Living Magazine (Scotland) Nov '22

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Flight patterns

Round one of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction challenge July '22

Genre: Action adventure, Location: An outpost, Object: a blue bird

The trajectory of Huw’s first summer of liberty after uni was abruptly altered when he bumped into the mother of a school friend on the platform at King’s Cross. Having left his partner LC in Durham to finish his finals, he had been relishing the prospect of a weekend with no responsibility whatsoever.

Mrs Hardigan’s emotional story had grabbed his interest however and suddenly it seemed fortuitous that Travis had gone AWOL in Greece. Money changed bank accounts and he found himself accepting a rescue mission. The last conversation between Travis and his mother had been six weeks ago when he had hinted at a romantic engagement, which seemed unlikely for a man engaged in solo field study of passerines on an uninhabited island. Huw thought it likely that the object of his desire was winged and feathered.

Scorching through South London on the Gatwick Express with a boarding pass on his phone and a completely new itinerary, he briefed LC by text and engaged his research skills.

The first feeling of apprehension surfaced when he chartered a boat at Mongonissi beach, explaining his needs in pidgin Greek to a surly local who had insisted on visiting the local store for water and provisions.

“Nothing there, only rock,” he insisted, piling more tins into Huw’s basket. “You will kill yourself in this place.”

The crossing had been pleasant enough however, and once on the tiny island he was relieved to find that he had a cell phone connection. “What’s up?” he asked LC.

“I tracked down Travis’s sister Phoebe in Seattle. Apparently their mother is going loopy because something horribly similar happened to her husband.”

“Also a birder?”

“He was, but he also served in Vietnam and deserted from his platoon’s outpost after the siege at Khe San. The mother won’t talk about it but Phoebe tells me he went chasing after something called the Asian Fairy Bird.”

Huw huffed in disbelief. “Seriously? Who risks court martial to go twitching?”

“It looks like he went a bit Colonel Kurtz. His comrades talked about him going crazy with the birdsong in the forest at night.”

“Yikes! So what happened to him? Did he ever show up?”

“Nope. Officially MIA but the psychological reports apparently tell a stranger story. He seemed to really believe that the birds were talking to him; that he could join them.”

Huw exhaled slowly as his summer frolic turned a shade darker than the Ionian blue sea. He thanked LC and promised to check in once he had lugged some of his gear over to the other side of the island, where Mrs Hardigan had dropped a pin marking the windmill converted for field research studies. Caching the bulk of his supplies, he began to pick his way between limestone boulders and thistles towards a gorge that seemed to present the easiest traverse of the island.

“What halfwit spends the summer at the edge of civilisation?” he grumbled to himself as he took a breather halfway into the jagged gully. A slate-blue bird was watching him from an ancient olive, its unfamiliar plumage standing out in the buff foliage.

“Are you the one?” Huw asked it, laughing to himself.

At that moment, a crescendo of shrill calls filled the ravine as a group of identical birds descended, their wings beating against him as he flailed his arms to swat them away. Trying to charge away up the valley, he tripped on rocks and snagged on thorns until he was coated in sweat and bloodied from the effort. Swearing, he dropped to his hands and knees for the last few metres to the top of the rise, finally ditching face down in the dirt with his hands clamped over his ears to escape the dagger beaks and jabbering cries.

A torturously slow belly-crawl down the lee slope of the ridge found a clump of stunted oaks for protection. The chattering birds observed him for a few moments before lifting off en masse and wheeling away.

Taking his chance he half staggered half ran downhill until, topping a ridge, he was rewarded with a panoramic view of the azure coast and the windmill standing proud above it.

The door was ajar but Huw slammed it behind him, leaning back against it for good measure and surveying the interior. A spartan space of stone and light, the only contents were a rough table covered in books and papers and some scruffy blankets atop a wooden palette.

“Totally Travis,” he reported to LC once he had regained his composure.

“No sign of our boy though?” LC asked.

