Day Eighty Two - Dissatisfaction
In my village, golden fields of wheat stretch to the edges of vision, hemmed in by gentle rolling hills and shadowed in the North by the dark, Valmyran mountains, their black peaks frosted with white snow. When the soft winds of autumn blow from the east the fields become a honey coloured ocean, undulating plains rippling like waves, their whisper a calming and hypnotic song. On one rise, some distance from my house, stands the scarecrow, a dark figure on a distant hill, hanging dutifully upon a wooden cross, dressed in old, black clothes, face hidden by a dark wide brimmed hat. Stretching out of his long, ebony sleeves are impossibly long, gloved fingers, sharp tufts of straw poking out of the cuffs. As much as the birds I once feared this thin, bleak scarecrow, who weathered hot oppressive summers, cool winters, rain and frost. As a small one I imagined that I felt his gaze often upon me as I played and although my parents scolded me for a foolish girl I was not so foolish as to miss the concerned stares they'd cast his direction afterwards.
I feared the scarecrow, but I reserved my nightmares for the Northern Wind and what blew with them. A child who is raised in my village had very little to fear, there were not so many people that a stranger could go unnoticed,. The river that split the fields from the village was slow and mostly shallow, even so we were taught to swim before we learnt to talk. There was one thing we are taught to fear, and that fear was not reserved for children alone. No matter how cold our winters, nothing could chill your bones as the Northern Wind. That dread gale could remain calm, not blow for some years, and then blow four times in as many weeks. Each time they swept across the plains from the mountains, the howl of the Argus was sure to follow.
It begins with the howl that fills you with dread; a long keening moan that whispers bloody promises of death. If ever you've walked along a cliff and for a moment you felt you might fall, and then found yourself clinging to the dirt in fear, then you might understand the power of its call. Once it sounded, the entire village would retreat to their homes. The Argus cannot cross the river, they would not enter the water, but one summer the river ran dry in places and it was a lesson my people remembered for generations. My mother told me once that her cousin passed out drunk metres from his home that harsh summer, and in the cold hours before dawn the Argus came hunting. The village woke to the sound of his screaming. The Argus left nothing but smears and entrails from the village to the mountains.
The Argus; to see ones eyes was to be be cursed they elders would say. It is the Argus that were cursed by the gods; they are midnight wrapped around a twisted, vicious form. They are as easily as tall as horse, yet set as thickly, and as muscled as a bull. They are built for running, with sharp clawed legs and a long tail reminiscent of a cat, yet with a jaw more reminiscent of a vicious dog I once saw. It was compact and vicious, strangling itself of a leash tied to a merchants cart, biting and snarling as passersby. Where the Argus tread the wheat fails and dies and will not grow for a season.Their eyes are an uncanny evil; white, pupil-less and glowing. They seemed draw the heat from your soul and paralyse the limbs. I'd wager that, for generations, no one had ever been fixed in that gaze and lived.
When I first looked into the eye of an Argus, I was six.
There were few trees in the wheat fields, most being removed over many, many decades to make way for the expanding crops. There is one tree some way from the river, on the mountain side, that as a young girl I loved to climb. It was old, and strong; an oak of massive proportions, knotted on the trunk in just the right places to allow a willowy young girl to climb, spider-like into high shaded places of solitude. That autumn afternoon, I was alone in that tree, my friends busy with chores I'd managed to avoid. Sneaking quietly past the ominous scarecrow I made my way to the tree and for some hours I sat watching small blue butterflies flitter about the inside of my secret green cave. The air was still warm as I fell into a slumber, wedged atwixt the fork of two wide branches
When the howling shook me, the North Wind has stolen the days heat, and it was nearing dusk, The howl was close, far too close. If had stayed in the tree I may have been safe.. but I had seen cats climb trees and I had never seen Argus cross the stream. I scrambled out of my nest and hastily started scrabbling backwards down the trunk. I was too scared, too and quick halfway down I trod too heavily upon a small knot and the dead bark broke away. I flailed desperately for grip and fell, smashing my face against the trunk. I landed badly, my ankle twisted painfully on the ground. I screamed as hot ribbons of pain laced up my leg and although my vision was swimming I can distinctly remember two things; the Argus' howl, terrifyingly close, cutting off sharply at my scream... and then two of them crying in unison.
I tried to run, gasping with pain with each weak placement of my ankle. Blood flowed freely from the wound in my head. I smeared it out of my eyes with my hands. There was so much blood it thickly coated my arm. The howling seemed to leech my strength, my will, as it came ever closer... a duet of pure terror closing in. I peered back and in the fading light I saw two massive black shapes parting the wheat like fish through water. I would not make it, I knew, but I hobbled, crying. As another terrible wail was loosed, I tossed my head to look and stopped, almost falling. I was just seconds away from the Argus' hot breath and sharp teeth yet I stood, transfixed. On the hill, to the east, the cross stood empty.
The two Argus thudded into plain sight and slowed. White malevolent glowing eyes held me as they stalked slowly forward, naturally intelligent beasts they knew the river was too far now, there would be no escape. Saliva drivels freely from broad, needle-toothed jaws. Nostrils puffed small, sickeningly scented clouds into the cold air. A giant red tongue flickered out slowly, their glowing eyes holding me still as they stalked slowly forward. Then, as if time was slowed in treacle, the breathing stopped, thick muscles tensed and they crouched lower. They sprung, thick, gargled growls tearing through the night.
