“Tis time that I fare from you.”

                                                           -Beowulf

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Smoke blighted the wind. I stirred, opened my eyes, and called out. The message was passed

down our line. I fixed my eyes on a gray horizon, then leapt. I spread black wings and called

once more to those perched below. We rose together.

​

        Our woods ended in a small valley, bordered on one side by a wide river and another by

highlands rising into dark mountains. To the east a silver sea shimmered in the light of dawn,

crowned by the silhouette of a strange shore.

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        Smoke climbed from fearful lights held by stolen branches. The tall ones had gathered in

two hosts, facing one another from across the valley. We perched in trees at the edge of the

clearing. One of the fire-makers rode forward on a hooved beast. He was enclosed in a shell

adorned with a scarlet plume, and carried a golden eagle on his branch. Though the bird did not

move, instinct held us at a distance.

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        Another flock-family circled above. They had followed these strangers out of the raging

sea, and now their calls warned of death. Still I wished to swoop over them, to test their

burnished plates against my beak. I wondered how their flesh tasted.

​

        We knew the warriors at the far end of the field. They painted their skin blue with bitter

flowers and wore furs cut from wild beasts. They left food in the wake of their battles and

migrations. They whispered their secrets to us, and we to them.

​

        The red-plumed rider called to the painted warriors. His flock stood in rows, inflexible

stances betraying an anticipation of violence. A painted warrior shouted back, and his flock

roared with familiar laughter. They howled like wolves before a hunt, sang prayers to Death. To

us.

​

        A painted warrior raised a horn carved with the head of a tusked beast. The horn wailed

before falling to a low rumble. The branch beneath me trembled, and my flock-family took

flight.

 

        Something changed then. A shift in sound, movement, meaning. A shadow grew from the

land, twisting its roots into the arrayed warriors.

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        The painted ones charged, calling out names. Some I recognized from battles and songs.

Some I would hear for the final time.

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        The strangers gathered their shells into a single gleaming carapace. They lowered

branches tipped with shining stone to meet the charging rival. Behind them, others lifted curved

branches and flew winged shafts over the field.

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        The horde crashed against the shield line like an ocean wave on stone, and at last I was

shaken from my perch. The long branches impaled many, but survivors pushed on. For a

moment, the carapace buckled.

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        Then the ranks closed, trapping those who broke through in a cage of glinting fangs.

Painted riders leapt over the enemy line and were cut down. Bodies mingled until all became a

single writhing mass—a great beast at war with itself.

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        Wooden machines slung blazing stones into the forest teeming with painted warriors. The

gray valley burst open, washing all below me with cascading waves of heat. Flame gripped its far

border of trees, crept up trunks and branches to the canopy, and crowned the forest with golden

light.

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        Along the treeline, winged ones fled burning nests. Crawling things scattered from

burrows, skittering into flame and darkness. Insects flashed orange and were gone. An ancient

tree fell.

 

        The dancing lights evoked a fear that all my mind’s will could not tame. I shrieked with

my flock, and our grief swelled over the wrath of war. It made no difference.

​

        The painted ones were driven back, slaughtered as they ran. Some chose flames over the

fangs of their enemy. Others looked Death in the eye. In a desperate final stand, they toppled the

pursuing riders and rallied the survivors. Those who stood to fight laughed and sang as they died.

​

        A call rose over cries of anguish and triumph. The red-plumed leader pointed his fang,

ushering his flock forward into flame.

 

​                                                            —

​

My flock descended as the tall ones moved on, but curiosity urged me to follow. The fleeing

survivors were slowed, burned black by fire. When the red-plumed warriors reached them, the

painted ones fell to their knees. The captives were led into a wheeled cage.

​

        I caught flickers of movement against shadow—too far or too small for the strangers’ dull

eyes. I dropped to the cart’s roof, gripping a wooden bar, and peered inside. A dozen men and

women lay in the cage, all bearing cuts or burns. One met my gaze, and I croaked a greeting. She

reached between the bars to offer a tattooed hand. The painted ones were flock-friends, but the

day’s violence had stirred fear in me. I approached with care. The wounded one scratched my

breast, and I nibbled her finger.

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        A sharp clang shook the bars. I fled to a low bough and cawed in anger. A rider beside

the cart jabbed his weapon into the cage, issuing a reprimand. I sent a shrill warning to any

others in the woods: enemies.

​

        I leapt from my branch and glided towards the front of the procession. Here, afternoon

light fell in gentle curtains through the forest canopy. Even beyond the veil of smoke, it swam

with ash. I spied the golden bird perched atop the leader’s branch. I found I no longer feared its

aspect, nor those who carried it.

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        The tall ones noticed me only when I swooped low to perch on their golden effigy. The

procession fell silent. Its leader flinched at my intrusion, then shook the branch. I clung to its

figurehead, beating my wings. He planted the staff in the soil and drew his bloodied fang.

Several behind him gasped and uttered panicked words. Their voices were reverent, but shaded

by a strange undertone. He raised the weapon to strike and they cried out in angry dissent.

​

        The leader lowered his fang. I responded with a shrill cry—long and cruel. I lifted off

and circled once above the red-plumed flock, listening to its raised voices. The words remained

unfamiliar, but now I recognized their undertone. Fear.

 

​                                                                —

​

I returned to the ruined valley where the tall ones had met in battle, climbing high on the wind.

The violence had gone.

 

        My flock had already descended. I landed, hopping between corpses and skirting flames

birthed from pools of black liquid. Some flock-family had fallen from the sky, taken by winged

shafts. Those who remained had begun their feast.

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        Blood and ash plagued the field. Insects gathered around the dead, and occasionally we

launched to catch them midair. Beyond the treeline, yellow eyes burned in darkness. Others had

been drawn by the shadow of death. A lingering fear of flame held back the shining eyes, but

soon they joined us. The wolves were flock-friends, though they spoke simply and held few

secrets.

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        I spotted valuables—twigs to coax grubs from their hives, bits of string or leather to bind

nests. Some fallen strangers spilled pieces of shining yellow stone. The painted ones shared our

love of things that shone in light, and would reward us greatly for them. In time, we would return

to collect these tools and treasures.

​

        I flew to the shoulder of a painted warrior. He lay against a stone, his side rent by iron.

He had whispered secrets of this world to me, had sung the histories of his flock and fed me bits

of meat. He called me Cuimhne. Though warmth lingered in his flesh, his half-closed eyes had

long shed the light of thought. He held no more secrets. I lowered my beak and fed.

​

        The painted ones say we are guides of the dead, that we carry their souls to mist-shrouded

lands beyond this place of wood, stone, and pain. They are not satisfied with this life alone.

Though we hate their flame, and though we are wary when they fight, our path is forever bound to theirs.

​

        We feasted until the sun fell and frost clung to our feathers. As the flock began its

departure, I gathered wood and string. Some toyed with the wolves, swooping to grab a tail

before soaring above their snapping jaws.

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         I rose with my flock. The night winds were tainted by smoke and blood. These strangers

from the sea were an intrusion upon our unchanging world, an irrevocable shift in its once-

eternal balance.

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        We returned to our roosts. I joined my mate and our chicks. I clicked a contented

greeting, leaned in, and opened my beak. The fledglings fed in eager silence, then returned to

slumber.

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        The death would continue tomorrow. Wherever they roamed, we would follow. So had it

been long ago. So would it be in a day, in a generation, in an age. There was no hurry to collect

the dead. I sidled along the branch, pressing a folded wing against my mate, and closed my eyes.

 

        The woods were still.