Feast, Famine, & Rise
There was a man. A very strange and lonely man. This man was a villager who lived a very lonely and isolated life. Out in the world that he lived in, food was everything, especially in a village where trade brought in and took away. But hard times change even the best of people.
In times of wealth and prosperity, many are willing to forgive and forget. In a time when there is hardship, misery, suspicion and fear, it is amazing the changes that may take place and what actions people shall take out of sheer desperation. This man learned just how terrible human nature could be. And it made something even more terrible out of him.
. . . . . . .
"But I swear unto you! I have not done this! I am not responsible!" howled the man. The crowd had shone up in the middle of the night and drug him from his bed. Times were lean upon the village and paranoia had began to take hold. The fear of starvation and thirst was beginning to eat at the most hardened of souls. Many were looking for a source. This whole horrid affair had continued until everyone was joined in the cause. All wanted but one answer: Who is to blame? What is the cause?
The lonely and isolated hut where the man lived was prey for the fear-crazed villagers. Everyone came to the same conclusion and it mattered not that he was as miserable as they were. They determined that they must leave and go to a new place in which to live, but first they would make sure the source of their woes and troubles would answer to "justice". They dragged him, in the middle of the night, out of his house to a stake in the middle of his barren field and tied him very roughly and tightly to it.
His screams and cries for mercy went unanswered. His house was burnt down, and the man himself, left to rot by starvation. Days of misery and pain found him loathing the sun and cursing his parched mouth. The birds began to circle, but every time they pecked at him, his shouts drove them off. This could not continue indefinitely however, and he eventually became to weak to do much. How he came to envy them, for they could express their freedom through flight. They did not starve, for they could depart to seek water or food. He wished he were a bird, but he was nothing, nothing but a mass of weakness and misery, his soul cursing the wretchedness and cruelty of his people.
Then the day came when he breathed his last, one final curse, and fell asleep; never to awaken again.
. . . . . . .
The birds had descended en masse to feed. The bones had been picked clean. A lone figure in the swirling waves of heat across the dry earth. One of the former villagers, having moved from the rest, feeling it best to seek his fortunes elsewhere. The land seemed familiar to him, but there was nothing recognizable apart from a large field of tall plants and stalks of corn. The wind had carried seeds, alongside the birds, to this area, and the rains had brought vegetation sprouting again.
For some reason, the man's conscience felt a prick. The field held some strange and familiar feeling. He felt guilty. Why? There was nothing to trouble him here. Right?
He unrolled his bed, made a small place, and ate his dinner. Still, his thoughts kept wandering and he struggled to fall asleep. Was there something watching him? The shadows danced and swirled from the small fire he had lit. It had been several years since the hard times that had worn him down and made him accuse that man of bringing the famine upon them all. Why was he thinking of them?
Now that he considered it, he did feel guilty. He may have very well tied the very knots in the rope that bound that man himself. Did that all-but-forgotten man even have a name? And his face… he could not see it. It bothered him and ate at him until he finally could stand it no more. He exited his bed and knelt on the earth. "If you can hear me out there… please forgive me. I did not think, did not consider. I wish that I could take it back… but I cannot."
He felt a little better for having made some form of penance, and quietly went to his bed. He lay down and found himself easily falling to sleep. The fire died down. It died down perhaps a little too quickly.
. . . . . . .
Dust swirled in circular patterns. A limb emerged. A bird quietly observed it. Simply observed it; did not run, blink, or express any concern.
"Haaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh." A long slow exhalation. A presence. A soul. A familiar one; called back to this place of emptiness perhaps? It mattered not.
Tmp. One slow step. Then another. And another. Closer. Closer. Each step just a little closer. And with each step, the nightmares and choking fear waxed a little stronger.
Closer still. So very close now.
. . . . . . .
The man twitched and moaned. His eyes danced back and forth madly behind his eyelids. His bedroll was soaked with sweat. Terrible visions and nightmares danced about in his mind. Garish and ugly figures stalked him, laughed at him, tormented him, chased him. He could not escape, couldn't get away. Couldn't…
. . . . . . .
Delicious. And the sweet, pleasant taste was growing riper; more tantalizing with each second. A little bit longer.
Just hold a little longer my companions. Its coming soon. Just a little more.
. . . . . . .
