Curiosity to Curses

The moon, as it had done for a fortnight, shone through the hatch in the roof and illuminated our home. The children played in the tall yellow grass as we adults stowed our food in the wooden floorboards for tomorrow’s feast. Eyes glanced upward as the night sky brought our people a most beautiful gift. It was a leaf, brown in colour and peculiar in shape. We had never seen one like this before. Its bristled edges, rippling with the wind, were tinted grey and its stem was ghostly white. Before it could reach the floor, another followed through the hatch, and another, and another, and in no time at all it was raining leaves upon us as we danced and sang and praised the night for its glorious generosity. Some began unloading the food from beneath them in celebration, “It is an invitation of early festivities”, while others remained in a state of bliss as they twirled around and embraced each other. “How magnificent must a tree look for its discard to be so wonderful?” I thought to myself as I clambered towards a metal pipe that stretched from the floor to the moon-hatch. Others realised my intentions and followed close behind. Joy filled the barn as we imagined the sight. The moon became visible in its entirety as I reached the roof and breathed the fresh night air. I was soon joined by my companions, all scanning the horizon for our benevolent patron of beauty. The moon was briefly dimmed as our attention, once again, was drawn upwards. Where were these incredible leaves coming from if no tree was in sight? That question was answered swiftly as a loud thud echoed through the air turning curiosity to curses. Puzzled whispers from below found their way to the roof with no reply. What we saw was no tree. Instead, the great and wicked mouth of a monster. What we danced beneath were no leaves. Instead, the elegant camouflage of a demon, it’s yellow eyes, hollows of damnation they were, now glued to us as we stood, frozen in terror. Screams of desperation overpowered the silence of the night as the beast tore my friends apart, scattering their bloody remains over the homes of their loved ones. I spotted a small metal container sitting vacant just inches away from me, and without second thought, darted in its direction. The demon lunged at me as I ducked in cover and once again set my bearings to the small metal box. A few minutes passed as I crouched, a spectator to the demise of my family and friends, nothing to do but remain quiet and close my tear-filled eyes. When silence fell I peered out of my fortress to see what the vile creature had done. Bodies lay, stripped bare of flesh, before me, some only a whisker away. Trembling, I returned to the floor, my fur drenched in blood and my conscience in guilt. The return of the Night Owl brought with it only death. Life became an eternal struggle to keep quiet. We ate, as and when the opportunity presented itself, and slept when his feathers fell again, indicating, no doubt, that he was off to torture some other poor souls. No audible breath could leave our frightened lips without the swift jerking of his neck, his deathly stare. Our home, turned prison, was no longer a place for the young, but where else could provide them sanctuary? The fields? Where beasts flew and savages lurked. Or perhaps the cottage that stood erect in the grass? Where many believed to be our arc of safety, but none returned to confirm the idea. No. This prison was all we had, and the barn walls were all that kept the other monsters out.

***

Fourteen of us remain, and what was once a neighbourhood beaming with life is now a carefully conducted system of silence that conspires with darkness. Lives are lost with every passing day and I am the only one left of that foolish party of dreamers. Those who lost husbands, wives, fathers and mothers still stare at me sometimes, wishing, I assume, that I had never lead their loved ones to the roof. That’s all there is now. The folks that once sang happy birthday to me, and who watched me take my first steps now look upon me with hatred and bitterness. I sometimes throw empty prayers in to the night, asking the moon to bring everybody back in my place, but my desperation is still yet to be acknowledged. Maybe, I often think to myself, I will step out before that yellow-eyed demon and join my friends in whatever it is that life has planned for the dead, but as of yet I have not found the courage. Perhaps it will be tonight. Perhaps I will finally be free of this prison I have created and dance again beneath the moon. Perhaps tonight I will die. One fact from my past life remains true, I’ll always be a dreamer.