The Green Book
an excerpt

Seasons and Moons: Tales of Murder, Love, and Other Things
© 2007 CW Kelson III (Tad)
All Rights Reserved
Transhumanistic FaeriePunk

Matilde in the Opening
“Do not make any promises you do not intend to fulfill”, the dead insect husks voice of the old lady came from the small pile of leaves adorning the side of the walkway.
Matilde paused while the omen was pronounced, often the weird had a way about them and she did not want to incur its wrath.

Turning towards the voice, the young one looked about and saw the wizened old lady there in her pile of leaves, cobwebs adorning her shawl and long twig festooned hair. The daylight was drunk in with the opening of her mouth, the ragged stumps of rotted wood chips she has for teeth showing through the gap.

Matilde stood there for a moment, pondering just how to respond to the comment made. Was it an omen, a proclamation, or just demented rant of something better left alone? Hard to tell which if either court it might belong too. Still it is best to play it conservative, make no offence, who knew what the old one might or might not know. Some things in the modern world didn’t realize that times had changed, especially in the last few decades, and the oldest ones were still the most fearsome.

“What do you mean favored one?” Better to be safe now than sorry for who could possible know how long.

“Come here child, you seem to have much of the mother in you, more than an old woman like myself would dream of.” There the short teeth in her mouth making clacking sounds, with the pale fat worm of a tongue sliding in and out licking the licks in between the words uttered slow and low like tree roots or pits in the dirt.

Matilde took a few steps closer to the pile of rags with someone inside them.
“Yes old mother, what would you of me?” Hands held back away, no need to get grabbed, she might get something if the old one bit her.

“Just jacking the jaw, waiting for the right one to come by and take me home, make me a happy old lady. Until then I sit in here waiting.” The pile of leaves moved and rustled as if a thousand legs were stirring the dried shapes under and out of sight.

“My thanks for the words of advice there honored one” better to be safe than sorry her uncle had always told Matilde, “But I am on my way to Caer Aval, a matter to attend to.”

“Ahh the dead ones, a shame, I heard about them. Be very careful little one, not all are what they seem, not all the stories are told the first time through, just be careful.” The voice drifts away on the slight breeze that suddenly blows past Matilde’s ankles.

“Will you bless my path, before I walk the woods to reach the caer?” Matilde asks the one talking to her.

“I will, may the mother watch over you and guide your feet in their travels.”
A dry rattling cough like leaves being stepped on by hooves, shakes her shawls dislodging dead insects and twigs, then it stops.
“Be careful little one, there are a few taller than you that will object to the path I see dimly in front of you, the crows are not your friends either.”

With that the little old thing seemed to dissolve into wisps of fog and the darkness she had been sitting in deepened and strengthened. That was until she had totally disappeared from sight and sense.

Matilde sighed, sometimes such beings were fickle at the very best, while sometimes they knew what they were all about and talking about. Hard to tell till everything had come and gone and you could see if it was steam and silvered glass or true proclamations.

Time to concentrate on the path ahead, sometimes it got a little tricky walking from her uncle’s place to Caer Aval, the woods between the two places were filled with all manner of ancients and other entities, that at times it was downright hazardous depending on the moods and fickle natures inherent in all living beings. If not that then storms, rain, fog and mist all served to obscure the narrow trails that would along the rivers and streams, up and across the several mountains until the city would come into sight across the large open plains that surrounded it.
Then she could catch a ride in the rest of the way, it would take a few days to get there, even with the ride and nothing slowing her down. Hopefully the summons was still valid by that time.

Matilde moved down and into the deeper woods, heading to the scene of murders that had happened earlier that day, and a summons had reached her from her uncle, Tomás Torn Page who lived in the city and occasionally worked with the inspectors to solve the very infrequent crimes that occurred there. The rest of the time he worked to chronicle the many lives that existed around him, as well as frequent trips to the farther reaches of the lands and the other Caers that existed beyond the sky. But right now she was heading there to see if she could lend any insight into the investigations. Her uncle had given her scant information, the small bat carrying the words encrypted into its calls, no one else able to hear it except for Matilde, the intended receiptient. As the bat passed by her small place, the cries came to her and she listened as intended, hearing his voice in the chirps and calls telling her to come to Caer Aval that a murder had taken place, and that others had happened also and the inspectors had asked for his help in solving the strange crimes.

