Rubrum Arcane

Red: Act I

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The chaffinch was lying perfectly quiet in her cupped hands. Its cone-shaped beak slightly open; Silenced in the middle of a lively chirp. A feather mail painted with grey and blue and copper red. It was so soft against her stroking thumb. The wings stretched straight out, as if it still believed that it was sailing on the winds.

Instead, it was now lying there, for her soil-stained palms to touch. Dead, and broken and befooled. Did it feel sorrow now, as it laid there? Over the fact that it would never again chirp in the sky? Red did not believe so. She had learned that the dead could not feel or think. Still it looked like it was napping. There, in her palms. What was really the difference?

It had almost hit her in the head, but had dashed to the side and smashed into a crooked pine. At first, it had jerked and trembled, but it did not take long before it disappeared into the strong current of the river below. Red had felt the rhythmic pounding against her palms and how it slowly weakened and died out. It was the same throbbing that beat in her chest. That pounding, that was as glassy as a rippling brook.

Like when she was younger and ran into the shallow gathering of trees standing guard along the little road, that went up to the cottage. As crystal clear as when she lay in her bed upstairs, in the night's silent song; In the oppressive veil of darkness. Only then could she truly hear it. Feel it, even. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Sometimes she listened to it for ages, until she was finally cradled to sleep by it. The same thumping had vibrated and resounded from the little bird, in that silent kind of way. Vibrations that touched upon everything that was around, but still not recognized by anything or anyone.

For a second she thought that it would wake up, like from a bad dream, and polish its feather mail to quickly fly away. But it did not. It was still there, stiff from the lack of life, with its glossy eyes halfway open. Red did not feel sorrow or tears burning in her eyes like they sang about in the songs. Where the hero wept over his dead love. His heart turning black with rot and so forth. To be honest she did not know how she felt. It bothered her in a way, that the little bird just would not wake up. There was a knot in her stomach, she felt heavy-hearted. But in the end, confusion. Confusion that fueled annoyance and something not so far from anger.

Annoyance that was like a wrapping shroud. It was not the proper feeling toward something that had lost its life, she could understand that, but it was there still. Like a deluding ghost. She wanted to ask questions about death, but to whom? Not to the old man, he was just grumpy and lost.

The mist was thick today. Strangely thick. Had it not been, birds would not have dashed past her skull, getting killed by pine trees, the safest things in the world as long as there was no storm. It was something that was rueful with this day, Red thought.

"You are a lucky one, you," Red said in a soft whisper to the little bird in her hands. "Now you float with the current. Who knows where it will take you." At least not to the hole of a place I am going to, full of stupid fools, bleating goats and humping dogs.

It had rolled in quickly, the mist, and it had filled the whole valley. Like a smothering blanket, it had stretched all the way up to the height, clenching around the very trees. Behind the dark and spongy clouds, the sun sought to burn with its light. And it had almost thrived, for some strayed rays struck like spears through the mist and created that enchanting feeling. Like a sudden wind beam that whips your hair and make the leaves around dance and rattle. Red took a deep breath and she could feel the moisture of the mist sticking to the inside of her lungs.

This day was an odd sight. Up on the height, pines stood strong. From the old man's house they stood in clusters and willfully followed the way down to the valley, until they suddenly broke up.

Down in the valley there were no trees, just different kinds of flowers, wheat crops and weeds. The pines stood like the old kings from the stories, with their green cloaks, looking down upon their people. Dumb farmers, walking around like grass-gnawing sheep until night comes, when they quickly seek shelter. If I was an old king, I'd rather look upon a dog's arsehole.

Red hated them, and she was not sure why. Perhaps because she was disgusted speaking with them. Her eyes meeting theirs. Their well-meaning, nodding and smiling masks that, as soon as you looked the other way, turned into squint and spiteful goat's eyes. Those whispers and glances that makes one shiver. Or maybe it was deeper than that.

For it was almost as if she did not feel any affinity with them, as if she was something else. A marten feeding from the milk of a wolf mother. Pretending. No, they are the pretenders.

There was something. Something about them that was far too quiet. There was no pounding. No thump-thump. Not even Traec had it. When she was little and had slept on his chest, it had not been there. Just a slow whirring.

She sat there, arced down on her knees, with the silent bird in her hands. The leather gloves, discarded, beside the thick carpet made out of pine needles. In the little black eye of the dead bird, Red could see her own reflection, and for a moment she lingered.

Her brown eyes, darksome and distant, embowered by slim eyelids. Eyebrows black and thriving. Her little bird's beak for a nose and slender lips. Red had darker skin than those who lived here. Not black, not brown, not copper; just darker in a way. She knew she was not from the Hillands, still she did not know exactly where she was from. Presumably somewhere near Oen's Land, the cape in the far north. Or Kalvar, the birchlands somewhere near the lake that was as big as the ocean. To be honest, she did not really care.

At first Red tried to dig a hole with her hands, but gave up and used a tool from the leather bag. If the old man could see how she treated his tools, he would surely lose his hair and invoke the northern winds. Or perhaps sending shadows after her, or make a star fall down and burn out her heart. They sang about such things in the old songs, in the inns and taverns, by the balmy bards and the pesky peasants, who tried to charm some poor woman back to the bedstraw. Maybe it had been true once. Long ago.

Before the Sisters built their twin thrones in the old ruins of Tampala, rebuilt the city and disappeared from the light of the sun. No one had seen them since. The people had just felt the backwash of their ruling. They had burned the books and parchments of old. Making the people breathe the ashes of words, as many as the stars. The priests of the now forgotten beliefs, disappeared. The gods were made false. In some places you could find the ancient sanctuaries, shrines and statues; Cracked and broken, gathering moss, half covered by the ever moving ground. Traec had told her this once, and in the light of that night's fire, he had not been that sour old man that he was. He had told her to never tell anyone. Red had asked him about the gods, but he had told her there was only one god. Death.

What was true and what was not, she did not know. They all worshipped the Sisters and their holiness, every woman, man and child. Still, Traec and Red had never thanked them at supper, never asked them for luck or fortune, never had they said The Kiss of the Twins or The Two in their home. In Traec's house you did not worship anything. But if someone asked them, they answered: The Sisters, of course. What else? Red did not believe anyone. She was like that. She had to see for herself. Maybe the Sisters were all and nothing. The power of life and death. The power that made the world work. That made the flowers grow, the rain fall, the wind's touch and the never ending peace.

The little chaffinch was laid to rest on its new bed of twigs, moss and pine needles. Its wings now folded alongside the delicate body. It looked more comfortable that way, Red thought. Soon the little fellow would be free from the striking light of the sun.

Red looked around and found a pointy rock. It took effort to lift it, it would stand heavy above the grave, under the tree. A memory to the world that something was resting here. Something that had once been a twittering life. No fox or lynx would manage to move it to find what was thereunder. When she was finally finished she stood up, wiped off the earth on her palms onto her pants, put on the gloves and hung the heavy bag over her shoulder.

Before striding away, Red turned around and gave a last thought to the little chaffinch, now sleeping in the ground.