“Nothing. No food and no sign that anyone has been here in weeks.”

“Listen, don’t be mad but there’s something I didn’t tell you. A word Phoebe found in the declassified report on Travis’s father.”

“What word? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Shapeshifter.” LC paused. “It might be nothing, I didn’t want to freak you out. It’s just so fantastical.

“You’ve got to be kidding me...”

As twilight approached, Huw let his gaze wander around the place. Among the confetti of notes, a pile of books caught his eye: Homer, Audubon, Kafka. “What’s going on with you here Travis?” he wondered out loud.

The birds were circling the windmill again, Blue Rock Thrushes according to the guide he had found: Monticola Solitarius. Their cries filled the evening air and one bird perched accusingly outside on the windowsill, its black eyes fixed on his.

Drifting into a fitful sleep, dreams played out on his eyelids like a sci-fi movie; men growing wings and hurtling towards him with blazing eyes.

“Morning,” LC greeted him soon after dawn but was alarmed by the tremor in Huw’s reply.

“I noticed last night that the windowsill is covered in bird shit.”

“Well, you’ve been besieged by thrushes.”

“It’s on the inside of a glazed window. One of them has been living in here.”

As he spoke, a blue bird alighted outside and began tapping aggressively at the glass.

Whoops Fimbulwinter

Round two of the NYC midnight short story contest: Spring 2022 Placed: honorary mention

Prompts: Genre, comedy; Character, a stick-in-the-mud; Topic, perfection

The fur trim is modish but a little ratty.

“Torsten makes a good robe, but his frugality is a little wearing. I mean, used pelts? And is this rodent?! I guess it sends a message about thriftiness, but a shaman should have a certain presence.”

Sif is muttering to herself in the dim light seeping into her shelter. Morning dew beads on the hides and trickles steadily onto the packed earth floor. One benefit of her status, she thinks, is the acceptance of self-dialogue. Murmuring inaudibly is pretty much a prerequisite for a shaman. ‘Talking to the divine,’ they call it.

“There’s precious little else to recommend it,” she frowns, jabbing at the mass of once-flaxen hair with a bone comb bequeathed by her mother. “Certainly not the threads.”

Responsibility is heavy on the shoulders of the tribe shaman as the most important ritual of the year approaches; securing the return of the sun at Yule. The rest of the year can be spent pleasantly enough with auguries, purifications and the odd choreographed sacrificial feast, but winter brings the big question: Will an absent or imprecise ritual cause Sol to keep dragging the sun right on by into the cosmos with a sly backward glance at the rapidly chilling civilisation?

She turns to exit her goahti and groans as the gown drags through the newly formed puddle. “Oh bqllr!” she snaps, “now I have an actual drowned rat on my hemline.”

This year has thrown up a particularly gnarly obstacle in the form of Corey, a village elder with archaic ideals that run counter to Sif’s reforms. His place in the line-up of supporting celebrants was secured in the traditional way, reading portents from bird placement on the lake at sunrise. One loon west of the sand spit had swung it. Luckily Torsten, Sif’s dressmaker, confidant and alleged troll-botherer has been chosen by the same method. Good to have someone on her end of the seesaw. She has yet to meet the two youth attendants, but experience has taught her that too much familiarity with them can be a problem. Does the fox drink grog with the chickens?

Corey’s participation has already thrown up problems, first with Sif’s revision of the sacred syllables and then with the selection of the sacrificial attendants. There is a certain equivocation in their title as only one will see the new dawn.

“They should both be female, and maids,” he had insisted. “Makes the choosing easier; we can’t afford to lose a male.”

Sif had sighed and explained patiently that times were changing.

“Maids, Corey? Come now, those are Midgard guidelines. Every sex has a role to play before the gods.” Ignoring his hostile stare, she accepted one family’s kind donation of mixed gender siblings.

