Winter’s touch had caressed the valley of my ancestors. The twilight before dawn bathed the snow in blues as I watched from the short hill near my home. A crow’s corpse swung gently on a leafless branch. Its blood clung to the bark. Tiny droplets spattered the snow below. Soon, golden sunlight would shatter my grim morning ritual, so I began my descent. My cloak fluttered from a chilling gust, its sound joining the crunch of ice and snow. When I reached the porch, I could hear the distant chatter of the orchard, but when I stopped to hear more of their call, I received a sullen response.
“I know,” I muttered before entering the house.
In shadow, just beyond the threshold, an axe leaned against the wall. The gnarled handle’s silhouette appeared more clearly as my eyes adjusted. Its sight made my stomach heavy, but I shut my eyes and collected myself. After removing my boots and cloak, I settled into the living room rocking chair and waited for the sun’s glow. My fingers rhythmically tapped on the arm rest to fill the silence. Before long, Midas touched the sky, and creaking came from the guest room upstairs. I tensed as sluggish shuffling sporadically echoed about but steeled myself for the day. Inhaling the last scent of the untouched morning, I stood and prepared the fireplace for warmth and new beginnings.
While making breakfast, my son finally left his room and stood at the bottom of the stairs. His salt-and-pepper beard bent slightly as we exchanged silent acknowledgments. A chill crept over my skin while keeping his tired gaze. His lips began to part before he closed them and turned down the hall. I heard the ruffle of his coat, followed by the groaning floor when he shifted his weight to put on his boots.
When the door closed, I exhaled and returned to finish cooking. He wouldn’t return ‘til dusk, as was his responsibility. I ate quickly and after, when passing by the stairs, saw the axe was gone. The front door glared at me with a knowing gaze, but I broke away from its imaginary eye. Beside the fire, I stood at the window to look at the hallowed orchard. The crow’s corpse was gone and the trees, illuminated by dawn, were synchronized in a waltz. I couldn’t help but smile at their dead swaying.
The day passed by in glimpses of forlorn memories. All around me, the trees whispered with growing anxiety as the sun’s short stay began to end. With an hour to go, I lit a candle for my birthday. Seventy-five years of service to the valley. So many have depended on us and we’ve never faltered. When I extinguished the candle, I could only wish for my son, and his son, to remain faithful. After a pause, I returned to the rocking chair to wait for the last knock.
The voices of the valley droned on in my ears, and I merely stared at the flames. Moments later, though it must have been some time, a firm knock at the door ended my trance. I stood and replaced my jacket with my father’s cloak, tenderly touching the neckline. Once ready, I opened the door to see my son’s pale face and the axe at his side. Its ancient handle cooed.
“Ready?” he asked, the word barely audible over the other voices.
“I am,” I whispered with as much certainty as possible. Dead air hung heavily, but I continued after taking a breath, “I’m proud of you, son.”
Sadness flickered in his expression and his shoulders subtly sagged, “I love you too, dad.”
We stood there for a few seconds before he gently nodded and turned for me to follow. The last strands of dusk were fraying while we set off into the orchard. Branches reached with hungry creaking as we walked to the center. At least, I believed they did, and their hushed begging seemed to agree. The mirrored twilight of the morning settled over the valley when we arrived at the clearing where the pit, around three feet across, lay in the middle. It was accompanied by four bodies spaced evenly around its edge. The pooling blood of the bodies merged into a broken line around the hole. There was a gap where a fifth body would fit to complete the circle, and I grew emotional and teary-eyed. My son had done so well for the family.
As I stood at the edge of the clearing, my son moved toward the larger gap between the bodies and the axe babbled. He raised it horizontally to the sky and got down on one knee. His breathy prayers were meant to be heard only by him and the orchard. I watched patiently until he was done. A cold gust invited a wooden clattering that surrounded us. When the sound ceased, he stood, lowered the axe to his stomach, and turned to me.
“Alright, dad. It’s time,” he said with a confidence that silenced the wailing axe.
I smiled and gently removed my cloak’s hood. The encircling trees’ whispers fell silent as I moved to the larger gap between the bodies and got down on both knees. Still, I could feel their carnivorous yearning, but it wouldn’t be long for that to be satiated. Like my father, and the fathers before him, it was finally my time to rest. I stared down the endless pit where the corpses of thousands have fed the starving orchard. Once my flesh is consumed and my bones mix with the earth, my son will hear the voices of the valley. For a moment, I enjoyed the absolute and pure silence that I haven’t heard since before I killed my father. With twilight slipping into night, I nodded to my son, and he nodded back. Then he raised the axe, smiled, and swung.
Emerson Bell mainly writes horror and sci-fi stories. Isolation, dread, and cosmic horror influences most of their work no matter what the setting is. On occasion they venture into different themes but are most comfortable in the uncomfortable and unknown. Their horror fiction has appeared with Macabre Magazine and Flash Phantoms. When not writing, they scorn the summer sun and await the gloomy rains of autumn and winter.
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