That was the extent of her information, and so armed with that and a simple yew walking stick she headed out for the journey, with a smile because she loved her uncle, the only family she has left, besides her friend Isibeal, who was going to meet her in the city in a few days. So alone, but never lonely as the entire world was a friend to those true to the world, she was heading into the big city and somewhat anxious to see what new marvels there were there now. A sort of revolution had been taking place in the last few decades, an addition to the lore and traditional means, to ones more outside of people. The ways of wood and fire and metal instead of growing plants, seemings and glamours to turn the eye from one place to another, a shift to a more physical means to interact instead of the lighter touch the older ones preferred. In paradox a method closer to the oldest among them all, the most ancient forces were not prone to being subtle, instead they being direct and forceful, and the new devices were more their kind, harnessing fire to create steam and power carts and other devices working sometimes at odds with The Mother and the Land, but still showing reverence towards it all.

This was the future, and it was coming faster and faster with every day. When change would come after an immortal lifetime of debate, if at all, then anything faster was nearly terrifying to the majority of both courts and those not in either.

Matilde enters the woods and makes her way along the narrow tree root lined way. The heavy branches arching overhead, making a roof for her light footsteps to echo off of, the thick trunks to either side were making a hallway. The thick trunks making a rough sense of walls enclosing her in the protective nature of the root structure, overhanging branches and leaves sheltering the many small scurrying animals from the view of greater and larger things that haunt other parts of the lands, but the owls still remain ghosting softly among the many paths they can discern in the whispering of the winds.
Matilde kept moving, she was not native to this land, even if she was a frequent traveler and so enjoyed a certain degree of safety, still no sense pressing ones luck and with all due haste, without the panic flight of prey to attract other impressions, she kept up the pace she could sustain.
With a simple little whisper she asked the spirits that lived close by for a touch of their sight and her vision cleared, seeing clearly the pitfalls of obligations and deadfalls of despair that dotted the root strewn path. Taking a moment to giver her sincere thanks, she moved on at the best speed her legs could sustain, the long white legs the shades of bleached bone and strong toes digging lightly into the soil to move her as fast as the bunching and coiling muscles would allow. Much more a creature of the wide open spaces, her arms pumped in time to her legs moving her along the way. It will be days before she arrives at her location, and until then she really cannot rest and risk missing her appointments with her uncle and others there. So no rest until the sun has risen in Caer Aval and she is there to witness it coming up. Time to run now, run as if life depended, when in fact the dash only led to a scene of death as she well knew.

The city stretches out in front of her eyes, rolling fields surrounding the sprawling place. Groves of trees dot the many wide streets, the rough hewn wooden structures, the cobble stoned streets, the wooden carts pulled by their owners hauling what ever they have in them from one place to another. The latest inventions dot the landscape, large wooden structures reaching far into the sky, carts that move themselves, other strange buildings where smoke and flames would belch into the day and night skies. The larger and greater of the two courts were in full movement, carrying bundles, moving carts by hand, making a bewildering assortment of woven and other crafted goods that now lined all the streets in stalls for trade or barter. Many of these things were sent away to the farthest Caers and caers to be traded for what they were making or growing there as well. This and more, fields of cultivated and wild plants made ever expanding circles around the city, moving all the way out until they reached the hills to the west, where the sun set and up to the river that leads to the channel to the east, where the sun rose every morning.

Matilde took a long deep breath, feeling the healing air here far away from the Caer. The place felt oppressive to her anymore, no resting for her senses. It was far too busy, far too much going on anymore for her spirit. Her uncle seemed to not mind it nearly as much. Even for being one of the oldest of their peoples, he seemed able to deal with the slow or rapid changes that would assail their worlds and lives on occasion.

