"And in other news, the sudden appearance of a medieval castle in the north of Maine has prompted local experts to ponder if this is the work of a madman…."
The radio was old and was not working properly.
Barely able to keep its hold on the signal, the occasional refrain from the song 'Great Balls of Fire.' by Jerry Lee Lewis was heard from the depths of the crackling radios' depths.
Frowning, she banged the radio with a closed fist.
Miraculously, the radio signal stayed clear of static for a weather report.
"Sunny over the western shores of New Jersey, with occasional showers making their way from Vermont headed south to Massachusetts. An unseasonable cold front is covering Maine…"
She turned the radio off, an unusual thing in her eyes, an almost otherworldly object compared to the system of messengers that ran from east coast to west coast to relay messages across the country.
The radio was an old object.
Her father, Alexis, had found it four years before his death.
At first, the tribe had been wary of the object that screamed like a new born cub, squawking about something called 'President' and 'Assassination', so they assumed it had sentience, and tried, without success to feed it the food that they caught.
Having quickly learnt that the radio did not eat the tribe's food, it was still respected as an elder of the tribe.
On more than one occasion, the small box creature had warned them of impending floods or bad weather, and was valued as much as the lives of three Cynocephali.
Meg, short for Margaret, was sat inside an abandoned wooden cabin that had been constructed many years ago. Her husband, Gregory, say on the bed, wrapped in a blanket made from the pelts of three deer, as he suffered terribly when the weather was bad.
"You shouldn't treat the radio like that. It can't help the fact that it is getting old." Gregory said, as he watched the radio with great respect.
The word 'Radio' was new to the tribe, recently discovered only a year ago, from scouts who had gone too far into human territory. They had to masquerade as bearded lumberjacks, Meg recalled, to escape undue human attention.
"We're not faring too well ourselves, dear." Meg said.
Both Meg and Greg were approaching their One hundredth and seventieth birthdays apiece, and the ill effects of age had slowly crept over them. Greg's pelt was slowly turning white and Meg's was between black and grey.
"Hmpff." said Meg with a huff, "At this rate, that thing…" she pointed with a backhand thumb as she walked over to the bed, "Will get a better burial than us."
Greg extended the deerskin pelt to Meg, who quickly pulled it around her shoulders as another shawl.
There was a moment of quiet, of unspoken thoughts then Greg sighed.
"Cynthia's bringing her two sons up tomorrow, are you looking forward to that?"
"Cynthia," Meg growled, "Has the face of a raccoon. A stuck-up one."
Greg stood up and walked over to the window.
"What?" asked Meg loudly, "It's true! Have you seen the way that she cavorts around the tribe? She's no better than a human whore!"
Greg's ears flattened behind his head. It took a long minute for Greg to calm himself, as Meg had used the worst insult that a Cynocephali could use.
"I appreciate your opinion, but she is my niece, Meg." Greg said as though it pained him. "You don't have to like her, just… Tolerate her, while she is here."
He then smiled weakly. "Besides," He turned to face her. "Little Cyrus and Orin like you."
Meg pulled the pelt-blanket over her like a blanket and walked over to the window.
An unseasonal blanket of thick snow was on the ground, unusual for it was only a few weeks after the equinox in autumn and the trees usually still had their leaves.
"It still doesn't make up for the loss of Monica." Meg said, looking bravely out of the window, tears welling in both of her eyes. Greg held her close and let her weep into his shoulder.
Their only daughter, Monica, had died Sixty years ago, barely out of her childhood years, dead from an accidental encounter with a He-Bear.
"She would've been sixty this summer gone."
Looking briefly out of the window at the setting sun, Greg led his wife's eyes to the window,
"Look, Meg," he took her hand to the window, "It's the shooting star that we saw when we got married."
Both Cynocephali looked out at the shooting star and admired its beauty, from the blazing white head to the glistening white tail that streaked dust behind it.
After several blissful seconds, the radio mysteriously began to make a loud wailing noise.
Greg walked over to it, wincing at the high frequency of the noise- How could one object make so much noise?
He turned it over to see if the radio had been properly turned off. Sometimes it jarred between on and off and would blare loud interference noise at the most inconvenient times.
Strangely, it was turned firmly off.
With Hesitation, Greg shook the radio twice, and then placed it down, back where it had been.
Not soon after that, the sound of Norwegian voices were heard coming from the radio.
"Priset være du, Sól to Óðinn, jeg har lokalisert en gruppe mennesker med ukjent mening, rett sør for leiren... Hvordan skal vi gå frem?
The sun had just set moments earlier and the sky was a deep Ochre colour tinged with the deeper colour of Paprika.
"Nei, ingen fremgang nødvendig. Jeg skal gå ned og spørre dem om meningen med dette. Takk for oppdateringen, Sól..."
The radio was silent for a few minutes.
"Hello…?" The radio spoke with the voice of a young girl, faintly recognisable to both Cynocephali. "I'm lost. Can you help me?"
Meg turned to face the radio, almost transfixed to the spot.
"Monica…?" she whispered.
"Mother, is that you? Where are you? I can't find you..." There was the sound of sobbing and the lower sound of a deep growling.
Greg turned to the window. There was a man stood outside in the snow dressed in grey clothes. He wore a hood with his cloak, which was tilted over his face, obscuring his eyes from view.
Why did the man keep watching them? What did he want from them?
He turned to face Meg, who was cradling the radio.
"It's her, Greg." She sniffed, "It's Monica."
Greg saw nothing untoward with the radio. "It's just a radio, Meg. It's not Monica."
"Father…" the radio said, "Is that you?"
"You can't be Monica." Greg said firmly, "Monica's been dead too long to visit us." Greg put his hand on Meg's shoulder, "Come on old girl," he said as he lightly shook her. "Put the radio down."
Meg shook her head as she cradled the radio, "No. She's sleeping."
Greg hastily looked out of the window to see the old man.
The wind had whipped up a brisk wind with much snow that danced around the man, creating a halo of ice.
Wasn't he human? Why did he just stand there?
Greg peered closer at the man. His eyes. Greg saw his eyes. They were glowing… purple?
He looked towards his wife, who was slumped over the radio. Moving his hand to touch her, Greg felt tired. His movements were not strong. Shaking his head, Greg determinedly shook his wife's shoulders.
"She's sleeping, dear…" mumbled Meg.
"Meg!" Called out Greg weakly, "You've got to wake up! Please!"
It was too late. Meg did not answer him. Dead.
Angrily, Greg turned, too fast, and shouted,
"Who are you? What do you want? Why have you killed my wife?"
The man didn't reply. Instead, he simply raised his left hand and closed his fist tightly.
Greg felt a burning sensation in his throat. He couldn't breathe! He thought he was being choked up by anger, but despite his relatively calm mood, Greg knew it would end here. Taking the hand of his newly deceased wife, Greg shook several times before dying. The smell of burnt fur filled the cabin.
Outside, two dark ravens flew down to the man, who turned away from the cabin, and walked north, slowly fading from mortal sight.