Shrouds of a Feather

The Cabin

Fog lay heavy on the mountain, blanketing the surroundings in a shroud of white. The few trees close enough to be visible from the cabin stood as lone sentinels, stark against the eerie pale of the mist. A woman stared out from a window, watching as the golden light of the afternoon sun slipped slowly, yet decisively, into twilight.

Crack-crack.

The sound of two gunshots echoed through the fog, reverberating up and down the mountain until their point of origin was impossible to distinguish. A barn owl, startled by the sudden disruption to the slowly settling dusk, let out a disconcerting scream, echoing louder than the gunshots.

“Mama,” a young voice queried, inside the cabin. “What was that noise? It made my ears hurt big.”

The woman at the window smiled indulgently at the child, without moving from her post.

“That, moy milyy, was a barn owl, just saying goodnight to you.”

The child frowned at her toys, a stuffed doll and a faded toy soldier, both lying limp in her hands. “It didn’t sound like a ‘goodnight.’ I don’t scream when I say goodnight to you. And anyway, don’t owls go ‘hoot hoot?’”

“Most owls do,” the woman replied, still staring out into the fog, “but barn owls actually don’t ‘hoot’ at all, the sound they make is more of a screech. Like you when you don’t want to take a bath.”

The child contemplated the woman’s response, moving her toys idly in her hands. “I don’t like baths,” she conceded reluctantly. “They’re not very nice.” She returned to playing with her dolls. The woman at the window relaxed her posture slightly.

“Did the barn owl make the other noise too?” The little girl asked, seemingly absorbed in her toys.

“Chto, darling? What?” The woman said slowly, feigning confusion. Her posture locked into place, rigid in presentation, though still she stayed at the window, staring at some obscure part of the fog, her stance that of a predator in wait.

“The big hurt sound, Mama. Before the screech. The sound like trees falling after a storm. Was that the owl too?”

The woman turned her head slightly toward the girl, playing on the floor behind her, though she remained fixated on the unchanging fog inundated scene outside of her window.

After a long pause, which the little girl knew better than to break, the woman replied. “Yes, my love, moya lyubov, that was a barn owl too.”

And so, the girl returned to her dolls, and the woman resumed her lonely watch as the night gathered in.

The Mountain

Crack-crack.

Two shots, rattled off from somewhere to his left. They missed their mark, landing somewhat harmlessly in a nearby tree.

Still, he thought to himself, bit slow on the draw there. After all, it was bad enough that he was out here, on this godforsaken mountain without backup. Though clearly not alone, given the proximity of the gunshots. He fumbled blindly on through the fog, trying not to make a sound and not wanting to know how anyone had been able to aim a gun with any semblance of precision given the density of the mist.

He had, as it turned out, stumbled onto something much bigger than he’d originally anticipated. His normal collar was a petty shoplifter, usually a local given the low population density of the area. Once in a while, he was called in to assist on a drug bust, though those were few and far between. The ones they did bust were remote operations, small and discreet, that favored the isolated conditions offered by the mountains.

This was different. There’d only been one wanted poster, featuring a man and a woman. A nice enough looking couple. The poster said they’d be traveling with a girl, about eight years old. Young. And very much not the daughter of the couple in the poster, if the information was to be believed.

More than he bargained for, at any rate.

Craackkkk.

Another shot rang out, much closer in range and to hitting its intended target.

The Cabin

Craackkk.

Another shot rang out into the night. The girl said nothing, seemingly engrossed in her toys, though her eyes flicked upward whenever she thought the woman was not looking. She had learned early on to be careful with her eye contact, and her questions. It wouldn’t do to upset the woman, the woman who made the girl call her “Mama,” though she was decidedly not the girl’s mother. As bad as the woman was, however, the man was worse. And the girl knew if she upset the woman, the man would most definitely hear about it. She did not want that. So, instead of asking about the second sound again, the one she knew for a fact was not a barn owl, as the woman had claimed, but that rather sounded suspiciously like the noise she heard night and day in the warzone she called home, she stayed silent, following the woman with her eyes instead.