The many wars between the two courts, the rampages of outlying monsters, giants and natural forces, all contributing to the instability of the lands and the realms, leading to her sense of fragile life. Then there are these strange crimes of violence, taking of others properties, altering what was supposed to be, and then lying about it.

There should be time to stop by her friend’s house, Mabbeth the Queen of the Winter Hunt, a beautiful lady kin and kith to the great snowy owls; before calling on her uncle. That would give her time to clean and freshen up, as well as find out what things were being said about the greatest city they all had.

In addition to seeing Mabbeth, she could also see her oldest companion Isibeal. Who should be there as well, having had separate business in the city for a few seasons now. They should be able to meet soon enough. With the season coming into the cold months, Mabbeth would be coming more into her powers, as well as influence, making it more entertaining, more interesting, lots more fun for the three of them to have in and about the town.

It will take her, she estimates, till past nightfall to make it the rest of the way to the lighted thoroughfares. No sense rushing things, the dead will wait another night or longer for her, and her pace has never been one for to hurry. She has the longer view on life that many of those older than she have and possess, while most of her peers do not.

Still it does not deter her, makes her more steadfast in her positions, instead of changing to suit others who may or may not agree. Sometimes the oldest ways are still the best ways.

Which is one of the many reasons she loved her Uncle Tomas, because he felt that change was better than staying the same, almost the exact opposite point of view, and still they could talk and accept the one and another? That was only one of the varied reasons he is her most treasured relative. Most of the rest of their relations were either consumed in their lands and open spaces or taken with the petty intrigues of life trying to get into the good graces of the Queen and others at the Court. Which is not a life for her she had decided back when it first was formed. But to each their own, and if others wanted to waste the open skies with staying inside, in walls, talking endlessly about the minor going on, the petty differences from one noble to another, the merit of the bloodline of one wolf hound over another, they were welcome to them. That was not a life in her world, not when there is so much else to be seen, to be loved, to be felt and experienced.

But it is good to be this close to her destination, good to have a chance to rest and relax for a few moments before starting to help her uncle in his tasks. Well it is time to push on and finish the race into the large city, the center of all of the current civilization, the Caer Aval, home of the Light Court as well as the Monarchs.
The open hills beckon her on as the sun sets she shall make it there safe to find out that some dangers are not in the open at all.

The Death and Deaths and Razor Blades in the Dark of the Day
The inspector made his way down the crowded street, the assorted onlookers and sight seers getting in his way. The other three inspectors were fairly close behind him, and the others were on the way as well. There were a few diviners as well as the one amateur and his niece as well.
This was the second slaying in the season, with the same sort of weapon, and the fifth this year, making the most ever since Caer Aval had been founded by the King and Queen of the Fair Court. Still it had made for a very peaceful existence all these many long seasons, better than before. When the forces would do as they desired, no controls, no rhymes to their whims, and the smaller and weaker among them would huddle in fear. Those times were long past, but some currents on the winds told a tale that perhaps those days were coming back, in a fuller worse way.

Hopefully not, but the winds were carrying the tales of vast changes on the way, of flames licking at tree trunks and ash and soot poisoning the waters and streams where the smallest ones lived around. Then forever of darkness that would be covering all the lands, making ruins of the caers near and far as well as the most distant Caers and other lands that the peoples have all populated across forever and a day.

Still it is odd how the world is changing around him and the lands themselves. Where once mountains rose, now there are plains, where once deep forest stretched for the time a life would be lived now were shrunken to where only dozens of elder trees dominated, where once the deep ocean lapped, now islands and land bridges stretched across linking distant lands never dreamt of in the minds of those that walk the woods before. All was in flux, taking place in the short spans of redwood lives instead of eternal promise of summer made manifest. All was in flux, and the head inspector did not really care much for flux or for change, in life, in the world, in his views and definitely not in his diet, which since coming to live with smaller folk was a necessity even if he wanted some of them to crunch because it was the way his teeth were made and his people had lived since time had begun. Where something crossed something else, his people lived there, under it, and made sure that all was in order before something else would be allowed to cross. Which made walking in the great city a nightmare some days for him, all those lovely footbridges to toll and not a single bite allowed within the rose vine covered walls.

