Milus hopped suddenly and in fearful tumble jumped to the sky, but Fragit was on him, dragging him down with greater weight.
“No!” screamed Edith. “No! Do not kill my son!”
But the rook’s command had created a frenzy, and none heeded her pleas. Every crow took to wing and together formed a circle, its center over Milus and tightening like a whirlpool or tornado. With them came a great gust of wind from all four directions, driving the circling birds, Milus’s band included. The whole of the winged group plummeted in upon the youngest brother, driving down fast and hard as a single great black beast. Even Edith, still bellowing her screams of defiance, was swept in with the rest. With the force of a terrible black storm, the full lot of them became one writhing mass of screaming, cawing fury.
To Ysil, watching in awe from the brush, it seemed as if each crow had gone insane at precisely the same time, controlled by a greater mind. No matter the cause of the insanity and bloodlust, and one for a child of the King at that, the reason for the naming was evident. Ysil would forevermore understand precisely why the great family of crows was known as a murder.
IT WAS NOT long until the writhing mass of birds dissolved then formed back into the circle. On each and every beak were streaks of the prince’s blood. Milus was gone, shredded. In his place was a distribution of black feathers and swaths of red across the freshly cut silage. Edith lay amid this gruesome scattering, her feathers soaked with the blood of her son. Then she began to thrash about, wailing in the greatest sadness ever known. The crows cawed loudly even after they moved away from the center and resumed form.
Ophrei stayed within the circle, a lone bird, specks of blood brightening his ebony feathers. The wind had expired, as still as if it had never blown.
When the birds quieted, Ophrei’s gaze settled upon the eldest. “The time has come for your Reckoning, Sintus. You are to offer your version of the tales. You are to offer them to the wind, and the wind will be the judge.”
Sintus shook in righteous anger, his own brother’s blood dripping from his sharp beak. “Why should I not merely state the truth of my birthright? I should not be forced to honor this Reckoning. This is old and dying magic. The time for a new King has come, and most know I should be the one. Those who do not will soon be convinced.” There was a nervous murmur of agreement from his devotees. Nascus remained calm. The General, inscrutable, eyed the eldest. The twelve sentinels watched Fragit for any sign of charge.
Ophrei chuckled a bit then quivered his feathers with a slight tremble. “You will abide by the Reckoning’s order and carry on with the relation.”
Then Sintus likewise laughed a bit and said, “Oh, all right, old bird! I’ll play your needless game. Let me see . . . how does that old story go? Something like this, I think . . .” He began to hum a melody, something without ordered notes or tune, really a childlike da-da-ma-ma-dum with no sense to it. He broke into a dance as the melody continued. The old rook watched, his tremor stilling. Sintus’s mindless humming continued. Then one of his followers, Darus by name, stepped into the circle and joined the dance.
“In the first night,” he sang gaily, “the Wind and the Earth were making babes. And the Earth just lay there while the Wind had its way. And the Earth shook in earthquake and the Wind came in a hurricane! And looky what they made! Cold gray stones to mark the graves. Of course, the Wind was let down. Let me give you the best I can, my love! And it blew hard as it could and look what came out! Little black gods! Crows!” He continued the dance and song for a while, fearless and arrogant. Darus took his wing in beak and did a mock curtsy to the prince.
Ophrei watched, his expression unchanging. The rest of the murder was quiet with the exception of Sintus’s group, who were forming into a company and whistling and cawing along with the eldest. Sintus broke out of the song and went back to the mindless humming and whistling with which he had begun. Darus moved back toward the outer circle but stayed closer to the prince than before the dance. Sintus did a final trot and ended his ‘tale’ with a jump and a short flight, spreading his wings to their fullest and calling out, “And that is the truth and I am here to tell it!” His group, which had assembled more distinctly since he began his song, exploded in laughter and support. For the most part, the rest of the murder was still and watchful, though a few did laugh nervously. Fragit did not move, nor did his guard.
