Fledglings

One: Tragedy Strikes

It was fifteen years later on a fine spring morning when Thazel woke to the sound of his cousin's screams.

Their farmhouse was made largely of timber, walls painted robin's egg blue and speckled with earth. The steps creaked and groaned in protest as Thazel thundered down the staircase, his heart hammering in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears. In his rush, he tripped over one of the boots that was strewn on the hallway rug and he would have fallen headlong were he not able to find purchase by grabbing at one of the coats hung on the mismatched pegs by the door. As he wrenched open the door, the handle bounced hard against the wall, rebounding the door on its squealing hinges, but Thazel was already leaping down the porch steps by the time it had slammed shut.

He felt certain that the screams had come from the barn, so that was where he ran to, vaulting over the gate and rounding the corner of the stables only to see the huge wooden doors ajar. The barn was the biggest building on the farm, dwarfing the adjacent stables, which only held two cart horses and the old pony, who started and whinied noisily as Thazel went peeling by. During the night, the sheep would sleep on the barn's floor, the hens would roost in the rafters, and the dogs slept in the hayloft. A quick glance to his right and Thazel saw that the herd was already grazing in the pasture. Now that Thazel was closer he could hear the dogs whining, then one howled.

He ignored the deserted debris of the ground and followed the sound of muffled sobs up the rickety makeshift stairs to the loft. At the top, he was met with the rich metallic stench of blood. Onkel was lying face down in a bale of hay. Presumably, he had been halfway through mucking out the dogs' sleeping quarters before bringing some more dry hay down to feed the horses. But it looked as if the horses may have to wait a while for breakfast. One of the high beams that supported the cavernous ceiling had given way. The wood had splintered, and half of the beam had fallen at an angle, one end still hanging on, the other end revealing a chunk of rot running through the centre. It bobbed uncertainly in mid-air, deciding whether or not it would break clean in two. The half-severed beam must have struck Onkel on the back of the head, as evidenced by the glittering crimson smears around the split end. Thazel frowned. Surely that wouldn't have killed him? But then he caught the sharp acidic tang of vomit, and pieced together that Onkel must have choked and suffocated on both his own sick and the hay his face was buried in.

Onnev knelt at Onkel's feet, tears and snot dripping steadily down her face.

"I found him like this." She said, not turning to look at her cousin, but likely having heard his clattering footsteps.

"Can't you do something?" Thazel's voice sounded like a stranger's. Too throaty, and heard as if from a great distance.

"I tried," Onnev sniffed. "All Saints, I did try. But his pulse won't start again, his heart stopped for over an hour before I found him, and there's no way to clear his airways properly without damaging the lungs." Onnev gazed helplessly at her hands.

In another lifetime, perhaps one where she had risen over half an hour earlier, her skills might have been what saved Onkel's life; she was zowa like her father afterall. Then again, if Thazel himself had risen an hour earlier, he would be the one to muck out the barn. He might have heard the creaking of the beam - Onkel's hearing had become steadily worse over the past two years - Thazel might have ducked. And right now he would be sat at the breakfast table recounting his near-death experience to Onnev and Onkel over a plate of scrambled eggs and toasted rye.

Stepping forward, Thazel crouched by Onkel's shoulders and rolled him over. His mouth and nose were clogged with straw and the regurgitated contents of last night's dinner. Thazel pried the clods from out of Onkel's nostrils and mouth, the man's facial muscles stiff beneath his fingers as the rigour mortis took hold.