The Bird People | ONC2024

Chapter Eight | 1289 Words

'But the Earth holds ghosts, even of entire nations.'

Alan Weisman

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-Dark Visions-

Byron stood alone on the dusty wagon road at the entrance to the stone and wooden bridge that stretched across the Nottoway River. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

All his belongings had been placed on the road by his guide, and the horse that the Monsignor had loaned him stood calmly in the humid stillness, her tail swishing the flies that relentlessly pestered her bright bronze coat.

The man known as Segenah, had brought him all the way to the settlement bridge and stopped, informing him without hesitation that he could go no further.

When Byron asked him why, he merely shrugged and said his horses would not cross the bridge for they feared it.

It had taken the better part of the day to reach the new Parish and Byron was exhausted and thirsty. There was not a single soul there to meet him.

He wondered if they even knew he was coming.

Regardless, he now had to make his way to the village and find his host family. He looked around, somewhat nervously. The ride had been uneventful, this Segenah had remained mostly silent and did not seem prone to conversation at all, contrary to what the Monsignor had mentioned earlier.

Not that Byron minded the silence, but out here in the dense mountainous tangle of forest the silence was deafening. And to make matters worse, Byron couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched for the last several hours.

He tried to brush it off as being tired, thirsty and hungry and now left alone to make his way onward. He could see the outlying road which would surely lead him into the settlement proper, but dusk was settling over the land and it felt dark and unfriendly to him.

He gave one last look at the sacks and heavy trunks dumped unceremoniously along the road and hoped he would find someone to help him retrieve them later as he mounted the sorrel mare and urged her forward and across the bridge, which, he noted wryly, she had no trouble with.

It was a good strong bridge. It would have taken many strong men to build it and he hoped some of those men would bring him back later for his belongings.

He entered another wagon road on the other side and the forest began to press in, it's scrubby undergrowth reaching outward like skeletal fingers. He kept his eyes on his horse. She didn't seem bothered, but Byron felt the nauseated sensation that he wasn't alone.

The road wound on, along the edge of the slow moving river and a damp fog rested just along the road he traveled. Haunting, quiet chirps from birds hidden in the trees sang out as they nested, knowing the night was growing near, in an otherwise frightening muffled silence.

Further ahead, Byron finally began to see the rooftops of several quaint homes shrouded in misty veils of rising moisture. Plumes of smoke rose to intermix with the hazy mists of evening. Shadows within the deep of the forest were blacker than the darkest night.

Byron wiped his brow, feeling a heaviness borne of sudden grim uncertainty.

His mouth was dry, and the choppy gait of the horse wasn't doing him any favors. His black cotton robes were stifling in this heat. He wondered dazedly how much further the settlement was when he rounded a curve and it suddenly sprang up before him.

He froze in the saddle and pulled hard on the reins bringing the horse to full stop.

The mare bobbed her head, snorting with displeasure and backed up a few steps.

Byron sat motionless, trance-like, as reality faded and rushed away leaving a grizzly scene before him, which bore the ghostly, shimmering appearance of something seen from a great distance.

He choked back a horrified scream as the surrounding landscape went dark and his mind exploded with fear as the vision of a woman, tattered and bloodied stood there in the gates of the village surrounded by the dead bodies of men, so many bodies, soldiers, ripped and torn and riddled with arrows, blood staining their dirty brown knickers, they lay jumbled together at her feet and all along the road and in the tenebrous edges of the towering forests, leaving him on the edge of insanity.

He grasped the saddle horn and squeezed it tightly to hold on as he so vividly saw a woman, standing there, her face twisted in anguish and she reached out to him with one hand, while the other hand clutched the neckline of her bodice on the long, heavy gown she wore. A hollow wail tumbled from her mouth but it was far away and surreal in his catatonic state. She stumbled toward him begging for his help---,

"Reverend? Reverend Dunleavy?"

The vision fled away and Byron coughed, nearly choking on his own tongue. This certainly was not a woman in distress, he thought as he absently looked down to see a striking young gentlewoman, with a look of frightened concern etched in her beautiful face.

She stood there before him, holding loaves of bread wrapped in beeswax cloth.

"Dear me, Reverend, are you well?"

He blinked slightly, trying to clear his mind. "Somewhat," he stuttered. "I declare, the heat here is stifling."

"Oh my, you must be near parched! Please, Reverend, we are right up the hill, come along now, you must be famished as well!"

The Reverend nodded, all while giving her the strangest look. "I think, I shall walk, if that would suit you Miss---?"

"Oh," Constance blushed. "I am so sorry," she murmured pressing a hand to her throat. "Constance. Constance Mercy Pennybacker. Now please, let's get you to the house."

Byron dismounted with weak legs and stood for a moment to stretch his back. He looked around again, to avail his earlier fright and shook his head. It certainly must have been the heat he surmised inwardly. There was no other thing which could describe what had happened and he was shaken to his core.

As the young lady who greeted him strode off purposely along the lane which led into the village, Byron took note of the tall buttressed wall which looked to encircle the entire area. He gathered the reins of his horse and walked slowly after her, his mind awash with the strange and frightening things he had seen.

He'd never been one to have premonitions, but he had heard of some people describing the experience.

Pausing, he consciously straightened his collar and robes and pulled the black rounded hat he wore tighter to his head. If he had just witnessed a premonition, it did not bode well, that was for certain.

Constance looked back, and hesitated, giving the Reverend a moment to catch up. The look on his face was stark, and she dearly hoped he was not already thinking of leaving. Rumors did spread far and wide in this massive country, and it would not surprise her in the least if the Presbytery in Jamestowne had gossiped. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, hoping for the best.

As he caught up to her she smiled.

Byron regarded her intently. She seemed to be a pleasant young lady and, though her smile was forced, he could not dismiss the fact that as he looked upon the fairness of her face he was sure this was the woman he had just seen reach out to him from the terrifying vision.

He fought desperately to clear his mind even as he realized truly, the woman in the vision, was her.

1289 words.