Harbinger
Fate has branches.
A record made from word of
mouth. Not knowing is the
cure. I hiked out here with
no tent, only a lantern and
a bottle of gin. These woods
will be my ear plugs. My hiding
place. I won’t hear the
town crier this time.
A new bellman always stands out,
even when they aren’t eerie
like her. I remember when
she first started. Her voice
sounded like a haunting.
It was little bursts of noise.
Breathy. Garbled. Otherworldly.
Static with an edge.
We couldn’t understand a word
of her. She gave all the
townspeople goosebumps.
Every night she walked her
route, rang her bell, and made
mystery noises. That ritual
repeated for one week. On
her eighth shift she didn’t
try to vocalize. She was all
footsteps and ringing, until
the very end. That’s when,
according to the few people
who heard, a lion’s roar burst
from her throat. She was ready
to talk.
From then on everybody who
heard her could completely
understand her words. She
spoke clear as day. Our
nightmare was growing.
Her very next shift she said,
“Time isn’t an animal
you can track. Not anymore.”
When the sun came up
our clock tower collapsed.
Panic and terror gripped us.
I immediately wondered if
she saw the destruction
coming, or she made
it happen.
Next she declared our ocean
would have a plague. Half the
fish we catch come out of
the water rotten. She said our
deacon had a secret, and he
would take it with him. He left
that night. She told of wells drying.
They did. She predicted a deadly
wolf attack. We had one.
On and on. Then, last night,
“Your moon is about to crash.
You’ll watch the end happen.
Soon.”
I know she’ll be back tonight.
I won’t be there, the bottle’s
talking to me now. Asking
if I have legs. Asking why
I won’t leave. Saying I should.
It wouldn’t help. There’s nowhere
for me to run to.