Ophrei showed no sign of annoyance or amusement, just calmly said, “Now. Tell the story of your father’s life.”
Caught up in his fit, Sintus reacted as if he had just eaten a rotten apple. “The old King Crow was born to be a better King but never was! He slept most of his majestic life, though he bedded many fine black birds! Yes, that’s it! Just slept, ate, and made babies! He has three sons official, but his bastards are many. Let me see—” He glanced around the field. “Why, there’s one, two, seven, sixteen . . . Ah! Look at all my brothers and sisters unofficial! Not one of you would deny!” There was laughter throughout the field, some buoyant and some tense.
It was then that from his hiding place within the brush Ysil clearly saw Ophrei’s feathers begin to rustle with a rise in the wind. He could not feel any breeze at all, and the murder seemed intent on Sintus’s tale and did not notice. Abruptly the old rook began to quaver.
Cotur Ada put his wings around the younger quails and held them low. “Young ones. The kingship is about to be decided, surely. I have the feeling that Sintus’s record is not to be approved.”
To their left, within the brush at the bottom of a small hollow, there was a rustle and a panicky peep. Fear gripped Ysil. Was it a crow guard, searching for intruders? He froze and lifted his eyes to Cotur Ada, who was staring in the direction of the sound, his eyes wide.
“I do believe we have found our lost young ones.”
Ysil stole another look and saw four eyes peeping out from beneath a blackberry bush. The eyes were those of Anur and Erdic, creeping through the bush to get a better view of the Reckoning. Now the two chicks stared right at Ysil, and with a look of shock in their eyes upon seeing the other quail, the chicks began to move to them. In great concern, Ysil noticed that the route they were about to take would bring the young ones within view of the field. Surely the crows were too busy to notice the two, but there was no way to know for sure. Ysil wanted to cry out in warning, but to do so would certainly alert the crows to their presence. He glanced up to Cotur Ada. The old quail’s silence seemed to prove his fear; there was nothing they could do to halt the young ones’ advance. Cotur Ada pressed his wings tightly over Monroth and Ysil, holding them down and keeping them still. Ysil heard a whimper and knew that on the other side of his grandfather’s body, Monroth was crying in fright.
From the field Ysil heard the voice of Ophrei rising in rage. “You have shamed your father’s memory and history! You were not born to be King; you were born to offer your salty blood to the field! You will succumb and lie down to have your breast opened!”
Silence spread throughout the murder, but for the wind, which had once again become a revolving gale. Small dust devils and frenzied gusts were enveloping the trees around, their leaves’ undersides flashing brightly, twisting and bending in the storm’s furor.
“I am the King!” called Sintus over the chaos of the wind. “I will offer nothing to this field but my rightful rule! I will be King of this field, though maybe not today! You are the one, old bird! It is you who will offer your blood to me! The field will just as hungrily drink yours as mine! You are not worthy of taking my blood.”
Then Fragit rose up with the wind, his wings searing through the gusts with a horrible pounding. He began to bear down on Sintus, his guard of twelve just behind. It was like he had received some unspoken direction from Ophrei, who was struggling to stay afoot with the gale so strong. But before Fragit could get to Sintus, the whole of the eldest’s followers intersected the General, beating their wings wildly and pecking him, and then the twelve were upon them all. The field filled with screams of pa
in and bloodlust as the two groups were consumed in mortal combat. While the chaos ensued, Sintus took to air, righteous fury driving his frenzied wings. He was quickly up to the sky and racing toward the tree line. As he flew he called out above the raging wind: “When I return, it will be at the lead of a great battalion of crows! And with coyotes and foxes under my command!”
And the wind bore down upon the fighters and watchers alike.
A small group of Sintus’s league, Darus at lead, flew off after the prince. Ophrei screamed, “Fragit! The rogue is fleeing! You must away! You must pursue!” Fragit broke free from the foray and took after the rebels. The skirmishing continued, but some of the Guard flew off to assist Fragit. The fighting began to diminish as the prince’s followers surrendered or died. The rest of the murder hopped around the field in rightful agitation.
