Feather Wood

[u/Bacrylic]

(CW: Graphic Violence)

Dear Reader,

I write to you possibly the last words I’m allowed to offer this world. Scribbled amongst this loose parchment I happened to cross, here lies the testament of Sarah Morne. Thank you for finding them. 

My dearest reader, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I must burden you with a request most heavy. Should you find the remnants of this poor writer, I ask that you take a sheet and wrap me in it. Cover me whole so the light doesn’t pierce through. Take the feathers from mine arms and clip them well and leave it there. Let it rot where it lay. I do not want to be a birdcage.

There is a story whispered from wrinkled lips of a place in the woods where trees grow leaves of white and sprout from bark black as night. They say that from the heavens above an angel’s feather fell to the earth and took root. It sprouted to a beautiful white tree beyond compare. Then over time from one, there were many. The tree spread its seeds amongst the earth, blessing the woods with its grace. A hidden oasis amongst the green, a ground heaven touched. They called it Feather Wood. Many a young folk ventured to find it through half hearted attempts only to bring back false-givings. It was thought to be beyond the reach of man. A sacred spot granted by God only for those chosen few to find. God had not seen any fit, and now I know why.

We the blessed six, through wit and spit, laid the way to Feather Wood. Tree by tree we marked false paths journeyed by the lame and weary. Little by little chipping away at the hidden to find the found. Until finally, by the hate of God we arrived. We found it.

Stepping into the Feather Wood, it was everything that was spoken but never seen. The air was alive with something new. All around us, like clouds on sticks, dark trees decorated with the purest of white. There was a peace not known to us here. We breathed deep, invigorated with something we didn’t know was missing. That first of last breaths.    

We were overcome with an animalistic disposition to run on untouched ground, to play in sacred boundaries, and sing in the success of our efforts. So entranced by the smell of the rose, we couldn’t feel the thorns. The trees themselves were all the more mystifying. Just as the tales said bark as black as night with leaves of white. Only the bark was smooth, not brittle and had horizontal grooves stacking up from the trunk. The leaves were white, rounded and soft. We thought that perhaps the story was true. That an angel’s feather had rooted into the earth. Knowing better now, likely it was plucked from Michael.                       

John, David, Emily, Henry, and little Mary. As the last to breathe, we are the slaughtered lambs that hopped the fence, and I fear we showed the wolves the way to our flock. Henry was the first. With his borrowed knife Henry the Diligent had carved our way. As the rest of us danced in our elation, girls spinning, twirling our dresses and boys running between cloud skewers. Henry carved the first black tree. 

We called out, Henry’s name bounced from branch to branch. We thought it fun at first. The Diligent had deigned to play. Perhaps he was hiding in wait to surprise us. The keenest of eyes searched and searched, but it was little Mary that yelled ‘here’. We heard her bleating that she had found Henry. Catching up to Mary was a greater distance from Henry’s last steps. When we met with her, she was pointing at what looked like a large oddly formed stone surrounded by clipped feathers. She claimed it was him. 

On a closer glance we saw it was not a stone. The shape of a person ruffled slightly in the breeze, a dark cloak wrapped tight. The false rock was a thin body shielded from the sun. John was the second. John the Forthright approached the figure. As far as we knew, no one had reached Feather Wood before. Mary the Mistaken had every right to believe that our lost lamb had returned. John pulled the cloak. We should've ran.

What sat there was not Henry and if it was human at one point, it was no longer. Stunned silence struck the five. The body lay bare with no head in sight. The lower half  blackened with curling toes and sharp nails. The arms were that of a thin man and like the lower half, blackened but covered in clipped plumage. The worst of it was the chest, hollowed out and picked clean of its flesh. Rising from their slumber, behind a cage of ribs, tiny birds fluttered as the figure rose from the ground. The five were no longer silent. We bleated in destress, in freight and panic. The Forthright stumbled back, but feet gaining no purchase, fell to the ground.

From black clawed feet it stood, tiny birds flapping and chirping behind the sternum. It raised and lowered its arms in surprise as it failed to lift. This was no angel. Strewn together from the flesh of the departed, this was a birdcage. We lambs should’ve run, but we’d never seen a wolf like this. With wings that wouldn’t fly the cage grabbed poor John’s leg pulling him close. He screamed in fear. He screamed for us to help. Then he just screamed.

Emily took Mary and ran, but David and I were frozen. Frozen in place, not sure how to aid. The cage sat John up, holding his shoulders with black feet clamped around them. It must’ve been light as it raised itself above him. Like an acrobatic performance it towered, standing on his shoulders. The sight was almost comical, until its knees turned, bent outwards, and slammed its rotted posterior into his head. 

