Hazards by Mike Resnick

couple of dozen rooms and a big veranda out front, and sitting in a rocking chair on one of the verandas was a grizzled old gray-haired guy who obviously wasn’t on speaking terms with the local barber, because his hair was almost as long as the girl’s, and he had it growing out of his chin, too. I noticed that he also had a mighty wicked-looking shotgun laying across his lap.
    “Cluck cluck!” said the girl.
    “Welcome back, Rama!” said the old guy. “So you finally caught one! Good for you, girl!”
    “Howdy, neighbor,” I said. “I’m the Right Reverend Lucifer Jones, weddings and baptisms done cheap, with a group rate for funerals.”
    “I’m mighty pleased to meet you, Reverend Jones,” said the old guy, coming over and shaking my hand. “My name is Cornelius MacNamarra, and this here’s my daughter, Rama. What brings you to my humble domicile?”
    “Hunger, thirst, and mostly Rama,” I said. “You got any grub I could borrow?”
    “I won’t hear of your borrowing anything!” announced MacNamarra firmly. “Everything I have is yours.”
    “Well, I call that mighty Christian of you, Brother MacNamarra,” I said.
    “Call me Corny,” said MacNamarra. “Especially now that you’re going to become a member of the family.”
    “Actually, I been meaning to talk to you about that, Brother Corny,” I began.
    “No need for talk!” he cried. “She’s all yours, with my blessing!”
    “Just the same, I got a few questions before I cart her off to the altar,” I said.
    “Beautiful girl!” he said. “The apple of her father’s eye.” He frowned. “Or is it the grapefruit? I’ve been in this damned jungle so long I plumb forget.”
    “I don’t want to be intrusive, Brother Corny,” I continued, trying to get back to the subject at hand, “but when was the last time you sat down and had a chat with Rama?”
    “This morning, at breakfast,” he said.
    “And you didn’t notice nothing peculiar about her lingo?”
    “Same as always,” he assured me.
    “I think that’s what I meant,” I said. “In my travels on five continents, I’ve met folks with limited vocabularies, but I got to say hers is a little more limited than most.”
    “You noticed,” he said unhappily.
    “Kind of hard to miss in the middle of a hour-long conversation like we had on the way over here,” I said.
    “Damn!” he muttered. “What’s the point of being writ up in song and story as Rama the Bird Girl if all you can say is ‘cluck’?”
    I looked at Rama, who somehow wasn’t quite as beautiful as she’d been an hour ago, but was still maybe a shade above average. “I don’t see no wings or feathers on her,” I said. “What makes her the Bird Girl?”
    “Mostly the way she talks,” admitted MacNamarra. “Even out here in the middle of nowhere she can attract men, but though most of ’em can go for days without saying a word to her, sooner or later every last one of ’em either asks what’s her name or where’s the bathroom or what’s that roaring off in the distance, and then she answers, and another potential son-in-law has flown the coop.” He spat on the ground. “Hell, I even built an extra house, just for her and her husband,” he added, gesturing toward the chartreuse mansions.
    “Looks like you’re expecting lots of grandchildren,” I noted.
    “If you can find a second thing to do in this hellhole, let me know,” he said. He kind of squinted at me. “What are you doing in this jungle, anyway?”
    “Mostly looking for a way out,” I said. “I’m a preacher by trade.”
    “What religion?” he asked.
    “Something me and the Lord worked out betwixt ourselves of a Sunday afternoon back in Moline, Illinois,” I said.
    “So what are you doing down here in South America?” he asked.
    “Well, the truth of the matter is that I was kind of invited to come here,” I answered him.
    “South America asked you to come here?” he said, cocking an eyebrow.
    “Actually, I was