So the inspector made his way along the crowded streets, hovels on one side, dens and burrows on the other side, until he made it to the merchant area, slowly expanding, where the death was caused. Two of his fellows were there already speaking to the onlookers, the witnesses, the one who found the body.
And the others sitting about taking in the scene and about turning it into a festivity. Death came so rarely to them all, that it was almost something to have a cup of dandelion tea and talk about. Not for him and the other inspectors, new to this idea of finding out what happened, and still reluctant to rely on the amateur that was also on his way, one Tomás Torn Page an archivist and amateur recorder of the past and thinker on the future. Clearly a madman and a sign of the disease and downfall of the times, the inspector thought to himself. Even the fact that he was tasked with this sort of work was a far cry from the past when things were clear cut, the way they should be and he longed for the old days when he just had to worry about eating, when the moon would rise and what paths were safe to trod and which were not. Now it is all civilization, what words to use to which court, what to do in the early day vice later in the day, what clothing to wear, will someone commit a crime or not. It was a dizzying array of things to account for, and some days it was more than his poor mind could cope with. Now his life and day is filled with paperwork, dodging drawn carts, digging through garbage trying to find out what went into them from the night before.

But that is the normal day, today was now filled with another unnecessary death, here in the great Caer Aval, where never had death come before these changes those many seasons ago. Here were trees that bloomed year round, where the hum of bees made for pleasant evenings all the seasons rounds, where the snows never were deep, the cold only enough to be pleasant, the perfect amount of rainfall would fall each time it was needed. Here in Caer Aval it was the epitome of what it meant to be alive. But with the changes, the alterations, the modifications that had been enacted by the two courts, all leading to this thing they were calling civilization.

Still the alternative would be worse, no balance, no sense of belonging, no time to sit and drink rosehips infused water while the sun set staining the sky vivid oranges, reds and golds with the birds singing songs of praise while it all was calm and peaceful. There were worse things that the life he was living and leading right now. One of the alternatives was ahead only a few more dozen paces where he could see the others clustered in a ragged circle with a slowly spreading red stain soaking into the cobbled stone.

“Back away, back away, head inspector on the scene.” He chose to bellow today, to shock them and drive them back and away. Might be better they didn’t see the methods the inspectors chose to use, might be upsetting. Especially for the older members, or the more noble born ones, they would object the most to how the poor corpse was about to be officially abused further.

“Back away, back away, give us all some room to work will ya tatterdemalions, one and all of ya.” The short raggeds and taller roughkins along with the occasional noble passing through. The other assorted animals, spirits, fetches and gimcracks that tag along with the like. Some goodwives and other locals dotted the sidelines, waiting to get some lurid glimpse or to titillate at the goings on.

“Back up now, back to your homes or what have you, nothing else we want you to see here. Back up before I have to get rough!” With that the Head Inspector rose to his full eight feet in height and demonstrated why his kind were given a wide area of space when they were aroused to their older instincts. .

With the display the crowd started to disperse, allowing the amateur to make his round pudgy way up to the actual corpse.
“Looks like a fresh one from the meadows, or deepest woods, still moss between her toes I see.” Tomas Torn Page made his initial observation from his vantage point, being barely half the height of the head inspector sometimes had advantages, in addition to sharper eyesight and keener hearing, never failed to set the larger being on edge in sharp agitation.

“Yes I see that, what else do you discern before we get to work?” The inspector stated, then turned to the other three inspectors already there, “Have you any more information that came to light before my arrival?”

