Bone and Feather

Bone and Feather -8- {Michael}

By the words that escaped from the thin lips of the Pastor, Cora had abandoned Elijah. Any empathy she had left for him was eclipsed by the fear that descended upon her in that moment. One look into those fathomless, unforgiving eyes and the way the hunting knives blinked in her vision had captured such terror upon Cora’s heart that it seemed nothing in Heaven or Hell could’ve stopped her from running.

She didn’t think about it, didn’t wait for her pale lips tremble in doubt. She turned her back on the village that betrayed her and fled back to the disclosed safety of the forest. The mellow brightness of the morning barely struck through the blackened leaves of the trees, but that did not matter to Cora. The darkness now comforted her in a twisted sort of way, as she felt it blotted out all the pain she felt in her wrists, in her body, in her mind and in her heart. In brightness, she felt she would notice the regret gnawing at her gut for leaving Elijah behind. But now in this lonely forest, those regrets could blend into the blackness of the trees and once she emerged into the light, they would be gone and forgotten.

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Cora came upon a city four days later. She was a miserable sight with her hair tangled with leaves, juice from the berries she’d been eating staining her fingers, the fringe of her skirt torn away for ratty bandages to wrap round her ravaged wrists and deep purple blooming underneath her eyes from restless sleep. 

The city was large and powerful looking, set against the backdrop of a swirling blue-gray sea. With each breath she took, Cora could very well taste the salty brine of that brewing ocean. In midst of her awe, she found herself caught in a tide of people that pushed their way under the raised iron gate and into the narrow, cobblestoned streets of the city itself.  The buildings almost seemed to angle above them, casting their gray shadows onto the narrow, winding street below.  It was a curious sight, for none of the wood and stone structures were similar in proportion or design with wayward windows and rusting iron balconies peeking out of the strangest places. One building looked crooked like a branch and Cora had to wonder how on earth it managed to stay up.

The sea of people drifted Cora through the streets and finally into the city square. Compared to the  one in her old village, this one was far more magnificent; it was almost the size of her old village.  Branches of merchants carts and gypsies wagons decorated with romantic, lively colors blossomed in the corner of her vision  and she found herself brought under the enchantment of trade. One cart was selling perfumes that coupled spices from the far corners of India with somber English herbs. The two laced together summoned an attack of contradictions that both livened and mellowed Cora's senses at the same time. 

Another booth sold pieces of gold forged to look like crooked branches of a naked tree in winter. Then, a delicate thorn-rimmed crown fashioned out of silver meant to mirror the one Christ wore when he was crucified. 

A few young gypsies fiddled with a mandolin and a tambourine next to one of the gypsy’s wagons. The melody they picked at the strings was so intoxicatingly simple that some of the children began to dance. Cora felt a strange longing to be part of it, the delicate music and the whirl of brightly colored scarves.  She felt that if she did,  she could dance all the pain of her existence away,  she could become a free-spirited being without any demons to drag her down. 

But reality tinged the edges of that hope. Cora knew she could never join a colorful caravan of gypsies, for it was not known that they were superstitious folk.  Though they followed a different shade of superstition than the Church, it all grew from the same stem: any unbalance of darkness lingering in a person’s soul was cursed, condemned. If she had another episode, her fate would be as vulnerable as it would of been if she lingered back in her dreary old village.