Autumn rain pelted the young boy who had just found his mother’s dead body in their backyard shed. From her cold lips trickled something sticky and blue. Oliver, who had just turned eight, knew better than to touch her, or it. From his own mouth came a loud whimper. His little chest thumped and threatened to burst. She appeared so alive, yet her once bright eyes had gone pale. A strange thing, like she’d been sucked right out of her body. Her pupils pointed at him, but her stare went right through – as if to say, See? I told you. Our blood runs blue.
Oliver ran from the raging storm and into the house seeking comfort and shouting for his nanna, but the old lady did not respond. Her purse was gone, meaning so was she. Tears spilled from his eyes, making a note on the fridge hard to read, yet he had to try.
Gone to get milk. Be back soon.
Oliver trembled as he stood in the kitchen, not sure what to do. His body screamed from the inside, and his young mind melted with rushing thoughts of panic and fear.
“Mama,” he whispered, as if someone could hear him. As if there was still time to save her.
“Your mama is dead.”
Oliver spun toward the voice, one which he did not recognize.
Crouching on the kitchen stove was a strange creature. Its body was that of a man, tall and slender, but its head was marred by a long beak and two black dots for eyes. It was bald and had no hair or feathers except on its folded wings, no indication of emotion, much less sympathetic feelings towards the child that shuddered in its daunting presence.
“No,” Oliver said in a weak voice. “She might still be breathing.”
The thing on the stove opened its beak, and from inside its mouth a worm of a tongue slithered and wiggled about. “You put your face next to hers, didn’t you? Did you feel her breath against your cheek? No. I thought not. I squeezed her lungs dry myself.”
Oliver screamed. He ran to his momma, as children in fear or in need of love always do.
Behind him, the winged thing gave chase. Oliver could hear it, sounding louder than any bird of this world. With the help of wings, its long legs moved faster than the young boy’s, and soon he was overtaken, just steps from his mother and the shed.
“She’s dead. She’s dead!” The beaked creature taunted. Reaching with its talons, it lifted its head high and was about to strike the child when a woman’s silhouette appeared.
“Nanna!” Oliver ran to hide in his grandmother’s skirt. The old woman glared at the creature. She held out a scroll and began to chant in a tongue Oliver had heard before, during the full moon ceremonies and at his own birth, which he vaguely remembered.
As Oliver’s grandmother spoke, the creature screamed, as if the words sliced into it like carving knives. It tore its own feathers with its mouth. The agony made it bleed from its ears. Unable to listen to the wisdom of the ancient blessing bestowed on the family of witches, the winged beast took off and flew into the tumultuous clouds.
“Come here, my sweet boy.”
Oliver’s momma stood in the doorway of the shed. Rain doused her from above. The blue that had been spilled was almost washed away. She beckoned and he ran into her arms. “It’s gone now,” she said, hugging him tight. “It’ll never come back.” Oliver felt his nanna’s strong hands on his shoulders as the women wrapped him in safety once more.
“And if it does,” Oliver’s nanna said, “we’ll be ready.”
He watched his nanna roll the precious parchment and secure it with twine, and the droplets of rain that had settled on its surface fell to the ground like flecks of gold.
Fiction © Copyright Christina Persaud
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com