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The Flute Begins

A short story

Copyright to Rowan Visser

9/6/2010

I have come to the borders of sleep, the unfathomable deep, forest

where all must lose their way… Edward Thomas 1878-1917
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Moisture trickled through every crevice and crack in the ever present
darkness of the swamp; it’s wetness fed by a thick mist snooped close to the
ground. Above the mist black trees stooped low over the mud, their branches
thick white with spider webs. It was as if the mist flowed from their branches to
seep into the muck below.

Huddled to the base of each tree thorny leafless bushes sagged with the
weight of slick insects. Worms, maggots, roaches all found their homes here
where they could leisurely sip at the soup of decomposing mire. In turn strange
ancient creatures fed on them, pale creatures with big eyes and long skeletal
limbs. Ghostly creatures, quiet as the night, shadows between the trees. Big ears
pitched this way and that to follow noises far of or near by. ‘Nerra muridur’.
Silence speaks.

From late dusk they’d perch on high branches or sit deep in hollow trees,
unmoving, listening for hours, before flitting through the forest checking
territories and signs of intrusion. The slightest sign of an animal diverting its
normal routine would attract their attention, the lore of the forest their own,
engraved, etched into their purpose. Every animal, every plant had its place in
their consciousness, a map of memories carried in the dreams which filled their
stone dead days.

The moon floated full overhead amongst high clouds streaking over the
emptiness below. Owls hooted their territories and badgers scurried, nose to floor,
looking for crawlers to cross their path. Far to the south a pack of wolves were
marching west, the winds calling them to better hunting grounds. All these
comings and goings were like a primordial beat to the ancient ears listening
amongst the trees. They could hear life and death happening and they took note.

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Seraphis had taken perch on the tall red oak, the very top of the wasteland.
The nearer he was to the unspoiled sky, the better he felt about the world and the
further he could see across their shrinking world. He sat with his head lowered,
eyes closed and ears twitching, following sounds and chains of sounds. His
breathing was so slow that you would have thought him dead had he not stirred
suddenly and raised his head.

He breathed in deeply and held the air in his chest whilst staring out over
the forest in the direction of the sound. It was a single sound, a dear jerking his
head up. Seraphis let the air out of his lungs and lowered his head into that
direction. He followed another sound. A large animal running wild, scared and
reckless. He snarled and whipped himself from his perch, instantly disappearing
at the base of the tree.

An owl hooted to the right of him. Twitching his head to that side he
could make out others of his kind stood scattered around the forest floor, all
looking intently in the direction of the sound coming their way. It was a mile and
a half away still, but they could all hear it as clear as daylight. That, ’Go, go!!!
Move damn’it!!’, set them all on edge. It was a human. They had all seen humans
before, but there was something happening here that they hated with a passion.
They could hear the man whipping the horse and by the sound of the those
hooves they could tell the animal was exhausted. The man was obviously not
keen to be caught in the forest after dark which annoyed them even more. He was
a coward with a whip, beating an animal, because he could.

Seraphis threw a glance to one stood on his left and as one they sped
forward in the direction of the sound. They moved like shadows, flitting between
the trees at a blurry pace, silently under the cover of complete darkness. They
were going much faster than the horse could run, their spindly legs driving into

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tree trunks and soil, bouncing of rocks and using their arms to grab branches and
flick forward on their way.

When they were near enough they hopped into a tree with branches
overhanging the road. The other looked at Seraphis, not sure what his brother had
in mind, but Seraphis did not need answer his gaze as his intent stare answered
for him. He kept his eyes on the road, unflinching. His brothers fears where
confirmed when Seraphis started to whisper.

Selli solumatra,
Phremto eristrimil,
Nefim teritnim…

Narayan solumatra,
Phremto eristrimil,
Nefim teritnim aluratrim

He knew the call and instinctively joined in as the whisper was repeated.

