The air was cool and crisp, as nights often are. She could feel the trees breathe with her, she could feel the creatures stir. This night was not meant for sleep, as nights often are.
The soft shawl around her danced with the winds movements, and she wrapped it ever so tighter around her. She breathed in the familiar scents of spices and herbs. When her eyes closed, she saw her home lively with music, with chatter, with family.
“The birds will carry my soul,” she whispered, “and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done.”
She wrote letters in a tongue she knew the people would not understand, and she scrawled with beautiful calligraphy she had learned from her grandmother. The letters would keep her memories alive, as they would also keep her knowledge. There wasn’t enough time to teach all she could, especially with time stopping this night.
Lanterns swung above her, the lights dancing as her shawl did. The writing desk inside would be more comfortable and more easily able to record what she wanted, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. Not on this night, the night of ends.
As the minutes drew to the crux of the hour, she knew there would only be so many left. As more and more ticked by, the surrounding area seemed only to fester and writhe. Once she felt content with the words on the parchment, she folded and addressed them properly. Then she stored them away with a lock and a key and buried the box where only those who Knew would find it.
Spindly fingers, used to rapid and precise movement, unwound her long braid. The winds picked up and she became just a blur to those who would look on her – though no one was around to look on her.
Not yet.
But they would, soon enough.
With the voice of her mother, long since passed, she sang the lullaby most familiar to her; the one that slept in her bones, the one that hummed – always – in the back of her mind.
There were creases forged in her skin, and gray sprouting from her head. There was a softness and a shine in her eyes that were gifted from age. She had already been blessed with more time than that of those before her. More time than that of those among her. The earth knew her well by now, the fruits of her labor were well mature and often used. Her lips pressed tight.
“Good enough to use when you don’t know the knowledge of them.”
How often would people come to her, or take from her garden, in search of food or remedies? How often they would come for aid? And she would give, wouldn’t she? She would give all she could, she would help all she was able. Yet as the night grew older, spite grew in her chest. Anger in her belly.
By now the birds were loud, although none sang a love song. By now the winds were whipping, although there was no storm. Her tired eyes closed and she stood from her chair which jerked as though it didn’t want her departure. The waxing moon was plump and shone every so brightly. Her head rose to meet it and the light felt warm, although it couldn’t. The time was almost here.
It started as a whisper: “The birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done.”
The creatures that had been uneased, an anxious feeling among them, suddenly called out. Shrieks and howls and cries sprawled across the earth around where she stood, no rain to fall in sorrow tonight, but thunder and lightning to voice their rage.
As the horses’ hooves could finally be heard in the near distance, she called louder,
“The birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done!”
Somehow, the wails around her crescendoed into a swirling, frenzied tornado. The wind by now lashed so fiercely it shook the house behind her. The trees were threatening to be pulled from the ground, the long, thick roots barely enough to suture them in place.
The stampede of horses grew nearer and, as they did, so did those riding them. Shouts could barely be heard over the roars of infuriated nature.
She was now yelling, “birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done!”
Her eyes opened and gazed toward the sky, her arms and hands reaching upward as if to invoke the power swirling in the atmosphere. Flashes of lightning and growls of thunder beckoned her to continue. They called on her to do what she must.
They were almost upon her now, their faces white with fear, their eyes red with hatred. Here was her end, and she continued to shout at them. She continued to curse them. She could see a few of them glance at each other with shaken trepidation, but those leading the mob gave stone to their backbones. In the light of the boiling night, she could see the rope. It was already prepared.
Like a wild horse, they strung it about her neck. Her fingers clawed at it as she continued to curse them. The night screamed with her. The night screamed for her.
Lobbed around a branch from this tree who knew her, the rope was pulled tightly. The people were telling her to stop; they were begging her to stop her curse. Those in front of her as she was being pulled back, being pulled higher, were silent. They were still. They looked on in horror at her face, screwed up in agony and outrage. Still, her mouth moved. Still, her voice persisted.
“Birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done!”
What seemed to be an impossible amount of time passed before she was finally still. As her voice grew softer, so did the wind. When her heart finally stopped, so too did the thunder and lightning. Once the heat had subsided and the people grew quiet, a rain spurred the silence. Soft coos could be heard all around them, so gentle, so delicate. It was as though the earth and its inhabitants were mourning for her.
More than a few throats were thick with saliva. Balls formed at the back of their mouths and tears pricked what were once hellish eyes. They left in somber silence. The patter of rain and animals masked the sound of hooves and footsteps as the people left. As they drew farther and farther from the home and the woman, the coos only seemed to follow.
With the coos came tightened chests. With the coos came shame.