Demon Feather

This story is by G.L. Shaw and won an honorable mention in our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

 

Shadows danced and crackle filled the sky with gentle snaps as light traced her features, mouth open, convulsing. The smoky aroma, choked out by the day’s freeze-dried dinner and sunflower seeds. A rancid scent lingered in a pool between her hands.

With a quick motion, he snatched the feather from behind her ear, marveling at the damage it might have caused. “Let me hold your hair back?”

Unmanageable, tangled and falling out, he said, “Was it worth it? Free stones for your new garden. A stupid idea.” He tried to tie it back, but her scalp released more, falling to the ground, most sticking to his hand.

She said, “It’s your garden too. Believe the story now? You laughed at that old man. He gave you a candy bar.” Blood stained her chin, so hungry the taste of iron felt like home cooking.

His eyes darted left to right, waiting for the next consequence.

She retched, heaving more of nothing, already giving everything to the hollows.

He said, “It was a ridiculous story to scare hikers. We agreed, it’s the mountain water.”

Clay escaped between her fingers, made from liquid dinner and ash from the coals. He held her, sitting in her mess, trying to get warm. “You drank it too. Scared now?”

The forest rumbled with another round of anguish. A vice clenched her gut, a revolting roar you should never hear. The forest even blushed, embarrassed branches, mortified limbs, ignoring their situation.

He said, “I can’t carry you. Get up.”

She said, “I’m burning inside. I need water.”

He said, “You drank it all. Besides, it’s the water, not the feather; Listen.”

The last of the water unquenched her hours ago.

He looked toward the million lights above. Silence broke when a howl replaced her crying. No wolf would challenge their hunger.

She said, “You’re leaving me here to be its dinner?”

He panicked. The stories stuck like pins, mauling and visitors dying of exposure, grewsome tails. He never thought they’d be the headline.

The dimming light of the campfire conceded to falling temperatures. Their day pack neglected a sleeping bag, flashlight, and a medicine cabinet. His fists filled with pine straw and rotted leaves, their texture resembling used coffee grounds; the perfect kindling needed for a torch. He stuffed his socks. His frozen toes felt amputated, but he could walk.

“That demon feather did not curse us.” Surrounding foliage exploded when the dry brush hit the ambers. The orange hue, vibrant, embraced her, a menacing false sense of comfort. The backpack held her limp head off the mud as she curled into her knees, shaking, pausing, then shaking again. She looked exposed, laying on her side.

She said, “It’s your fault.” Flinging mud.

“Because I told you to get off trail and get the stones and that nothing would hurt you? Or because you believed, giving it power?” He flung the mud back.

The makeshift torch ignited. “Let me look at you.” His knees sunk in the ground. Being careful with the flame because it could easily burn her, he examined her face, twisted with scarlet liquid, drawing vertical stripes down her cheek. Her eyes fixed, mesmerized by the energy of destruction, the lack of fuel diminished to a flicker. Healthy lips, now pale, cracked and shrunken with bottom teeth exposed, his decomposing wife reached for his hand. What happened to her fingernails?

“Don’t leave me.” Her bellow rang through the darkness. An owl turned its head as the vultures circled. The grove echoed back as she screamed, “Please, God.”

His eyes clenched, and he prayed that water would comfort them; just one tear. He started the journey, a piercing welcome from briars found his skin. If the moon showed kindness, it would shine for him. He held the sacred fire in prayer for the trail. The howl was behind him.

Chapter 2

A brass bell chimed, announcing another visitor. Shoppers turned and stared, more hikers. The sun reflected off the dust dropping from the ceiling beams, a cool gust entered the store.

The couple at the counter huddled in, captivated. “So, what happened? Did he find the trail? Did his wife die?” Their hands losing color, gripping each other. Her mouth quivered as he pulled her closer.

The story tellers weathered face pained, eyes conveying knowledge that needed to be understood. He lifted his head from his glass. “It’s not what happened, but why.”

She asked, “What did they do wrong?” He looked into swollen eyes, red and watery. A runny nose announced itself. The shuffle of feet behind them stopped. Even the wind settled so it could listen.

“The demon feather takes its form, thriving in the shadow of man’s heart. These mountains hold intention. Man, he holds intentions too. He’s a taker.”

More patrons gathered around the counter. The day’s light just begun, harsh and telling. They felt the weight of the seasoned moderator’s stare.

“Do not run with animals, stay on the path. Off the packed ground is soft dirt that holds footprints, spirits and, if trampled, sickness and death. The flowers rejoice when they thrive, and the mountain knows its own. Keep things in their place.”

The old man stopped, collecting his thoughts. Hands that worked decades lifted the whiskey, a heavy glass. He swallowed. The back of his sleeve met lips burning from ninety-proof.

He cleared his throat and sighed. “The demon feather appears like an angel of light presenting itself, once with a warning. Ignore it and the pain begins. Ignore that and death will pursue.”

The group drew deep, seizing oxygen from the room. Someone asked, “All this because they went off the trail? Sounds like a myth, more native folklore. So, how do you know this happened?”

“Young buck, I know. You must smooth the land you disturb, ask for forgiveness. The mountain demands it. Lay the feather on the trail. It melts in the soil, then your misery will vanish. Please, my friends, be kind to my land. Keep it where it lay.” The register closed, waking them from hypnotism.

The hiker asked, “Did they die?”

“This old bird tells the future. Tonight, the mountain will be angry, if one does not believe.” His eyes pierced them. He saw no concern or fear.

The couple collected the change, and with bags in hand, the same bell announced their departure.

Outside the store, they walked to the car. The wooden sign creaked and swayed as a blackbird landed, singing a song of warning. He opened the map and found the trail.

“That was a terrible story?” She bit her nail and spit out the window.

“Who believes that stuff, anyway?” Pointing to the map, he said, “Here’s the stream to get the river rocks for our garden. The parking lot is close, so we won’t have to walk as far.”

The car came to life and, leaving a candy wrapper on the gravel, he shifted into his day hike.

The signs passed them in a blur. The trail head was only a few miles away, the air had a crispness to it. His spine reacted, feeling a drop in confidence. It became limp, like wasted pasta.

“Hey, can you get me that energy drink? We have a long day.” Metal became their soundtrack. He wanted his speakers to pay, so he cranked them up.

She reached for the bag, and replacing the lyrics, she sang, “Got creeped out on Black Bird Mountain, and all we want are some garden rocks.”

Feeling for the cool can, something poked her skin, stopping her breath, and a bead of crimson formed on her finger. The pain was instant. What a coincidence, she thought.

As he gazed at her, he noticed her complexion had turned ghostly.

“What’s wrong? Did he forget the drinks? That’s just great. Drunk piece of …”

Her mouth frozen, unable to finish her sentence. The bag rigid on her lap. A puddle of warmth could have collected in her seat.

“What?” His voice making her flinch as the bag shuddered against her.

She said, “Oh God.” Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, a feather lifted from the bag. The lilies applauded, and the mountain jeered.

“Baby, we’re gonna rock this.” He nudged her ribs, and she smiled at the attention.

“Bad boy puns, get my rocks off.” She giggled and slid the feather behind her ear. “So, let’s make a rocking garden.”