[The Barrow-Wight]

Rimbaud joins the game.

Awake since before the sunlight had pierced the canopy of trees, Fingot observed Akaaw's strong and swift flight, cutting through the morning light. He also observed the inattention of others in the flock and clucked in disgust. The youngsters were not up to the standards of the crebain flocks he could remember. He clacked his beak in approval however, to see his strongest son, Mitakaw, awake and paying attention to him.

"My son, fetch me some morsels," he rasped, quickly. "Go! Make haste!" He would tempt the information out of Akaaw with sweetmeats.
His son, startled by the swift order, scuttled off his branch and darted down through the leafy branches towards the forest floor. Fingot nodded and shook out his mottled brown-grey wings. I may be old but I will not be excluded from whatever news this young chief brings to us! All crows were young to him now.

He cawed loudly, suddenly, and cackled with malevolent glee as the drowsing birds around him flapped and chattered as they were awoken. Some were so disturbed as to lose their footing and take to flight still half-asleep, blundering into branches and each other. Fingot nodded self-importantly again. He awaited the coming of his chief patiently, as he had done so many times before, for many other strong leaders of the flocks. For Fingot was old, older than the memory of any other living crow.

More than the others, then, he sensed the change in the air. A storm was coming. Fingot liked storms.

[ December 12, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]