The middle one of the three, whippet thin and made up in the official cloth hat and uniform of the Caer Aval Inspectors, a deep Kelly Green tinged with Fall Oak Leaves red piping cleared his throat, a deep guttural noise suited for the caverns his ancestors spawned in vice the above ground setting he was born into.

“Looks like the throat slit like the others, same sort of wound, finally got an idea what sort of weapon, we might’ve found the craftsman that made it.” Low sonorous voice like deep underground rivers, the same shade of pale white like the truffles cultivated there, the same sort of complexion the inspector had like all his kin.

“A razor maker over a few streets might be the crafter, we have him on his way to see what he has to say.” Then his head was hung low since the weight of his skull and cranium was a burden on his neck here on the surface of the world.

“Good, very good, we will wait for the arrival then. Continue to look everyone, make sure you are looking at what you are able too while you are standing around waiting.” A pause with a long deep breath far into the lungs, then another question, “Did anyone ask to find out who the poor victim is, did anyone ask if anyone saw or head a thing?” With an almost plaintive tone of voice knowing his help had limitations, and thinking was one the main shortcomings he had to deal with on a daily basis by light and moon.

“None heard a thing, we have asked all standing, asked all that live about this place, asked all we could determine had come this way recently.” The shortest, youngest, furriest member of the team, part badger, part fox, part sapling and all forest, the young inspector was also the sharpest when it came to ideas and first to implement them as well.

“So other than the one razor maker, how many are in the caer anyway?” the head inspector wonders out loud. “So get the craftsman over here soon as possible and any one else heard or seen a thing at all, have we asked all the surrounding dwelling places yet?” The head inspector looks around, the three other inspectors all look at one and another, these are ideas that obviously never occurred to any of them. Of course death did not come easy to any of their kind, and never from age only from accidents or violence, or by choice. Now that it seemed to stalk their city it was both novel and abhorrent.
But it is up to them to sort it all out.

“Go ahead, the three of you, one go get the craftsman, the other two start talking to everyone that is standing around, lets get some information if at all possible, Also tell me when the sleuth arrives, we have some work to do soon as he is here.”
With a dismissive wave of his hand he sends the three inspectors to get to work while he stared down at the dead girl. Was a tall one, obviously new to the big city, moss still was growing between her toes and fingers, bits and pieces of bark and loam flecked her lower legs calling out her core nature as attuned to the woods and deep places of the land and soil. Her skin still held the dark green tint of the native and the wide large eyes of the nocturnal creature. Obviously female, and obviously too new to consider clothing as something to think about, with the large slash across her neck opening her throat up in a wide gaping crimson wound where her blood then soaked and nourished Mother Earth, but far too early if ever it should have done so to begin with. But it has now, soaked into the soil and left not a trace to run a single divination on. Leaving other more distasteful methods to be called into play, once Tomas’ arrives that is.

While the others were working, a short, round fellow slowly waddled his way up to the crowd. Long dark hair curled away from his square chin, reaching near to the bottom buttons of his vest and showing off his deep set eyes the color of mahogany bark in the depths of summer in full health and force. The hair is close to the same shade, eyes, beard, curls up from the inside of his white linen shirt held together with bone buttons in the latest fashion. His trousers matched the shirt, dyed instead of left bleached white, dyed a deep shade of black and near long enough to reach over his feet. The feet, there was the marvel, his feet did not even touch the ground, instead they are covered with leather shoes and with a stiff bottom to then, making a rigid walking surface. Despite the oddity his gait was sure and steady, the way a mountain man would be on the sheerest of surfaces, or like a goat standing tall and proud far into the snowline. Much of the steady nature showed in his shoulders, wide for his height, and a deep chest like a tunnel runner would have. All sorts of contradictions made manifest about his very person, an epitome of the times that are in place, transitioning from the traditional to the new.

“There are three sides to each and every one of us you know my dear inspector.” Tomas’ pontificated as if no one else knew such esoteric. “The phase of Sister Moon is the first determinate, followed by the season, then by the humors that were most present and remain preeminent in the body. Once you know these three facts, then much else can be calculated about a person.” Tomas paused, wringing his short hands, “Time to determine what we can of our poor victim, before we continue with the procedure.”