The noise was now much closer. The horse breathed heavily as it was
driven on. Seraphis and his brother came off the branch in a blur of silent
movement and were looking down from the overhanging branches by the time
the man and horse came into view. The man was dressed in leather trousers and
shirt, with a broad hat bouncing on his back and long black coat whipping behind
him. The horse was massive and grey coloured with specks of black on its flanks,
foam issued from its mouth and nose. Seraphis smiled as he saw the expression on
the man’s face. ’You are right be scared, coward’.

The man did not care that it was much too dark to be running the horse,

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his fear had completely clouded his mind. Even during the day it was dark in this
part of the forest and the full moon did not provide enough light for either the
man or the horse to see what lay ahead. Seraphis and his brother drew their
breath sharply.

There was a dull crunch as the low hanging branch caught the man an
inch under his chin and crushed his windpipe. He hit the floor with a thud,
dislocating his right shoulder. After a few seconds he put his left hand to his
throat and started gasping for air. The two watched him from above with eyes
cold to his anguish. Seraphis was taking particular delight in his trauma. His
brother did not much have the stomach for these things, Seraphis knew, but it
was necessary and it was fair. If you asked any of the animals or trees, entire hills
of trees, who have suffered under these humans, if they would give him mercy
they certainly would not. He could hear the others of his kind coming closer now,
flitting amongst the trees.

The two brothers watched the man pathetically try to crawl and collapse,
his chest heaving, but not drawing air. Eyeballs bulging he collapsed onto his back
again. He coughed a few mouthfuls of blood and stopped struggling, eyes wide
open.

After he stopped breathing they came one by one, silently moving in their
usual twitching, stop start fashion. For long they stayed in the shadows with big
eyes staring unflinching at his body, twitching their heads to look at each other
occasionally. Their pointy ears quickly turned this way and that. Their noses,
little more than two holes above their little mouths, sniffing restlessly at the air.
After, what must have been hours, Seraphis twitched his way over to the fallen
man child.

He was the tallest of them with a scar running all the way from his shiny

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skull, down his back, over the humps of his vertebrae, over his left hip bone and
down his left leg, all the way down to his skinny ankle. His nose constantly tested
the air. He could smell the man’s soul drifting low, sinking slowly to the ground.
He curled his nose at the smell and twisted his head to look at the others in the
shadows. ’Wait’. They waited.

He moved closer still, stood on all fours over the man, his face directly
above the man, an inch away from the human face below, staring into the lifeless
eyes. Glimpses of who the man was filled his vision. He could see a wooden
house, a fire, a female. Over time these thoughts faded to nothing but an imprint
on his dead irises. Like the imprint left on the page behind a written page.

Seraphis’s pale tongue flicked out and ran up the bridge of the dead man’s
nose and lingered in between his eyes. ’He’s left’ he thought, pulling his tongue
back. The others twitched their heads to look at one another and then, as one,
scurried closer. Every detail was taken stock of. They were in awe of the human
clothes and the fat on his body. Envy grew in them as their bony figures clawed at
his coat and felt his skin. He was cold now, but still warmer that they were. The
warmth was strange to them, but they envied it. They pressed their palms to his
cheeks and slick hands moved underneath his shirt, soaking up his warmth. Piece
by piece the man’s attire was dragged off him. Narrow bony shoulders moved
inside a shirt which was far too big. Another could not find a hole on the belt
small enough for its hips and decided that it could be worn crossing over its chest,
hanging on one shoulder. Seraphis kept the jacket with its long tails, somehow
sensing that it was an important symbol suited best to him. Everything they could
not use was buried. Through out the entire disrobing a single thought occupied
their minds… flute.

The flute was what they were after. The flute was what they needed. If

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they were to remain sane and in control of their world that flute needed to be
smashed and bashed into a million different pieces, gnawed and mauled until
there was nothing left of it.

Far away a tune floated gently into the night. It’s high notes climbing the
valleys and it’s lows touching the river beds. Far away a witch’s child, bare and
cold, looked up at the forest around her and knew she was hated. The bone flute
at her lips would not stop and the hunger in soul would not be stopped.