sickle_stories

Gadril had never understood the prophecy that hailed a time of change “when the doves cry”. That was before he found the barn-door half shut one evening. He knew better than to enter unarmed, so he snuck back to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers. Cradling the short stump of a candle he’d found, he pushed the barn-door open. The candle did little to light the vast darkness: that was not its purpose. Gadril held it up defiantly, sweat trickling down his temple. He took a step forward, listening. There was a faint rustle overhead, as if there were a breeze. He kept walking, thrusting his candle into corners, eventually, as his shallow gasps calmed, becoming aware of a strange smell. It reminded him of Shamter’s henhouse. The rustling continued and Gadril finally looked up.

Dozens of pigeons, white ones, gray ones, splotchy-coloured ones, hung from the ceiling rafters by their feet, their wings hanging limply about their heads. Through the broad spread of wing feathers Gadril managed to make out their eyes. They’d been plucked out and now cold blood had settled into their feathers or hung in beads from their beaks.

Those from Below knew their symbolism alright, thought Gadril, as he watched a blood-drop slip down further along the length of a beak. These birds had flown and seen much of the too-far sky.