Ripples of grief

Chapter 1

The mocking laughter of the wind howled in foreboding grace, drifting forward in a dance familiar, yet a little uncanny in its murmurs of deathly tongues – Romey could not detangle those strings and think of the reason why those threads bled even into her mind, choking it of its sure-footed hope; perhaps it was the fallen corpses of widows falling down, down, whispering their last smile in the wind – it was weird weather; just that. Weather. Rumbling thunder – it growled like the viper hisses, its crimson blood flowing steadily from gums, meekly as the sea as the calm flutters overhead, disdainful and relentless. But it slowed, her gaze drifting to the empty seat, noticing how the shadow of what she had once known flickered in the meek candlelight beside it, ever brighter and hollower, setting aflame the hope she clutched with nails dragging – no. The shadow was not there – the viper spat crimson and the candle began to die, whimpering with a dim blink, frequent and incessant – like the scared child as the shadow drifts away, and the forest is left without laughter, leaving it empty – the rain fell over that land, and she saw it then, a glimmer of a suit before the newspaper she now read. A glint. And so she glanced at the candle as it blinked its shrivelled eyes, smiling in its perishing rags as the skin crumpled and stretched its veil before her, trailing into the sky like a soul as she turned away, the door inviting her. She gazed into the howling wind and at first stepped back, recoiling from the breath of cold, cold heat that lay thick upon the cluster of woebegone women, left without a single light. It was dark. The blinks of that child who held an emptiness and felt its weight, full of melancholy. Full of a force she could not quite hold and yet the poor child kept within a heart so tender. Perhaps it was even their tears that fell outside, watering the plants of grief that stood as seeds – he would be here now. He would cure her woes and laugh heartily at the glimpses of danger, tossing his arm into it and holding it – holding the- the viper was not there – it was the tears of the child, knowing the crimson would fall from the eyes of the many; not the blood dripping from the viper's fangs as the gums recede in rot and decay – for there was nothing to decay. Only empty light echoing in the curtained mountains. The dread held by that poor, withered soul as they drowned in anguish that had yet to come.

She heard the ripples in the hissing of that mass of writhing scales, vanished from the horizon, and the child seemed to drown, the rain flickering for a moment, refusing to further diminish the flame that left the shadow of him clear and recognisable, almost uncanny in those hollow eyes; But the strong arms, pushing against a force that held no menace but the glint of smiles, held no more, and they turned to dust, rising toward the ceiling. As the rain halted, took a few deep breaths, and once again carried the loss like the sound of a siren wailing, simply a sound upon their shoulders.

It rang out in the wind like a cry for help, a wail of a child within – but that was all. A shudder trickled slowly down her spine – it was as if those ripples fled over the endless sea. A sea ended within a moment's walk, or a single thought that it was an empty place, dried up even after the blood that should quench the thirsts of the land. And yet it still seemed empty of life, reflecting the moonlight with a melody of hopeless searching, something that lay within your palm and yet it always slipped away; away from her grasp – why did the moon seem so dull? Perhaps the candle no longer lit the sky, leaving a shadow to obscure the ominous light. Perhaps the thunder sent tendrils of heaving, restless breath, leaving those same spots of mould – yes, that's what they were – spots of mould not the shadows and insidious murmurs of a figure made of fangs and scales. Perhaps they began to drift over the moon, obscuring its gaze from hers with a veil of grief carried in every word the child spoke into the empty cavern, unheard; the tears had halted their rapid torrents, and the wind still howled, a wolf who heard only the voices of those who fell, and now tore around desperately to find the crimson-soaked entrails, skin and bones of soldiers who had once whispered in their ear truths about everything they saw that even in the blinking light made sense, tore the light leaving a shadow in its place – now they mourned that empty place where sinister voices had once spoken. And as she stepped toward the lake, watching it ripple with acrimonious melodies, they seemed to leave an eerie silence in their wake, for they had found a lost soul to chain with that insidious duty, dreary and dreaded. She turned, not bothering to close the door, and cast her eyes toward a single hut in the garden, a haven.