"GAAAHHHHH!" The man awoke with a blood-curdling scream. He was soaked with sweat and gulping air in heaving gasps. So real. The last vision… so very real. Thank goodness it had only been a dream. But what a terrible dream. Never had he experienced something like it.
Caw.
What in the world?
Caw.
The man's eyes darted to and fro.
There. A crow. What was such a bird doing here? It was night-time, and there was no place to roost here, no trees. Why?
Caw, caw. With a flap of wings, it departed, but not before its eyes caught his. Red. Its eyes had been red.
Thmp.
A new noise. What now? Was something out there?
Thmp. "H-hello?" he called out uncertainly to the darkness of the rustling stalks. "Is… Is anybody there?" Sssssssshhhhhhhhh. The wind sighed and rustled through the stalks, but no reply came.
It was moonless night. The breeze chilled the sweat-soaked man and cut him down to the bone. Thmp. There it was again. He looked about with fear dancing its icy, needle-like fingers on his spine.
A new sound. A chuckle. His blood turned to ice at the sound. The stalks rustled and swished. Something was inside them. Something that was coming right towards him! He should run. He must run. But he was paralyzed and somehow could not budge; merely remain transfixed upon the long waving plants, and the source of that awful sound that kept chuckling at random and kept coming closer.
The stalks parted slightly as a thin limb thrust out. A hand looking as if it were woven of cloth pushed aside the blades and limbs and the rest of the figure attached stepped out into view underneath the moonless sky. The man's heart clenched in his chest at the sight of green eyes blazing with unearthly fire.
"Heh-heh-heh." The figure that seemed to be some ghastly scarecrow smiled at him. A cawing and flapping of wings, and a crow joined it, resting upon its shoulder. The bird's eyes were indeed blood-red. And the scarecrow was holding in its hands… a scythe.
"You aren't supposed to be here," smiled the scarecrow. "You seem… familiar. But we don't care about that right. But we are… hungry you see. We are always hungry and empty. Kind of like this field. And when someone comes here…"
The scarecrow looked away and stroked the bird gently. "Well when some uninvited person comes along" -the ghastly figure looked at the sweating man- "we simply have to do something about it, don't we?"
That ugly smile! And those eyes! The man finally felt his nerves shatter like taut strings, and he scrambled to get his feet underneath him and run. He got up and started to turn, but the scarecrow bent its knees slightly and gave a smile of glee. "Please do run. It just makes the taste that much sweeter for us."
The man began to run, and the harsh breath of the scarecrow chased him. The field exploded with birds. Cawing, flapping wings, black feathers, talons and beaks. It drove him mad and filled his eyes and ears, until he could not tell where he was running, just hoping and praying that it was away from these living terrors. A spinning, swirling circle that looked like the thrown scythe cut the man near the legs. He stumbled and clutched at his side as the wounds bled, but he didn't stop. Eventually his exhaustion dropped him, and he fell on the ground sobbing.
He did not know where he might be, merely that he was dreading the absence of the day and cursing the presence of the night. Thmp. His head jerked up. Where?! Shwing! He heard the whistle of the wind over the sharp blade and dove to the side, but the scythe caught his fingers on his left hand, save his thumb.
He wailed and clutched at the bleeding stump. Thmp, thmp. The scarecrow casually stepped into view. The man turned his tear-filled eyes to stare at what surely would be his death. "You…" his voice trembled.
"Don't bother asking," chuckled the straw-stuffed figure. "I might have had a name; don't know. And while it is kind of funny, I don't care. Its just us here. My feathered friends and me." The ugly smile faded and something ugly blazed in the green helfire of those eyes. "But I do seem to have some memory of something bad happening here in this place. I do believe I owned this place. And I know one thing: I shall not let anyone else here. Maybe I once let other come here and feed upon my generosity. Every time I see others, all I want, is to taste their fear. I want them to be scared." The eyes glinted and sparked at this.
"This place is mine. And anyone here other than us" -wings rustling, the sound of cawing in the distance closing in- "they scream, and they cry. Much as your doing right now." The man yelled in terror and fell back against the earth as crow fell upon him, pecking, clawing, stabbing relentlessly, blood flying and spattering the earth and beaks and feathers.
The scarecrow simply sighed and calmly stroked the head of the crow with him with a smile. By the time the sun rose, nobody who found their way here could possibly know what had occurred, for the field was like an empty, barren womb, a yawning grave. It devoured and swallowed whole, yet never was filled or satisfied.