Tales Of The Gurrier

The lights in the farmhouse burned brightly against the chill of grey evening and dark surrounding hillside. Rounding final bends he saw them, a shining homecoming beacon greeting weary traveler. Gut deep came a familiar tightening, the grip of love and fear. Home soon.

A green avenue swept with twin beams led him to cobbled courtyard and the dark bulk of home; door closed, windows wide to damp November air. Puzzled he stepped into the pool of light and called out. Called her name and listened for her oft heard sing song voice.

Silence greeted him and somewhere in approaching night a whispering.

Somewhere on the wind. He called again.

No answer came in human form but the West Wind whispered cool and long

‘Run quick now two legs, fast and strong, run to your wife ‘ere the day is long.’

He crossed the ancient cobbles in quick and easy strides, boots barely scraping mossy stones. Eyes now fearful wide.

At farmhouse door he called again. But no answer came from lips of men. The West wind close now whistled clear, yet far removed from human ear.

‘Go swift now man-child do you ken, you desire to see your love again.’

The handsome door of sturdy oak exposed a blasted hellish sight. For roaring flame and stinking smoke were most unwelcome guests that night.

Up sprang the fire from beneath the door and climbed above the rafter. There as it blazed and burned and danced it mocked him with cruel laughter.

‘Foolish monkey don’t you see; she’s left you, and set me free.’ Then away the fire danced and swore and went lick, lick, lick against the door and never looked back again no more.

Back he stepped from the fire’s breath. Eyes shielded from the burning glare and again he called her name but knew she was not there.

Leaving then their home to burn alone, he set his face against the wind. Climbed familiar cliffs, through fields and paddock. In grassy pasture paused and bore witness to small and silent deaths, throats cut, pink tongues lolling in broken mouths. All dead. Fleece once white now crimson stained, shapeless mass in falling rain.

From sightless eyes and empty lungs they accused him where he stood. ‘Oh master sir, oh master why did she shed our blood?’

Next her clothes, frayed, threadbare, heaped damp in shameful cairns. Discarded memories to caging in homespun cloth. Piece by piece he gathered them to tear damp face and inhaled the scent of her. Meadow dew on spring morn, cobwebs dusted in silver frost, the copper tang of bubbling brook, the dark green traces of moonlit woods. Today, the skittering threads of a spider’s kiss and flowers burnt in summer. He dropped them in disgust and climbed.

Her precious things, the burlap bag that bore her treasure hoard ripped and torn upon barbed wire fence. He bent and picked a strand or two of strong flax thread from curved and iron hooks. A hawthorn stick, split cleanly down the centerline. Fresh wood raw and splintered, bone white against the aged black. A paper doll, a lovers gift, entwined with coloured thread. Head crushed and flung aside, with shredded limbs strewn in waist long grass. A ravens feather, long and tinged with ghostly gray, white spine translucent to the tip, broken and tattered against the granite hillside.

The picture clung by accident or design. Caught upon a rusty barb. Fluttered; a living thing and again her face was close to him, her sleeping form. He stole it from her while she slept, weathered fury when woken she espied the deed was done. Cried and cried and relented in bright dawn with mournful eyes that cast him in a deep and soulful panic. And morning come he left her to return upon this most inglorious and fateful eve.

Hands outstretched he reached for flimsy paper memories. But the North Wind spoke with great earth girdled sky lungs, blue and cold as frozen wastes and away flew paper memories, a blasted mote in wrathful sky. Down across the valley floor and mountain top and gone into darkness at cliffs edge. Swallowed by sea sky and inky mist grey clouds.

In gathering darkness then he stole upon the cliff top. With setting sun stood amongst upright ancient stones and heard and understood at last the words of the wisest wind.

The East wind spoke with the voices of a thousand swallows taking flight, a fluttering, whispering, breathless keening that told a tale of misbegotten man who loved hard and well and lost not a woman but creature born of Winter night and Summer lightning and never a match for human borne. A restless spirit who tarried ‘ere long in mundane flesh and tired above the earth and return’d now in winter deep to reside once more in faery keep.
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This weeks Flickr fiction photo is brought to you by rougerouge. I’m not sure of all our participants this week as Elimare is on the lam in Canadia, Chris is drunk up a mountain somewhere getting his British visas and Littlegoat has trouble with instructions, that leaves myself, Teaandcakes and Aquafortis.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 30th, 2006 at 10:52 am and is filed under Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.