I was knocked down from the side. Sharp claws sunk into flesh and a wild shrieking filled the night. Strange that I had mind enough for confusion; it was not my flesh, it was not my scream. I was picked up, reefed by my dress into a steel strong grip against a soft, earthy scented chest. There was sudden movement; wheat whipped by so fast I felt I was flying. The motion was confusing... we were moving to the river. Our course changed abruptly and a great thudding shook the earth and an Argus landed where we were an instant before. Scarecrow, still clasping me tight with one arm, slashed out with his other, long, ungloved claw, raking deep into the Argus hind leg. Black blood splattered my dress and the Argus yelped. Scarecrow didn't stop moving, the river swept closer and two enraged howls sounded behind us like echoing like twin funeral bells.
We broke free of the wheat field, bright torches winked about the far shore of the river. My father stood to his knees in deep water, calling my name, his voice shrill with pain and fear. Then, tossed powerfully, I was in the air, underwater, gasping for air in his arms. Blood and dirt blurred my eyes but I saw the Scarecrow was gone and the edge of the wheat field was in violent turmoil. The growling, yelping, keening that echoed across the fields shook us all. My father, wept as he carried me out of the water. The villagers, seeing me returned, rushed back into their homes. I was soon before a fire, stripped and being tended by my mother. Weary from pain and fear, I soon dozed and was put to bed. I don't remember falling asleep, but troubled dreams woke me as the sun rose.
The chill the of the North Wind was gone, and I struggled from bed, my ankle still ginger from the night before. The house was empty so I struggled into a dress and hurried outside. Mother stood peering across the field, eyes squinting in the morning glare. I walked to stand beside her.
"Mother?"
She turned slightly, frowning that I was out of bed.
"They've gone to deal with that wicked Scarecrow..."
Her voice trailed off. She furrowed her brow again and I saw, in the distance, the men of our village surrounding the scarecrows hill. The cross was empty, but I could see no more.
I ran, my mother yelling after me. I ignored the sharp pangs of my ankle and splashed across the shallows of the river. Tears whipped from my eyes as I brushed through the wheat.
The men had, in their haste and fury, trodden heavily, breaking wheat, tramping soil. They followed a path of black, thick blood, clinging like oil to dirt and stalk. I broke into a small, flattened clearing and gasped. An Argus was dead, body covered in deep rending claw marks, a vivid gash opened across its throat. In all of the histories past down from the elders it was known that we'd never even seen an Argus bleed. We believed them supernatural...immortal demons. It was beginning to stink in the morning sun. A cry went up from the men in the distance. I ran and I ran - small legs whirling. I ran past the other Argus, it was being needled by neighbours pitchfork, apparently despite its many, many wounds it was still breathing fitfully when they found it crippled. Straw and black cloth strips were scattered near the beast. I ran up the hill screaming for them to stop, my voice going hoarse with rage and sadness.
One man, at the rear of the circle, turned as I staggered closer. He murmured to the others and the circle, broke apart, allowing me to run through, still yelling. I stopped yelling and started crying. My father stood, supporting the scarecrow on his shoulder. His clothes were ragged, straw poking at odd angles from innumerable holes. Black inky blood covered his sleeves. His hat covered his drooping head, shadowed lifeless as he'd ever been. I wiped my running nose on my sleeve and stepped forward, assisting my father. We lifted him back onto his cross. I used my dress to wipe clean, sharp bone like talons and pulled on his gloves. He hung silently. Father pressed a palm against his chest and whispered
"Thank you"
The men, all murmured. Silence lasted for several minutes and eventually we dwindled away.
That night the women came to stitch his clothes. They sat and sewed and sang. The men sat around a large table on the town green before a bonfire and drank and talked. A spell long woven seemed to have been broken. An Argus has been killed. They could be killed. They too sang, but these farmers sang long forgotten songs of war.
When the night was done a tribute of nuts, berries and bread was left for the scarecrow. When the morning came it was gone and the scarecrow hung a little higher on his cross, he looked.. stronger. When the sun was not too strong the women would bring the youngest of the children to sit before the scarecrow for stories and games. Often the mothers and children would doze in the afternoon and although lifeless, they knew the scarecrow would be watching over them.
When the North Wind blew again two seasons later it still blew cold. It was late afternoon and the villagers watched from behind shutters and corners as a single man ran across the fields, fleeing the single Argus that followed. He was far from the river and the Argus was closing, roaring with excitement; thinking it would take it's prey easily.
The cold wind however could not cool the fire that had been growing in our hearts. Ten, dark figures rose from the ground encircling the Argus. They were dressed in black, wide brimmed hats shadowing their faces. Long and hard had they trained, shamed by the scarecrow.. and inspired. The Argus snarled, confused, before realisation dawned that it had been trapped. The men struck, piercing deep with arrow, spear and sword. One man was killed and another would never use one of his arms strongly again yet the Argus collapsed, its last breath gurgling forth, bringing cheers of victory, and great change.
So was born the army of 'Crows.
Strong farmers grew into warriors. As seasons past more of the beasts were slain, and it came to be that rare was a man, or woman, lost in battle. I too trained... hard... becoming one the quickest, and most dangerous with the sword. I rose to Commander, and under my lead, we journey to the mountains every spring, when the Argus are weakest from lack of prey, and we hunt them down. Our village has grown prosperous, first from the trade of Argus furs, a precious luxury, and from strange goods and plants found in those unexplored mountains. Our renown in battle spread to other villages and within some years nobles and kings courted our blades with gold and riches.
Sometimes men in bars and several ales braver, will laugh at my story as they might a fairy tale. Some men have claimed our story is a fabrication meant to cover some deeper cause. Some wonder if we are ourselves, part monster. And so I tell them:
We are proud, simple living folk by nature but when a village is torment by beasts fae or fell, you'll find one of us standing in a nearby field, our eyes sheltered by a wide brimmed hat, our clothes raven black.
We'll be waiting. We'll be watching
When we stir into action gods help the creature that seeks to do harm because sometimes its enough to just stand and watch over that which grows around you and sometimes you have to fight for it.