Ophrei glared at Nascus, who was surrounded by the relative safety of his followers. The old rook flew over to the prince and, landing mere inches from him, lay down and spread his wings, his head turned under. This is for the crows the greatest sign of submission.
Jackdaw stood behind the rook, overcoming his shock. Following suit, he also lay down and tendered the same to the prince.
“Please, wise old bird, you need never bow to me,” said Nascus.
The rook looked up but did not rise. “You are to be King. The wind has shown this to me. You will be King. It is my place to bow to you. You are chosen. But you will not wear the crown until your brother has poured his blood upon the field. It is an unwise thing he has done. It is not within the order. He must be captured and returned. And should the opportunity arise, it must be you to open his chest.”
Nascus stared at Ophrei in seeming shock and misunderstanding. Then he raised his head, his face set in resolve.
“So be it,” he said, and the wind abruptly ceased.
BANKA, WHO WAS the first under Fragit’s command, struggled with one of the rebels. He pecked furiously at the rogue’s head and stabbed his beak into an eye, and with a great jerk ripped it free from the skull. The injured crow jumped away and fell squawking to the field, its life pouring from the hole in its head, death soon falling upon it.
Heeding the General’s command, Banka took to the air in pursuit of Fragit. As he neared the edge of the field, he saw two small brown shapes quivering within the brush. Quail. A new rage filled him. He bore down on the two small birds, the fury of battle still hot in his heart. I’ll stop and quickly deal with these before my commanded pursuit, he thought. The birds, frozen in horror, helplessly watched his descent, the crow’s awful eyes alight and his beak dripping red with blood.
COTUR ADA SAW Banka take to the air and fly directly toward the hidden chicks. Then he heard the crow caw loudly and turn downward in a redirected flight path toward the young ones. He had seen them! If Ada were to try to save the chicks, he would take the chance of exposing the two he sheltered beneath his wings now. All could die. If he did nothing, the two little birds would surely find death that afternoon. He briefly wrestled with the decision, but before he could move either way, an old and haggard form staggered out of the brush and stood between the descending crow and the babes.
“Stop, Banka! You fool among fools.” It was Incanta, the elder. Her voice was shrill in righteous defiance. “You are the coward I have always known you to be, as was your father before! How dare you!”
But the angry crow did not slow down. He continued his dive. In seconds he would be upon the brave old bird and the frightened chicks just behind her.
Chapter Four
In the Vulture Field
SULARI, THE OLD gray hare, was nervous. He had set out with a certain number of animals in his care. There were five missing quail of late, and now Gomor the rabbit had disappeared. This was no good. Certainly by now Cotur Ada had found the two lost chicks and was on the way to join them at Olffey Field. But the group had been there for two moves of the sun, and it would soon be dark again. This would not do at all. Sulari had hoped for a swift return of the lost animals and their rescuers.
Ekbeth, the mother of the vultures, sat on a low branch of the great dead sycamore. The huge tree had been a lifeless skeleton for a long time but, strangely, had not withered or rotted. In fact, when Sulari had made his first journey to the vultures’ field—a gesture of good faith, a trip he had made with his father when he was young—the tree had been dead then. The tree was pure white—all sycamores are white naturally, but this one was caked with the droppings of the fifty-some birds that called it home. All the vultures were the children of Ekbeth, or at least they called her their mother. Her nest was perched in the top of the tree.
The field itself, if it could really be called a field seeing as nothing grew within, was covered with bones. Bones of all types, from gnarled turkey bones to the bones of possums. From the bones of coyotes to the bones of the vultures themselves. Some of these animals had died here by their own choosing, but most of the bones were flown here after being picked clean. Sulari’s father had told him these were remembrances to the vultures—almost prayers. But to the hare, they seemed more like trophies.