He looked down, pulling apart her toes, opening the lifeless lids to peer into her glassy muddy brown eyes. He lifted each arm and then her legs, grunting with the effort as he was small yet robust and the dead girl was large and massive as an oak tree would be in the fullness of life then cut short lying as deadwood on the forest floor.

Then while Tomas’ is busy at work on the dead trolle girl, another female comes a striding up to the cordon, obviously acting like she belongs right where she is heading.
This one looks like a typical almost full blood, tall, lithesome, long legged and lean of figure. Almost a noble blood, but with legs that show a more natural orientation to life and living.

The Scarecrow and the Crows
The scarecrow was little more than a few fallen branches, some old rags and a bit of vine after it had tied used to strap the framework up against a pile of stones. It was intended to startle or frighten away the various murders of crows that bewildered the original farmer. Instead the poor thing became a source of derision among the avian thieves it was intended to deter. Undaunted, the maker of the scarecrow began to enhance it. Borrowing and creating more and more enhancements, glamours, and seemings adding to the visage and abilities of the scarecrow.
Past this point it becomes a bit diffuse in what did or did not happen. Granted this was a gradually process, but it still continued to fail. Eventually the scarecrow took to enhancing its self, doing what it could to stave off the depredations of the very things it had been created to thwart. The process was slow and laborious and prone to failure, often setting it farther back than where it had started. All the while the crows would laugh and call it nonsense names in their bird brained attempts to demoralize the creature of sticks and straw.

This passed along this way for more than a few years. Winds came and tore at the spirit, snow and ice came freezing the scarecrow in place for days at a time, the summer would come and small animals would try to nest in the feet, all the while the crows continued to pick on the poor scarecrow, hardly giving it a moment of peace or rest. No time left to forage for new straw to repair the losses when they would land on its back and while cawing, pull out what they could all in an effort to destroy the framework it had to exist in. This state continued for many seasons, spring into summer into fall into winter and then back into spring, the eternal cycle all the while the poor scarecrow strove to endure and maintain the essential structure, the essential sense of self that was burgeoning within the straw and wicker frame.

One hot summer day the little old person that had made it to begin with, came back around to check on the creation. Dismay filled the heart. Seeing on how little it had performed, seeing how poorly it had been treated in the many passing seasons since it was created. Sadness and tears welled up in the eyes as the little being pondered what to do about the situation. The scarecrow had not been up to expectations, the crows still stole from the fields and bee hives and the weather kept turning along with the seasons.
Time to get more drastic, time to pull more into the fray if there was going to be any harvest in the future, crows being notorious about taking far too much until there was nothing left to take at all.

So now it was time to add some darker overtones to the task at hand, the little one decided, and time to bring in others more powerful than him, to make this actually possible. So with a few short words, he opened his heart and reached out to all the beings in the immediate area, ones he knew of and did not know of. Opening his senses, seeing what or who else was paying attention and would be willing to lend him some strength or aid in his desires. Long hours passed, the sky darkened, night came and left again, days passed until finally one took notice, took pity, and chose to help out the little one and its scarecrow.

The sound of ten thousand bees filled the small clearing, a queen bee had heard the sincerity, recognized the devotion to her children and reverence for her children. She chose to lend some royal honey for courage, some wind from ten thousand wings to speed the arms of the scarecrow and the heart of one of her loyal drones to lend humbleness to the scarecrow. The queen bee gave her gifts to the scarecrow, filling out the heart and spirit it had been striving to garner, and the act was done, the scarecrow was more than it could have ever been on its own.

The little creator wept its thanks, the tears running like streams of water down the face erasing the dirt crusted there leaving clear lines like runoff going down a stream bed into the waters, cleaning the dirt away in homage to the gift, and gave his nod in recognition to the boons presented. The queen bee nodded as best she could and left to go back to her many hives, the drones and males needing her constant supervision or else madness and chaos would engulf the many cells and production of the honey would fall to the wayside.

