Pestilence and sadness refrain through the valley. It will be a bad year for wheat. Again.
Hordes of heavy-clawed vultures anchor in the artificial trees, gnarled root to fractured bough, groaning from the relentless weight. A suitable home on high for these scavengers, these eaters of light, they watchdog the peasants pushing heavy carts over the heaping bones, and the moist carcasses bloat. A few weary denizens hide a patella or hunk of gristle under a dirty, grayed tunic. They do it for the sliver-ribbed kids, emaciated and on their last quivering breath. Soon these youngsters will be a pleasing appetizer for the flocks of beaks and insatiable red eyes. Undeveloped is best eaten fresh and dead.
And to their simple hovels, the men without functioning mouths go. No voice, no choice but to cower on flattened knees—the weight of submission—and hope for scraps, an ounce of reprieve from the incessant pummeling. The town square is barren save shackles, rack, and gallows. There are no hallelujahs sung here. The church bells were melted and fashioned into nails and padlocks to seal the citizenry in. No one dares speak for fear of the fat, opulent kings and their gap-toothed queens, the princes, and the bloviating minstrels who cheerfully dance on the new graves—too unconscious to know they will be stomped and kicked into the next gaping hole. Royalty bores easily.
___
Every dead man has his day in court. The bailiffs cannot keep a straight face just thinking about it.
There are no defense attorneys in this community, only prosecutors, credentialed charlatans, hidden behind thick obscure curtains, always drawn, always hung with care. It’s the appearance of fairness that matters. Even ghouls must believe in something as they drift off to sleep.
Guilty. Guilty, Guilty.
Let them all choke on the dark.
Hang everyone.
All the turncoat neighbors who have sold their dignity for a sack of potatoes turn out for the replicating spectacle, then turn their backs to the swinging silence, their friends. The moneychangers levy heavy taxes on all present, especially the dead. A ravenous storm snuffs every candle for miles, and darkness descends. Charred wicks and smoke are the only signs of life.
Perpetual night.
___
Across a great divide of sea and sand, a little bird studies its cage in another land. It is a beautiful bird, a fragile thing, and it wishes to do what birds are meant to do—soar and sing and explore. So, the bird picks its lock with elan and muscularity and sets itself free. And with it unchains an ancient wind, long languishing in a maze of the skyscraping pines.
On the back of this mighty zephyr, the little bird is hurtled toward the dark and disenchanted land, and with it drags an endless sky illuminated by the most glorious light. The wind also carries a scent, a perfume, a heady musk of jasmine and rose milk. And from it, the vultures flee, followed by the kings and their bedraggled courts, consorts, imps, and jesters.
We abandon this illuminated land.
Our vision is best set for dark.
Do with it what you will.
And the peasants do just that.
They plant and harvest large and fertile fields. Commerce and discourse return to the bustling town square. Sweet tolling bells are heard throughout the valley. And the trees bear a happy weight of incalculable little birds, each free to sing a tune of their choosing—to their heart’s content.
Tweet.
Tweet.
Tweet.
And our story ends and begins here.