The woman, surprisingly, had left her informal post by the window and gone to the side door. She checked the lock, wiggling the knob until she was satisfied. She did the same with each window in the living room, repeating the process until she was certain that every door and window in the snug cabin was as secure as the technology of two decades ago could make it. Evidently satisfied, or as close to it as she was going to get, she resumed her post by the window. The fog, indifferent to the drama of Shakespearean proportion playing out on the slope of the mountain beneath it, made no move to disappear into the night. The barn owl screeched again, as if in warning.

The Mountain

The last shot had been far, far too close for comfort. Close enough that he could hear it whistling over his head as it passed him harmlessly by. It was nearly at point blank range, and this time he had gotten a glimpse of the shooter before he ducked back behind the mist-shrouded trees. He looked much like the Wanted poster had depicted him, large and balding, appearing to be about in his mid-sixties. Unremarkable, save the conspicuous spider tattoos; one on his right cheek, just below his eye, and a matching one on his neck.

He retreated farther into the brush, trying not to let panic take over his senses. He certainly wasn’t as quick as he used to be in his youth, but this man was no spring chicken either. Surely if he could get out of range and stay quiet, he would stay out of harm’s way. Crouching behind a boulder, he silently cursed the Good Samaritan who had called it in in the first place, after running into the couple at a gas station and spotting the little girl in the backseat. He tried to calculate when they would send backup, given the time he’d left the station, foolishly insisting that he’d be fine on his own, as usual. He knew, without a doubt, that one way or another, backup would be too late.

He was on his own.

The Cabin

“Mama,” the girl started carefully, well cognizant of the fact that the woman now brushed the girl’s hair, putting her in a rather vulnerable position.

“Mmm?” The woman responded, clearly still distracted though she no longer kept vigil by the window.

“I’m sleepy; may I please go to bed soon?” The girl was answered by a sharp tug on her hair, causing her to gasp as tears filled her eyes, threatening, though not succeeding, in spilling out onto her cheeks. “You may go to bed when I tell you it is time to do so,” the woman hissed, the girl’s hair still taut between her fingers. Wordlessly, the girl nodded as much as she physically could until the woman let go. In her mind, she thought of her real mother, and her Papa, and the puppy that slept with her at night. She thought of home, until she didn’t feel scared of the woman anymore, until the tears retreated fully from her eyes.

CCRAAACKKKK.

The Mountain

He didn’t realize he’d been shot until he saw the man with the spider tattoo looming over him, standing in the mist like some Norse god. Then, he understood what the heat and pressure in his abdomen meant. He knew no one was coming to help him in time, and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to muster up any feelings about it, other than a mild disappointment and irritation. Heart pounding his lifeblood out of him, he waited until the man got close enough, then discharged his firearm directly into that ugly tattoo crawling its way up the man’s neck.

CRACK.

If he had to go, he was certainly not going to go without taking the man with him.

The Cabin

CRACK.

The two shots had come in fairly quick succession. The woman frowned into the fog draped night. There was no sound other than she shots, and she wasn’t about to reveal the location of the cabin unless she had to. Ivan could fend for himself, and if he couldn’t, she certainly wasn’t going to waste any tears on him. There was just the matter of the girl, now preparing quietly for bed. Mercifully, she hadn’t asked any more questions about the gunshots. It was doubtful that her luck would hold.

The woman waited for a few more beats before making up her mind. Ivan knew where the cabin was. If he wasn’t back by now, he either wasn’t coming back or, if he did, it would be in the entirely unwelcome presence of law enforcement.

It was time to go.

“Come,” she said to the girl, extending her hand. “It’s time to leave. We will meet Papa in the next town.” Warily, the girl accepted the woman’s outstretched hand, without saying a word. “It is very important that you are as quiet as a mouse, moy milyy, you understand? Or else Baba Yaga will get you.”

The girl stiffened and nodded solemnly. She was old enough to know all about Baba Yaga, and there was no way she would risk such a threat.

Wordlessly, the woman and the girl stole into the night, their path veiled in fog and lit only by the weak glow of the waning moon.

Nearby, a barn owl watched as the pair disappeared down the mountain, withholding its shriek as if somehow knowing it would not change anything that was to come.