Sif is relieved to be settling into her role at last, after crippling imposter syndrome marred her early ceremonies. Rethinking her wardrobe and ditching the ill-advised woad at Torsten’s suggestion has done wonders for her self-confidence and she feels a certain gravitas creeping in as surely as her grey hairs. Her mother was a neopagan reformer but struggled with the practicalities of bringing innovation to the role.

“Move on or die,” she growled, a touch melodramatically, as she handed over the ceremonial ash wand on her death bed.

Sif shivers and collects herself.

“Come on girl are you a vole or a Valkyrie?” she mutters to herself and strides out into the morning mist for the pre-ritual briefing. Corey is first in attendance, fidgeting and clutching a bag of black feathers to his belly.

“Please tell me that is not the ceremonial raven?” Sif glowers.

“You may judge, but the larders have been empty of late, we all know that,” Corey fluffs evasively, his pinched face reddening.

“Brilliant. You ate the offering; is that what you’re telling me? Does something about sacrifice confuse you Corey?”

“I kept the skin and feathers; thought a decent shaman could fathom something from it. Long tradition of inanimate sacrifice there is.”

Torsten approaches silently as Sif shakes her head. A big, tousled pudding of a man, he is respected in the community but warily so; there is an ambiguity about him that throws folk off-guard. Exactly the quality that Sif finds so refreshing.

“Need some help here?” he asks gently? “I have a fine chicken that could stand in for this sorry carrion.”

Sif exhales. She is open to change, but sacrificial fowl may be a step too far. Corey starts to disagree, still fumbling with the disembowelled corvid, and Sif senses the imminence of one of his lectures.

“Fine. Fetch the chicken. Now where are the other sacrifices?” She turns just as the two siblings, Njal and Vitta approach nervously, eyes round as cornered fawns. They are pallid, timid creatures with the rufescent eyes of forest dwellers, more familiar with famine than feast.

“Ah! Our lovely assistants have arrived! And how delightful they look in your creations Torsten!” Sif ushers the children forward and fiddles with the girl’s crimson wool robe. “Delightful, and so practical.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Torsten smiles and leans towards the young girl. “Have you heard the joke about the bear hunter’s brown pants?” he whispers into her ear.

“No,” she ventures shyly, “can you tell it?”

“Torsten!” Sif booms, “not helpful!!”

Sniggering, Torsten pets the girl’s sallow hair.

“May Freya guide your choice tonight,” he winks at Sif, “they are both adorable.”

Corey has stood patiently through the exchange but clearly has more to say. “I hope the ceremony will adhere to the old ways,” he snaps, “nothing beats the paths well-travelled.”

“And nothing leads the wolf more clearly to the lamb,” Sif counters.

“Your last elixir was very poor,” he goes on, ignoring her. “I would recommend the recipe my father used as a more powerful aid to reaching divine ecstasy. A strong brew of lingonberry, birch bark and honey with a sanguine finish.”

“And end up face-down and senseless in the peat.” Sif sighs.

“If that is what it takes, yes,” Corey insists, his lips pinching, “the mythos decrees that a state of advanced inebriation is essential for a successful crossing to the spirit realm.”

Sif rolls her eyes. “Why does everything have to be about getting wasted? Fine, fine, you do the elixir if you feel so strongly about it. But no henbane or cannabis seeds for minors. We need this to come off consummately.”

Having sidled off to find his chicken, Torsten reappears to show it off. “A fine specimen I’m sure you will agree,” he grins, dancing the plump fowl on his knee.

“It is a pretty hen, but not a raven.” Sif sighs. “Children; what part does the raven play in the Yule ceremony?”

“The sacrifice, ma’am,” Njal suggests.

“Flying through the flames before the gods claim it’s soul,” adds Vitta.

“Good, very good,” nods Sif. “Now Corey, how are we to keep the ritual’s finesse with this flight-challenged pot roast? Do we toss it on the fire or watch it run around the pyre clucking it’s stupid head off?”

“I can hang it from a stick?,” Njal volunteers, “make like it’s flying?”