With that done, the little creature leaves its scarecrow all alone, trusting it will do what it is supposed to do now with the help of the queen bee and once again the scarecrow is left to fend for its self. But the wisdom of the hive remains, and time will show the error and wisdom both in the calling for help.

More on that soon, as the crows dance around the tree branches, waiting for the opportunity to drop down and start the torment once again, or at least drop things on the head.

Day moves into night and like a bee hive, the longer it lives the stronger it can grow, flourishing, harvesting pollen and making more honey, so did the scarecrow grow in the gifts bestowed on it. Until finally the Scarecrow was more alive than the parts it was made of had started off being. More alive than the trees it gazed at, more alive than the crows that seemed more afraid than not of it, more alive than the vast plains that stretched off until the waters were reached. The Scarecrow was more alive than even the hive that the queen bee came from and who bestowed her gifts upon the formerly inanimate object. But now the Scarecrow was more than all it could see, more than it could survey, more than anything that had walked, crawled, flew or burrowed about the mothering land to that date. Not the most ancient of spirits could match the puissance of the little scarecrow there left all alone.

Murders of Crows
Here is the Scarecrow story told from the other side of the fence, from the point of view of the tormentors and torturers, the carrion lords of the lands and caers, the Murders of Crows. This is their story and how they came to rise to preeminence along with The Scarecrow and others that stumbled along with them on the way.
So all day long the many members of the Murder that tortured the newly made scarecrow would toss things at it, pick at carrion they could locate and gossip, being the main form of entertainment besides torment others that do not look like a crow, or is not large and predatory. Being the bullies at heart that each crow is, they took more than a great deal of delight and pleasure in the misfortunes and pain of others. Beholden to only their own selves, loyal to only the direct members of their own murder, one set of crows treat another the same as if they were rabbits or other innocent creatures. With such sterling personal traits, no wonder they were never invited to festivals, births, plantings or other social events.

Instead they all just talk among themselves, about each other and everything that walks or crawls under or on or flies above the landscape. Whether they should or should not in all good taste discuss such things or entities. But have you ever tried to tell a crow what to do? Might as well ask a mountain to kneel down to make it easier to surmount it, you will have a better chance than telling a crow what to do. As far as memories go, one major player in the power games did do that, because it was easier than the alternative, which didn’t involve crows that time. It only involved the wide open oceans, a mountain range and the force of wind, much simpler to deal with.

Back to the tale and task at hand, recounting the evolution of a murder into one of the powers that now stalk the land, a whim and whimsy strikes.

So this murder was contemplating their next set of shenanigans when to their delight the little creature came along, squat furred form in russet fur, pulling the small sledge laden with the parts and pieces of what would become the scarecrow. This seemed like a wonderful opportunity, so several of them decided to wing it, taking their time talking their language while they followed the little being trudging along the ground.

It took some little while before they arrived at his planted fields, and watched as he emplaced a piece of fallen deadwood into the ground to serve as the platform on which to erect his scarecrow. The couple of crows sat in a local tree, ignoring the complaints their sharp little claws made in the branch, and watched with interest. The furred being was not any fun, being much more than it appeared, but ahh the scarecrow, that would be fun to pick on, especially since it could not defend its self in the least little bit. So they just stood there softly whispering so as to not give away their intentions, while the work progressed. Finally the little fellow left his scarecrow there to guard his field, and the crows laughed, because how could it scare such as them away? Maybe their smaller cousins, but these were special crows, larger, stronger, smarter, and far meaner than an ordinary crow. These crows were touched by the land, grown to more than full size and blessed with the gift of torment and gossip, if you were to ask them that is.

