awake not by Roger’s crowing, but by a furious commotion in the yard. She threw on her shawl and hurried outside.

There was Drury, clattering and snapping in high dudgeon, trying to herd Roger away from the inn door. The rooster, feathers puffed to twice his size, strutted defiantly, his hens massed behind him like a feathery chorus of supporters.

“Honestly,” Philomena muttered, rubbing her eyes.

Drury gave a contemptuous clack of his jawbones, as if to say Guardian spirit was my job first. Roger answered with a triumphant crow that echoed off the cliffs.

Caitlin, peering from the doorway, clapped her hands in delight. “Ooh, they’re having a competition! Shall we keep score?”

“Absolutely not,” said Philomena, although she suspected that, one way or another, the island itself would.

By breakfast, peace had been restored, after a fashion. Roger perched proudly on the taproom sill, while Drury sprawled sulkily by the hearth. Neither would admit defeat, but both kept a wary eye on the other.

“Two guardians,” Tenzin said cheerfully, pouring porridge. “On Hopeless, one can never be too careful.”

Roger crowed his agreement. Drury responded with a bone-rattling sneeze. And so the uneasy alliance began.