NEW FICTION: The circle, part 2.
He stayed his ground, his bleeding and blistered feet finding comfort in the cool bleached water that he stood in. He searched around, creasing up his eyes, trying to get his short sightedness to retreat a little, just this once. But he couldn't see them. The ground was clear, smooth, empty. They were probably miles away, along with his boots. Without either, he was handicapped. Maybe whatever was coming for him knew that as well, maybe even arranged it to be so. "Fuck!" He muttered under his breath. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
He flinched as he heard movement again, closer, shifting through the trees, through the undergrowth, making a slow, but deliberate beeline for the circle, and for himself. It was then that he heard the notes of a song, the song. Someone, something, mumbled and jumbled words and notes under their breath, but he could hear, and he knew that he was in trouble. He heard the trees shift, creak, flutter, and it wasn't the morning breeze any longer. They all knew something was coming, something that didn't belong, either in nature, or beyond.
"It couldn't be." He whispered. "Not after all this time. It couldn't be."
A shadow crossed slowly over him - small, but significant, and he jumped stupidly. A big fat crow landed a few feet away from him. It looked sideways, its beady head at a slant. It walked around a little, pecking at the ground, searching for food.
He watched the crow, mesmerised, the shifting and murmuring in the trees temporarily forgotten. The bird flapped its wings, cackled, and moved further across the dusty circle. It strutted, stopped, strutted some more, then stopped dead. It raised its wings - outstretched, then folded them neatly, slick with its body. It started to peck at the dusty soil, a beam from the morning sun shot across the circle - brief, but dazzling. He sighed, the crow had found something shiny, inconsequential, but shiny.
Meanwhile, the mumbling, broken song was getting closer. It seemed as if whatever it was that was coming towards him was as slow as treacle, as if it was enjoying itself, building up the tension, but it was coming. He closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. The crow had started cackling, which wasn't helping. He tried to at least tune the bird out. It was pointless trying to blanket out the movement elsewhere, even more so the mumbled song, so he honed in on the approach. Rather than fearing it, he tried to embrace it.
He hadn't heard that song, that mumbled, broken song since... No. He wouldn't remember now, he refused to. But he wasn't allowed to forget what the song had done to him, to those around him, those he thought he held dear. That scar was big, deep, rich. It made him who he was now, and who he would probably be for the rest of his life. But who would sing it but him now? Who would remember its haunt but him? Surely he was the last who...
That damned crow! He opened his eyes again. The bird was now fully occupied with whatever he had found in the dirt. Cackling and cawing, fluttering its wings, it was pulling something along the ground, pleased with itself. A junk prize. A piece of nothing to treasure - for a while. The sun glinted once again - two quick round flashes hit him in the face, full on, blinding him for a second. Then he realised - his glasses! Thank the gods! Thank the stupid fat bird! Thank greed, avariciousness, thank... who cares? He ran towards the bird, forgetting his feet, waving his arms wildly, whispering as loudly as he dared: "Scat! Scat!"
The crow glanced his way quickly, then down at its retrieved prize - his spectacles. With a quick arc of its body it spread its wings, snatched the glasses, and soared up into the air, its heavy wings sweeping past his head.
"No!" He shouted. "No!"