BarkClawed Jack

The dark figure danced from street to street. The night was young, the moon was hiding from his sight and he was free to do what he did best, terrorize and torment those weaker than he was. The night was cool and caressed his skin, making him giddy with hunger and desire, the soft glow from the small hovels and homes down in the streets feeding the lust for being a bully, just what he was born to do, as decided many long lifetimes before. From the farthest ends of the known lands, far above across the dark sky to the other caers and Caers that were there, he had roamed spreading his own special brand of entertainment. With the casting of vile humors and the shredding of dignity under the administration of his Bark Claws that adorned the ends of his long, strong, slender hands and toes at the ends of his tin colored flesh. All the while he likes to look down from the tree tops, from the rooftops, from the alleys he could hide in, always the same and yet always different.

Still the real thrill came not from the hunt, not from the stalk, not from the pursuit, the real thrill came from the running away afterwards, where his victims were screaming, on fire, bleeding from his claws or just simply sobbing behind him in fear. That was the best part of his life, when the tears flowed in one form or another. The rest was just the lead up or the let down for that.

So now it was time to stalk this place some more, find something or someone to stalk. Time to feed and time to jump and run and breath some poison into a face or three and claw a few shreds of skin off the hide of the soft and weak.

Then with a leap and three bounds the odd monstrosity took to the night, more on what happened then later in this tale.

There is a young couple who are walking along, enjoying the night, the cool air and the closeness time spent holding hand and hand. The chirrups of insects punctuate the calm night, as the beatific face of the Moon smiled down on the lovers.

BarkClawed Jack did not always like the moon. When she was full, she was quite a pain, often spoiling his fun before it could hardly get started. When she was new it was a lot better, and a crescent always was good for a laugh or three at her expense. Of course on other caers she was not even present, so it would not matter. But it is nice to come to the center of it all once in a while, once memories grew dimmer and some of the newer members of the courts and unaligned, had no idea about him.
So that is what had brought him back here to the literal center of the universe, here where all things eventually revolved around, in literal and figurative senses of the use of the words. Here in the center, where the Queen and King held court when away from their home, where the other court held secret and clandestine court to mete out their fury and further their own schemes.

But now it is the time for dinner and then it will be the time for his entertainment.

BarkClawed Jack slid along the wooden wall, separating him from a home and its inhabitants. Instead of crashing through the wall, messy and without finesse, it would be grander to dine on a few choice rat entrails, snapping the little bones between his soot stained teeth, feeling the soft squishy intestines and other internal organs sliding down the dry stretch of throat to feed the fires that fitfully burn in his perpetually hungry belly. More fuel for the fire that drives him on in his choleric life.

The rat had no chance, standing still while the predator passed close, then with a lunge it was speared on his Bark Claws that adorned the ends of his long, strong, slender hands at the ends of his tin colored flesh. It was squeal and then a snap of its neck between the teeth and then the slow savoring of the body temperature flesh and blood dripping down his long pointed chin, tapered like a knife blade to a point near as sharp.

Once the repast is in the belly, fueling the oily fire and adding that stench of burnt fur to the overall odor, BarkClawed Jack is ready for some fun.

“Time to kick in the sensibilities of the locals.” Sickly sweet like pus oozing out of a sorely infected wound tones slide out of his throat, the fluids of the meal making the words come out easier than they might otherwise do so, with the flames that smolders deep far inside that he belches as a counterpoint to the claws on the fingers and toes.

Tap, tap, tap with a single claw on the wooden door, standing there in plain sight on the cobble stoned street there in the largest city in all the many worlds inhabited by all the beings large and small, with a tap tap tap he knocks on the door.

A little old wizened thing, closer to a stone than something moving comes to answer, the dirt under her nails equaling the dirt floor and between her toes. Kin to the land, mother of many, denizen in the city, she comes to the door to find out who might be rap tap tapping on her door here past when Father Sun is in the sky. Rare is it the time that someone comes to say hello, especially since so many of her children have moved far away to live in the deep hills and steep mountains of her homeland.

Matilde in the Closing

Her feet once again were taking her down a path that had an uncertain outcome. Not a clear destination this time, instead only hints and glimpses of what and where she needs to be.