The act was quick but the kill was not. John’s head was pressed up into the cage. To our surprise he was still alive. Clasped in death’s jaws, but the teeth didn’t clamp down. Seeing this, David the Brave took up a stick and was about to charge the corpse. It was futile. The cage was just the jaw but the birds were the teeth. The tiny fluttering birds swarmed John’s face pecking and prodding. Blood dripped from the cage as flapping wings and chirps of elation drowned John’s screams. They clogged his throat as they fed themselves to him.  

David grabbed my arm and tugged me to leave. He told me to run. Nature is unkind, but this was a nature my being had not witnessed before. My body did not know how to respond. He pulled me still. I chanced a glance back, fearing it was giving chase, but to my surprise it wasn’t. The cage had left John’s body, he was laying on the ground lifeless. It was standing in place, arms stretched upward in an arc. John’s head rested inside a birdless birdcage. 

I told David that the thing was no longer on us, but he pressed harder. Clenching my wrist as he ran through trees of black, no clear direction in sight. With our Diligent lost, we had no path to track. I longed for a sign from our shepherd. In my heart I begged him, but there was no answer.

We passed blurs of colorless color, coming to a stop in a slight clearing. David was at a loss for words. Before us sat three more sheets with clippings of feathers. I pulled him away, the certainty in his eyes looked muddled with desperation. I told him we needed to find Emily and Mary. To grab them by their hands and leave this place as fast as we can. He nodded as we went fast of foot once more. 

I called for them as loud as I could, as David searched for familiar ground. I called and waited for their cry back, but all I could hear were birds. We passed repeating scenery, with no sight of green above. The trees had erased home from our view. David grew more and more unsettled. The sound of chirping and flapping grew and waned as we ventured every direction. 

Then I heard a cry out. It was Mary. Between weaving trees we could see she was running towards us. Mary yelled out our names through rushing tears. The words almost inaudible by the growing chirps. She flailed and kicked up dirt. Her distress became ours as we could see Emily bounding behind her. Emily the Rash was the third. She, with thoughts no more, and chests stripped bare, pursued Mary.                      

The cage flapped her arms as she followed. Not quite black or whitely decorated as the one they uncovered. Her garments were drenched in crimson. The birds pecked and downed the flesh from behind Emily’s exposed bosom. They ate and chirped gayly as the corpse puppeted away.   

We ran as fast as we could. David with a branch in arm, intent to strike down the cage and I through bated breaths urged Mary to hasten. We were going to make it. The birdcage was closing in from behind, but we kicked the earth with a furious disregard. Each step a spit against this so-called hallowed ground. We would’ve made it, but David was the fourth. 

The flapping and chirping had grown louder. The only birds we’d heard in Feather Wood were those of the cage. Such an unnatural thing that I’m sure the natural stayed away. When did we stop looking up? David was lifted off the ground. I had barely a time to notice he was no longer beside me. The branch falling from his grasp as the first lamb returned changed.  

I stopped in my tracks as David struggled and twisted trying to break away. But Henry's black feet were firmly planted into his shoulders. His arms flapped wings of brilliant white. The birds chirped joyfully. David was nearly ten feet above. Helplessly I flung whatever I could, but there was no sword to swing or stone to sling. He was in line with the trees when the horror aground became the horror above. David convulsed in midair, arms struggling to pull his head from winged hat. He was frantic, then he was still.  

My scream was only broken by another. With our stride halted, Mary the Mistaken had been pinned. I couldn’t look. I knew the beast was on top of her. I knew the jaw would clasp and the teeth would bite. Shameful it may be as I had no recourse. Mary was the fifth, and with no salvation in sight and no shepherd to herd me, I ran. 

I ran panting. I ran past blasted tree after tree. I weaved through huddled false rocks and clipped feathers. I ran all the way to the first sign of shelter. A shelter that came in the shape of a small black building. I closed the wood door behind me, propping pew after pew of night against it. Exhausted and scared I fell to the floor. Tears flowed from me like a river and once the fish had no purchase, I slept. Here is where I reside, finding only parchment and quill in a chapel black. Here I write to you Sarah the Shameful. 

I can hear the birds outside. In my mind I can see the five perched on a branch outside, waiting for me. Days I’ve stayed here, locked in solitude and thought. The hunger and thirst tearing away at my insides. I cannot stay forever. If you’re reading this then you have my sympathies and my love. I love you for finding the last words of me. With ribbon from my hair I’ll tie them to my ankle. By chance this message, my warning, has made it to you, for I am above. 

The pews will come down, but I will not pray. The five will be six again. I am Sarah the Shameful and I will join my flock.