Aeolia

3: Screaming Dark

Eventually the forest began to change. Few creatures lived in the woods, she had always been aware of this—but now the woman could not see or hear the faintest evidence of animal life. Where before her ears had caught the occasional rustle of ever-deer in the foliage, or she'd glimpsed a dart of stone-wren's wing in the leaves, there was nothing. The trees were black and baleful. Clouds began to connect in the sky, shuttering out the hesitant sun. Shadows posed like dancers among the roots and trellising ferns.

     Now the woman could feel something besides emptiness within her. Fear. It coated her tongue in bitter droplets and made the pulse in her wrists writhe.

     Then something spoke, she swore. She turned.

     There? No.

     Now a coaxing voice furled from behind her. She turned that way. But no—now there were voices all around her, and they murmured in hushed tones, sounding to her like the gliding of river water over light, rolling pebbles.

     The woman took a deep breath. She was afraid for no reason. She touched a palm to her leaping heart.

     Then—then—a voice screamed.

     The darkness in the forest swelled, and more crying voices alongside it.

     The screaming rose until it filled her entire head, forced nails into the nothing behind her closed eyes, and twisted and twisted and twisted—

     Until it all was too much, and she was sobbing again, pulling hair from the core of her scalp, pounding the ground with her shaking hands—

     And then, in the screaming black, something alighted on her arm.

     The woman opened two bleary eyes and saw it.

     It was a bird, a pale gray one. She gasped, and, despite the forest's cacophonous din, smiled.

     "Who are you?" she said, in a voice not quite her own.

     The bird opened its small beak and sang. Its song cut through the uproar, soft and sweet. In the air before them, images appeared. They wavered in the air—a painting of a foreign land, one of rolling purple hills and a lavender sea and a forest of bright colors, all sewn together by the loom of a light blue river.

     The woman's mouth opened in a curious o. After a few moments, the beautiful images faded, and she was staring again into dark forest foliage. She looked at the bird now, and stroked a tentative finger across its back.

     The bird cocked its head, casting the woman a timid glance. Tremors shook its entire body. The woman set a hand beside the bird, and it stepped onto her palm. She lifted the bird nearer to her, observing it. It had tiny round eyes, impossibly symmetrical. Its plumage looked softer than satin.

     Her smile grew, the voices quieted.

     She set the bird upon her shoulder and resumed her aimless walk.