Bleeding Bird

PART V

Helen wasn't sure when they were separated, but at some point, it happened. Her mask made it nearly impossible to have the same range of vision she had without it. She'd learned a lot through her father about handling the beasts, but that was when he was present. She didn't dare attempt any of his tactics now. She simply ran.

They skirted alongside of the woods as long as possible, until they reached the open field. This was most likely when the separation happened. Each of them had to run for their life. Collin, Horatio, Lillian, Donna, Stephen, and Helen. All plowing, exposed through the tall grasses.

Helen's main thought was just to run back to the house, but birds blocked her way, and she knew she could be snapped up in an instant. She hurried toward the graveyard passed the house. Passed it was the barns, right? Maybe Lillian had gone there?

Wind tore at the trees. Birds screamed in the air. They did not duck and run for cover in Hedelshire. They dive bombed each other, claws out, beaks at the ready. Lightening was a bright full burst—not the kind of soft light, or the single crack in the sky, but like a forceful harsh light. It was quick, but light the fingers of an unseen demon, held ones heart in its hand. The lightening would run its thumb over one ventricles, considering popping them. And then it would be gone. And not long later, thunder roared.

Helen ducked around the headstones, praying the crows didn't tear at her hair. Scars already marked her face, but they marked everyone's face. It was nothing new, she supposed. But she'd been hoping Hedelshire would be different. But, it wasn't, it was worse. Her father had said that Auntie Jude's estate hardly ever had attacks. He had been wrong, apparently. She cursed herself for agreeing to go out with Lillian and Donna. Why couldn't she have stayed inside? Then she would definitely be alive in the morning.

She thought she was growing closer to the manor house and maybe there would be a back door, but it was unclear. Everything was dark and cold, oh, it was bitter cold and wet. The kind of cold and wet that sinks into your bones and its not until after a bath and resting by the fire, that one gets warm again.

The graveyard was eerie. There were statues of crows, ravens, eagles, bats, anything with wings, erected there. Wings neatly ducked back, beaks leveled, sculpted eyes wide. They said that the only things birds hated were bigger birds, and it was only in the cemetery that you were safe to grieve openly. But she didn't believe that, not after what happened.

She wiped water off her face, and nearly tripped over a broke headstone—remnants of an earlier time. Helen hunched her face against the rain. She might have been thankful for the trees—willows were planted all over the cemetery, like curtains. But the window had been left open, because these curtains were blowing. Their little leaves broke off, leeching onto her skin.

Finally, as she narrowed her eyes, she saw a tomb—a great big one with solid grey collums out front, and a dome over the top. She wove her way through the graveyard and ran until it and immediately heard the wisshshsh of the rain as it hit the stone floor. She looked back out at the storm.

"LILLIAN! DONNA!" she shouted, trying to see them through the rain.

But there was nothing. There was no one. Where had her friends gone? She hated to think that in the morning she'd be burying the only acquaintances she had. She could picture their torn torsos and bloody, mangled bodies all too well. Stephen could be lifted up and torn in half by a few big ravens. Lillian and Donna would make excellent feasts, and Horatio would be picked at until just his bones were left, shining. "LILLIAN! HORTATIO! DONNA!" she shouted again, tears pushing at her eyes. She cursed herself once more for not remaining in her auntie's house.

"GET IN!" a voice called in the chaos.

She glanced around until an arm reached out from one of the tombs, and grabbed her hand. At just that moment, there was a great whoosh of wind, and a cracking and then she heard it—one hundred caws.

"GET IN!!!!" the hand became a whole person as a hidden door opened up and a cloaked figure dragged her in. Just in time too. As soon as she was safe behind the closed door, her soaking wet back up against it, breathing hard, she heard the heavy beating of wings. She felt a vibration in her back from the power of their strokes—their unity.

Immediately, however, there was yelling.

"YOU COULD HAVE KILLED YERSELF, RUSH!" a woman shouted from the bottom of a pair of rickety stairs.

"It was fine," a young man's voice replied. The cloaked figure threw back his hood and walked down the stairs, "it was fine."

"Well it almost wasn't."

"I don't think either of us want to scrape her off the floor tomorrow mornin'," the boy said.

Helen swallowed hard. Before her was...well, a tomb, she supposed. The basement was rather hidden by the low ceiling, so she carefully stepped down the stairs, gripping the railing for stability. It was rough and dry and she was careful not to let it splinter into her skin.

"And who's she?" a little boy asked, peeping his head up from the floor.

Now, she had a better look at the room. It was square and bland. There were three small beds and one double pushed up against the walls, but only the singles looked used. It smelled like must and dirt. It had a sort of dirty, rainy, freshness to it that she rather liked, but didn't, perhaps wish to live in.

"I'm Helen," she whispered.

"Helen Taft," the older boy said. "You're the one staying here from Oshelm."

The woman nodded. She was short, and stocky with tight lips and a plain face. Her hair was pulled back in a bun which had been done long ago this morning. She looked Helen over and then said quickly and carefully, "Rush, check on Meredith."

Meredith, Helen thought, the governess? There was a beautiful, young governess who worked lived at her aunt's estate while she studied to teach at schools somewhere. Helen had been looking forward to having her as a companion while she spent the rainy season in the country. Was this the same Meredith?

The boy who had saved her, Rush, nodded, and brushed past Helen. There was a door on the far side of the wall and he carefully opened the door and slid in. It took but a moment for him to return. His face was grim as he slid out the door, "Mum, it's back."

She nodded, her chin quivering. She inhaled sharply through her nose and then exhaled.

"Should I clean her up?"

Clean her up? Helen wondered. The governess?

"No, get out of there. Not until we've spoken—blast," the woman swore, turning to look about the room, "blast, blast, blast...your father knew what to do with the bodies. I never would have—"

"I can do it," Rush promised. It was now that Helen first really got to see his face. It was sound, but not pudgy. He had shorter hair, that sort of stuck out at his forehead, and kind brown eyes. He was tall and broad shouldered. He wasn't exactly thin, but he wasn't overweight—just sort of—embrace-able? He tapped his foot as he waited for the woman, his mother, to respond all while Helen tried not to ask questions.

"Not tonight. We must speak with Mrs. Taft," she eyed Helen carefully once more and then turned and threw a dry dress at her, "you may change in the room beneath the stairs. You won't be going anywhere until tomorrow."