Sulari recalled that first trip to the field very clearly. He remembered how he had been dreadfully afraid, asking his father why they had to go. How his father had said that the vultures carried the spirits of all animals who died to the Great Field, that in life we pay our respects at least once (this being the way of the hare), for in death, we are, at least in part, eternally theirs. Father said this was a good thing. He said that we were, birds and animals alike, all bound to return to the earth; but a small part would go to the sky . . . the part that belonged to the vultures.
Ekbeth watched on high from her roost as the hare and his company approached the great dead tree. She offered her hideous, gaping scowl to give cheerful greeting, and for the mother of all vultures, this was the best she could do.
“You are welcome here, Sulari of man’s field,” she said. “You are welcome here in life as you are in death.”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Sulari. “We have come under command of the murder. The King is dead and the Reckoning for the new King has come.”
“Yes, I have heard.” She gazed to the far side of the sycamore where three mourning doves sat, perched precariously on an outer limb. “We have sent envoys. They will be there come evening.”
Doves flew skyward, though quail did not. And though Sulari thought he had seen these doves before, he was certain they were not of his field. Doves traveled as the seasons commanded, and these lines never changed. One dove who moved through this area in the fall would likely not move through the Murder’s Field, or the man’s field as the vulture called it (the vultures gave no credit to the crow’s claim), unless they both lay on the same migration route. Perhaps it was through these lines that the rumor of doves traveled? Perhaps whisperings on the wind? Perhaps this is how they had come to know of the death of the King? Sulari never considered doves too long, and he pushed off these thoughts of the little birds.
Cotur Mono and Rompus moved up next to Sulari, for comfort’s sake and to gather in the talk with the vulture. “The new King will be crowned tonight,” said Ekbeth. “Unless one offers disregard. But that has happened only once that I know of, and long before my time.” Ekbeth seemed to forget what she was talking about for a moment and stared at the sky. Then she examined Sulari. “You are too young to remember the last Reckoning, eh, hare?”
“Aye, Mother. It was before I was birthed, even. Was early in the winter of my father’s time. He did not speak much of it, only to say that he was excited to see the new young King. Did the animals come to this field with the Reckoning before?”
“Yes, yes they did, and they always have. Thinking of it now, your father was here, as was your mother. Of course they are here now.” Sulari gazed out upon the blanket of white bones covering the ground and fidgeted. “Now, each time the animals come to shelter here we ask the same question, and we will ask it of you now.” With that some of
the vultures flew down and perched upon the branch with Ekbeth. Harlequin moved up into the forward group, closer to Cotur Mono. Ekbeth glanced at the young beautiful bird, and for a moment Sulari thought he saw something dark gather in the old vulture’s eye. Was it hunger?
Then she spoke, the vultures around her joined, whispering the same words in time through their haggard and stained beaks. As the chorus of voices sang the offer, Sulari chilled. It was a song, and though the words held rhythm, the melody was vague and sad, as if sung by a toad trapped beneath the sod during winter’s freeze.
Come, furry and feathered
Come, strong; and come, weak
Come; gather your forms
Near our guarding beaks.
As you live we will keep you
Protect from on high
And tend you and feed you
’Til you happily die.
And then we will bear you
Up to the clouds
Tight in our bellies
Our bodies your shrouds.
And offer your spirit
To the Great Field
Just rest with us now
’Til to death you shall yield.
The animals below stared up in dead silence. The mice were still (which was rare) and watched with anxious intent. The quail and rabbits were all huddled together in tight groups, their wide eyes turned up to the vultures and the great white tree in taut dread. Only the golden rat seemed uninterested. He sat gnawing on a gristly raccoon bone he had found. For the longest moment, there was only silent brooding, the animals entranced. It was that those on the ground were too shocked to respond and those on the tree too eager to ask again. The vultures likewise stared down at them, their mouths agape and their eyes keen.
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