10 May 2012

quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
The horse was content. It ran in fields, it rolled in the dew-rich grass, and it frolicked through British copses. An idyllic life, for this horse.

It avoided the stone paths on the far sides of the hill, there. Those stone roads brought to mind places where everything was stone. No smells worth smelling, nothing to be eaten worth eating, no places to run worth running. That was a while ago.

So, too, did it avoid the deep waters in the bottom of the shallow, scooplike valley. Deep water was a source of fear. The horse did not remember why or how, just that it preferred to drink from the more shallow runnels and streams. Deep water was not good water. Deep water had precipitated a long, long run, though; out of the stone paths, to here. Here was not-stone. Here was good.
quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
Things was bad here; real bad. They been gittin better, though, specially since thems strangers was through here. Those ones what spoke all fancy and falutin' like they was on stage in one of Doc Strangetian's prancin' plays.

Least there weren't no worms no more. I could be fair set for the rest of my life without a goldurned worm, even a bittie one like Pa used to git the crawdads with. Not even a goldurned bittie one. Nope.

First there had been the dreams, then the screams, screams fit to chase a girl right outta her own head, shriekin' straight out an ear-hole. Or maybe the nose. I ain't rightly sure which way minds fix to leave the brainmeats, once they can't take it no more. Doc'd know. After the screams had come those flapping bits, then the worms. Then the strangers, loudest goldurned strangers you ever done heard. Some with shootin' and some with hollerin' and some what was so quiet an' dark that they mighta been just sittin' on yer shoulder an breathin' in a body's ear.

Then came the shakes, and the fires, and that was the worst time of it all, and the rain came. And things was gettin' better, by mites an' fits an' starts. I was pleased things was to be better.

We'd set up the 'apoff ick erry' like the hollery man had said, and cleared out the streets like that hatty man says to. That bird statue we done built took fair longer, but we done shipped up a bell-caster from Sandy Eggo. That man done poured bits of metal into his fires and out the other end he pulls a metal crowbird, neat as you please. We set our bird up like that bird lady said us to do. Our bird's makin' things better now. Mayhaps it's so that things couldn't get goldurned worse, may be, but we like our bird. And, you never know, maybe she's helpin' us. Our bird.

Things was bad, but they been gettin better.


quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
Croárc ná Corvain

May 2012

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