A hunter's stone
Lurid grey clouds hung ominously in the blurred sky of grey, a feeling of despondency wafted in the air, pervading the senses of passerby.
The wind howled through the verdant trees with softness, yet a quiet sense of violence lingered.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The imminent sound of footsteps, the rasp emanating from this simple action was aggravating by reason of the soles of wooden shoes colliding with the coarse surfaces of rocks.
She walked along the gravel path, her pace aimless, a hymn whispering from her lips like fog unrolling from the trees.
“Through the trees and willows and birds, I have found at last.
In the ease, it billows with words, I have found at last.
The birds fly so high, to where I won’t be denied.
It descries of where I'll die, of that I can’t defy.”
The voice faded into the wind, swallowed like breath into a maw.
As it disappeared, the pestilential sound of scraping evanesced with it.
There lay a rock.
It was neither small nor big.
Its surface was smooth but flawed.
It has specks of black and grey chiefly dotted all over.
Though imperfect it was perfect.
A pale slender white hand extended itself towards the stone.
Black dirt resided in the crevices of the palms and fingers and dug deeply underneath her fingernails; her hands were stained.
The index of the sullied hand slightly caressed the rock, feeling the many dents on the surface, plunging into the blemishes.
Unanticipatedly, four other auxiliary accomplices clawed at it. Gripping its sides, tightening around it.
It up-rose in the air, soaring seeming to reach the unattainable sky.
Embracing the stone in the begrimed palm, she gyrated it, not for beauty, but for use. Its weight meant more than its form.
The grating sound resumed, echoing through the air.
Swelling smoke puffed out of a bakery’s chimney, though no scent of fragrant bread lingered.
Houses’ indistinct windows shuttered not from the turbulent wind, but as if to conceal from something unnamed.
Children played, yet their jubilant laughter didn’t echo, sole the repetitive sound of elastic pounding on the arid grass.
Delyth seldom enjoyed these mundane things of her morning.
It was overly placid, tranquil, wearying, but she was accustomed to it.
She followed the path that led to the forest each day.
Gravel infested the passage, ingrained and embedded in the greyish grains of dirt. The susurration of the thin grains of the soil brought a pleasant swish, oddly soothing.
The tall herbs and weeds careened precariously, trembling slightly, as the young lady passed by, a gust of wind trailing behind her.
The morning woe burned quietly; dull light bled through the overcast trees, etching strange shapes into the forest floor.
Rustle.
The girl’s head whipped violently towards the dubious sound. 4 o’clock to the right. Just above her shoulder.
Her hand unconsciously clenched the stone that she held dearly in her bedraggled hands, her fingers tensing as the grip clasped, her index finger rubbing a peculiar dent on the surface.
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Suddenly, a flutter of a yellowish silhouette emerged in her sight, a whirlwind of ivory devours her vision.
The bird’s wings blurred into void, featherless shadows smeared with submerged red.
It was a profound red, unremarkable at first glance, yet an inexplicable pull lingered beneath its surface.
Time froze.
It stopped.
The red grew deeper and bigger.
Profounder and larger.
Fathomless and preponderant.
And itch stemmed in her heart.
She stretched her arm backwards, a taut grip clinching the rock.
Her gaze dawdled on the red stain, as she forthwith lapidated the pebble.
It hurled in the air seeming to collide with the bird.
A slight shift to the left and the creature deviated from the predicted trajectory.
Thud.
A small screech of terror followed with a gale of wind.
She missed.
The rock rolled quietly towards her feet, knocking against her wooden shoe with a “Toc”.
She missed it.
The ivory-colored bird was not dead.
It soared towards the sky.
The young girl looks down.
The grey rock, speckled with black and greyish dots stood there.
...
The grey seemed to be warping and morphing.
A small stain slowly appeared.
Red.
A smudge of profound, deep red.
Fathomless red.
Blood red.
Miniscule, paltry droplets slithered down the flawed surface.
Trembling hands, her fingers twitched sporadically.
Something stirred in her heart, twisted, it etched deeply in her soul.
Her filthy fingers hovered over the crimson-streaked stone.
Her fingers grazing the dents as the red slowly faded, returning to the initial drab color.
The young girl palmed the stone, stiffness in her swift actions.
Smooth but imperfect outward.
Caw!
Thud.
...
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The unaltered alike aggravating sound, rippled in the village.
The absent aroma of bread pervaded the area as welting fume was liberated from the bakery’s chimney.
Nebulous glass enshrouded by shutters unafraid of the howling breeze, but by an unsigned presence lurking.
Joyous giggles were not heard as the children amused themselves, only the sound of a bouncy ball plunging into the dry grass echoed.
The mundane noise blurred her presence, before she knew, she was in the dimly lit hall, her feet unshod.
She ambled slowly, shuffling her stiff feet towards her room.
All the sudden, the young lady heard a soft sob trailed by an incomprehensible string of mutterings and choaks behind a closed door.
“He was...tabbed...?” A broken hoarse voice resounded, shattering the strand of mumblings.
“You...-you can’t let this happen!?”
“He can’t...he won’t.”
Silence.
She stood near the door despite her attempts to catch more words, her efforts were all in vain.
The strange lump wrapped under a bloodied cloth seemed to weigh heavier.
It oddly became cumbersome to hold, accumulating the same weight as the stone.
Her clasp softened.
“Delyth?”
Her body flinched at the sudden call.
“Oan?”
“What is that?”
“What is what?” The young girl reverse-questioned, a perplexed look forming on her face.
“That.” He pointed at the undistinguished bulging mass enveloped with a blood-stained fabric.
“Oh-uh...it’s the bird you wanted.” She stammered, stumbling on her words as she delicately peeled the blood-soaked cloth off.
A black feathered lifeless avian laid bare, vulnerable, in the hands of its slaughterer.
Its beak slightly opened, its last caw.
A scarred hand caressed slowly; fingers dragging in a dreading manner across the ostensibly twitching wings, quivers spurted at every touch.
Flick.
An elongated ink feather appeared before her.
Its ebony color tenebrously resembled to hers.
She turned it in her hands, the black fringes imperceptibly careened emanating a sense of fragility.
Her feet dragged across the wooden floor, the air growing still. The feather remained in her hand, too light, too soft, as if mocking the weight of what she carried.
She paused.
The ink-colored plume caught the dim light, its edges trembling like breath.
She lifted it, her fingers trembling. Her voice, almost inaudible:
“Is it for me?”
Is this his way of gratitude, rewarding her the fruits of her labor?
He brother stared at her. His inky doe-like eyes vaguely mirroring the beady orbs of the bird.
He nodded vigorously and left as swift as he came.
Drip.
Her body numbed.
She tremulously exhaled, the feather swayed, brushing her cheek like a ghost of warmth.
Her hands curled around it, trembling.
She held it close, the way one might hold a gift, or a wound.
An evanescent drizzle streamed down her finger.
But when she looked, nothing was there.
Merely her blackened hands.
Soiled, feculent...verminous hands.
Teeming with filth.
In stupor, she sauntered absent-mindedly towards her room.
Her fingers clenching the feather, encapsulating it in torrid warmth.
Remedying rubbing slowly distorting into belligerent caresses.