“Hideous, but probably the best we can do. Fine; chicken on a stick. Let’s gloss over the climax for now.”

“That’s the most exciting part!” Vitta pouts, her rapt face falling.

“Don’t worry, my angel, you’ll be centre stage tonight,” Sif beams, “run along now, it’s nearly showtime!”

As the sun melts from view behind the forest, the scene is set. Sif’s year of honing, bartering and rehearsing comes to its realisation among the dancing embers and looming basalt spires. A towering pyre of seasoned pine spits and crackles atmospherically in the chill night air as the community approaches in festive spirit and their finest furs. A wolf howls long and low in the glimmer-dim and a silence falls over the crowd as Sif steps into the circle of firelight, looking every inch the High Priestess. Flanking her are Corey and Torsten. He has worked a small miracle with the raven, whose feathers now adorn their shoulders in iridescent shoals.

Sif’s first fistful of henbane hits the embers like a bomb and throws up a putrid green smoke that quickly envelops the crowd. Covey has distributed his elixir heavy-handedly and some men are onto their third horn. The mood is buoyant, and as the two youngsters solemnly lead in the chicken tied to a birch branch, a wave of ribald laughter erupts. To restore some solemnity Sif raises her voice, intoning the sacred syllables commandingly over and over the noise of the crowd.

“Here we go,” she breathes, “let’s give these peasants something to gawp at.” She is relieved to have skipped the grog, confiding “I don’t mix my toxins” to Torsten as he passed the horn.

The planned culmination of the ceremony comes as the tethered raven succumbs to the flames and the hallucinating shaman slits the throat of one juvenile attendant with the ceremonial dagger. The blood, flames and bitter smoke combine in perfect theatrical crescendo, filling the throng with awe and reverence. Sif’s current view of two children attempting to swing a chicken through the air on a pole is somewhat less exalting, and she is briefly concerned by the sudden hush that has fallen over the congregation, but she is in her moment and starting to fly.

Abruptly Njal falters by the embers and crashes forward, relinquishing the hen to his sister just as it catches fire and starts shrieking ungodly but impressive avian arias. Vitta drops the pole in horror and sinks weeping into her skirts; her brother’s meanness combined with natural indifference means that she is the only other sober person on the mountain.

Slowly the chicken’s lament and the girl’s bawling bring Sif into her senses enough to glimpse the carnage that surrounds her. Bodies cover the clearing around the pyre like birches laid waste by the winter winds. Corey’s elixir has wiped out the entire tribe.

“You dauti bacraut what have you done?!” she screams into the night.

As if in answer, a series of stentorian booms echo down the mountainside and bounce off the valley walls, shaking Sif in her robe. “Thunder?” she winces, “or the laughter of the gods?”

.

It is a long trek up the mountainside to the Eagle Rock with the traumatised girl, but Sif and Vitta relish the warmth that climbing brings them. The cold feels oddly persistent and time seems to have stagnated since they left the ceremonial ground. From the rock there is a clear view across the silver sea to where the sun has returned every day since before the memories of the old ones. They huddle together in their cloaks and fix their eyes on the chalk line of the horizon, illuminated by the waning moon’s glow.

“What will we do if the sun doesn’t rise?” Vitta ventures as last, “I feel like it should be day already.”

“Hush child, I can spin it. Call it a new republic or independence from the circle of death. A neopagan rebirth.”

“But won’t it be cold and full of monsters?”

Sif puts her arm around the girl. “We have fire, sweet thing, and women’s wit.”

“All those people though, just wiped out like lemmings.” Vitta shudders.

“You can’t make houmous without squashing a chickpea darling.”

“Is that a type of bird?”

“No, just something I saw in the flames.”

Vitta’s eyes widen. “What else did you see? What will come to pass?”

“Well, I saw you and I tucking into a chicken dinner!”

“Oh, thank Frigg, maybe we can make a new future! What was it like?”

Sif flinches. “It was pretty dark.”