The Crow’s Nest

 “Some friend you are,” Bee grumbled. Unfortunately, Moth was making a wise choice, they couldn’t skimp on the offering, and Nyx was getting old, he couldn’t get a new one in time without someone seeing, being even associated with the accident would end in certain punishment. Bee sighed and slumped in the grass, wondering what she was going to do. Out of the corner of her eye, a tall, dark shape loomed, almost beckoning. Snorting to herself, she got up and walked to it, climbing up a bluff “What a fool I am, this cannot end well.”  Still, she hauled herself over the edge and plodded onward to the Crow Wood, unsheathing her spear.

The second she stepped under the boughs of the old wood the still, oppressive, overripe heat of midsummer faded into a much more sinister chill, that of a crisp autumn evening the day before the frost. The imminent feel of dread was only amplified by the mist curling about her feet like one of the village’s cats, creeping up her legs. 

With a start, Bee strode forward, taking her juniper pendant off her neck to swing before her. The wood seemed to surge up and swallow her, already the bright, now suddenly welcoming sunlight of the fields behind her was disappearing, becoming replaced by thickly knit branches that let only the dimmest light shine through. As she walked forward mist swirled and eddied in her wake, covering up any tracks that she had left behind.

Noticing, Bee adjusted her grip on the spear in her hand, and made to notch a tree before thinking better of it. She knew the stories, those who harmed the Crow Wood would be harmed in turn. A nick in every tree she passed would be a patchwork of scars along her arms, one for each mark. Instead, she dragged the butt of the spear in the earth behind her and prayed that that would be enough. Really, it wouldn’t, she knew, but still, it was a hope.

The Nest was deep into the forest, much farther than Bee thought she had time for, but Nyx could get a skull in only a few hours, so surely so could she. Still, Bee wasn’t thrilled about her prospects. As she stepped into a clearing she heard a flutter of wings around her that sent a worrying chill up her spine. She spun around, teeth bared, eyes darting back and forth. Nothing. Turning back she saw a single feather, so dark it was nearly unnoticeable against the carpet of needles on the ground. As she picked it up it disintegrated into a fine gold dust, staining her sunbrowned fingers. With a few muttered curses she adjusted her grip on the well worn leather grip of her spear and straightened, glancing around once more. Suddenly uncomfortably aware of her settings, she hurried out of the clearing with a newly developed haste, clutching her pendant harder.

“I really should’ve turned tail like Moth did, left this for the elders to sort out. Too late now though, I suppose I’m already doomed.” Her voice sounded far too loud for the hushed sounds of the forest, too big and disruptive for such a sacred place.

The farther she walked the more the trees and ever-shifting mist seemed to warp and bend, forming odder and odder shapes, Bee chose to pointedly ignore this, and instead settled for a brisker pace. She did not recall this place from her Settling, but the Crow Wood had a mind of its own and was plenty likely to change on the slightest whim. Knowing this she did not voice her concern for the trees about to hear, only clenched the pendant in her right hand tighter.

Bee flinched at the scratching noise of the branches against each other, missing the soft shush of the grasses surrounding her village, the murmur of the brook and the calls of the birds, now all long faded behind the chilling whisper of an endless sea of dead trees. 

The quiet broke.

All around her a flurry of beaks and feathers and beady eyes winked in the fading light, accompanied by a cacophony of shrill screams. Dropping her spear Bee lurched to the ground, covered her head and whispered a frantic, futile prayer. No gods could save her here. Slowly, sensing that no harm had come to her, she stood up and stretched out an arm.

“Take me to the Nest,” she declared “and I will do you no harm.” “No harm, no harm,” the trees seemed to nod, “She will do us no harm.” A small crow, nearly invisible amongst the others about, alighted on her hand and bobbed once. Unsure, Bee nodded back. At this, the crows parted, darting about to guide Bee to a small arch of trees she had not seen before. She stepped through and gasped, the arch had led her to a single, massive tree, stretching up higher than if all the members of the village stood upon each other's shoulders. In every crook and corner of the tree a nest of bones resided. Some were human, others animal, still more were those of things Bee had never seen, and did not much care to meet alive. Each and every nest was teeming with crows of all sizes, from those bigger than an ox to some that could have easily fit in the palm of Bee’s hand.

Dropping her necklace, she said “I am Juniper Bee Goldfield, daughter of the Collector of Bones of the Goldfield village, and I have come to make a sacrifice.” With that, she spun her spear and pierced the back of the small crow in her hand. In a cloud of golden dust, it disappeared, until all that was left was a golden bird skull, the size of a greyhound’s head.

Every crow turned and stared for a moment, as frozen as Bee seemed, before screaming, in unison “No harm, no harm, promises are kept, lies are worth their weight, no harm.” Before she had a chance to even turn to run two crows swept at her. “A bone for a bone, girl, lies are worth their weight in gold, in gold.” Both crows landed, talons scratching and clawing for a hold on her skin, her clothes. Finally, they settled on her shoulders. Slowly turning, Bee looked at the one on her left. The crows' eyes had changed, now much more cat than bird, predator than prey. Quickly, it pecked twice, once in each eye, spurting warm blood.

Screaming, Bee dropped her spear again, and clutched the skull to her chest. Turning about, she blindly chose a direction and sprinted, letting out sobs. She could hear the entire Nest taking off into the air, screeching. Bee only sprinted harder.

She ran for years or minutes, constantly aware of the crows at her back, occasionally pecking and tearing her clothes. Her face was cut and scratched by the branches and brambles she hurtled through, though the pain was only a gentle throbbing compared to the one in her eyes. She would never see again, even Nyx, blessed with the knowledge of herbs and remedies that came with being the Collector could do nothing for her.

Suddenly she stumbled, free hand reaching out, and clutched at empty air. Falling, she screamed, and the skull flew out of her hand. For a moment longer she fell, arms flailing, before she hit the ground with a sickening crunch. A moment later the crows descended on her, before taking off again in disinterest at the body laying on the forest’s edge, blood already starting to dry its thick gold braid.

Bee would never know that the skull had gotten out of reach of the crows, landing in the fields that separated the wood and the village, never hear the screams when her body was found, scratched and torn, twisted in ways it shouldn’t, missing its signature warm brown eyes, and never learn of the way Nyx would turn his eyes away from the wood and Moth would chase off any bird that came near it. Instead she wandered, cursed to never leave the wood, to never see anything but trees and spears and skulls and wings, coated in a fine gold dust and cloak of black feathers, searching for vengeance and rest.