Stone the Crows

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Fantasy Realm
The woman smiled, her sinful rouged lips parted, her white teeth gleamed, she was beautiful yet something dark lurked beneath that lustrous facade.

Submitted: September 18, 2019

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Submitted: September 18, 2019

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Stone the crows

 

A young scruffy looking lad with muddied shoes and grass stained jeans stood in the recently ploughed cornfield.

His curly hair was as yellow as the corn would be, when it grew later in the year.

He had gathered a pile of stones at his feet and was gleefully loading them into his catapult and taking aim at the crows as they hopped about the field, picking up the juicy worms that had been brought to the surface from the ploughing.

He pulled the elastic tight, closed one eye; his tongue was sticking out from between his teeth.

Twang! He released the stone; it zinged through the morning misty air, Thwack! It hit a big old crow square on the head.

The big black crow fell over, its wings fluttered for a moment, its long onyx beak opened as it exhaled its last breath.

 

The lad punched the air triumphantly and jumped up and down.

His big blue eyes scanned the field around him as he counted the bodies of the dead crows littering it.

‘That makes thirteen, a new record!’ the lad laughed to himself.

 

The lad loaded his catapult again and looked about; he smiled as his eyes settled on yet another one of the stupid big black birds that seemed oblivious to their own impending doom of his deadly catapult.

He raised the weapon and pulled back the elastic.

‘Tis not how a young lad should spend his time, being so cruel to an innocent child of mine!’ A woman’s stark Irish voice made the lad jump.

He spun around to see who had spoken; he lowered his catapult and blinked at the woman standing behind him.

 

She was tall and thin with broad shoulders; her hair was as black as the wings of the dead crows that littered the field. Her face was long and pale with a slight rosy tint. Her eyes were big and dark, yet sparkled with intelligence and a hint of cruelty in them.

Her mouth was wide and her lips were as red as pomegranate seeds.

She wore a long black dress which hung down to her ankles and a shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. And she wore the strangest necklace he had ever seen. It was gold and thin and looked like twisted rope with two hoops at each end of it.

The lad felt his stomach tighten, there was something about her that unsettled him, for one, where had she come from? And second what was she doing in his father’s field.

‘This is private land, you should not be here!’ the lad protested.

The woman smiled, her sinful rouged lips parted, her white teeth gleamed, she was beautiful yet something dark lurked beneath that lustrous facade.

‘Heed my warning boy, run home to your Da, for everyone knows bad luck follows those who stone the crows.'

She walked over to the crow he had just killed and picked it up and gently stroked its limp body.

The boy shuddered, ‘Urrh! That is sick.’ His face twisted into one of disgust.

The woman looked up at the lad, her eyes were tearful, and her face was full of hate and rage.

‘Oh my children struck down by this cruel boy, with his cruel heart and his cruel toy. I give back the life that was stolen from you, for I am your eternal mother, Morrigu.’ She then lifted the crow to her lips and gently kissed it on the beak.

 

The lad looked on in disgust and then his mouth fell open in awe as the dead crow began to flap its wings and hopped up and perched on the woman’s shoulder and cawed loudly.

The lad was now trembling with fear, he lifted his catapult and aimed it at the woman and cried,

‘Get away from me, don’t come any closer, or I swear I will shoot you.’

The woman spread her arms wide, her black lace shawl hung from her shoulders like tattered wings as her lilting voice rose up in a screeching crescendo of deafening sound.

‘Arise my children; vengeance is yours to seek, with ripping talons and razor sharp beak. Take his tongue and take his eyes, today is the last he shall see these blue skies. Leave his body all tattered and torn, a bloody sacrifice for his parents to mourn. And leave your mark on him so that everyone knows, he was a victim of my murder of crows.’

 

The sun was setting; red sky at night, a shepherd’s delight, only this red sky was a warning, a portent.

The farmer came upon the body of his son spread eagled out on the ploughed field his body was covered in a mass of frenzied crows pecking and ripping at his flesh; they cawed loudly and took to the crimson sky in a black cloud of death as the farmer ran to his son’s side.

The boy’s face was in bloody tatters, his eye sockets stared up at the darkening sky full of pooled blood, his mouth hung open in a silent scream, and his tongue was gone.

A dark shadow passed overhead, the farmer felt a chill and looked up in his grief as something big and black flapped its wings and then vanished, and from that dark shadow something fell from the sky and plopped down beside the body.

The farmer reached out and picked up his son’s favourite toy, his now, bloodstained catapult.

 

The End


© Copyright 2019 Celtic-Scribe63. All rights reserved.

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