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Yet Something Pipeth Like a Bird
by Mary Ann Peden-Coviello 

Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard

That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?

–from “Gates of Damascus” by James Elroy Flecker, published 1921

Rathole, Devon (not to be confused with Mousehole, Cornwall, 90 miles away and, in the 9^th Century AD, in another country) in what will become England in another hundred years or so.

The fishermen of Rathole gathered, blear-eyed and ragged, at dawn, on the shore. We had been roused from sleep and called here, barely dressed, and without our boats or nets and traps.

“What is yon . . . thing?” the eldest fisherman, a gnarled old man of 40 named Aethelwulf asked us all.

“Never have I seen such a . . .  thing, never mind one that appeared overnight. I trow it comes from Satan himself and should be destroyed forthwith.” This pronouncement came from the bearded and wise lips of Wulfstan, the village headman. No one paid him heed though.

A twittering as of a hundred birds carried to us over the sound of the surf, charming our ears and calling to our hearts.

Though I was the youngest man there, barely 16, I murmured, “Bring it ashore. Let us see what treasure it might contain.”

“Young Cenric speaks true,” said Aethelwulf, and a rumble of agreement arose from the other men.

Thus did we wade into the water, and thus did we drag the bird-singing structure ashore.

No fishing was done that day, for we were all – even our younglings and womenfolk – bewitched by the smooth metal of the outlandish structure. That birdlike singing enchanted our hearts with visions of rapture.

Try though we might, we could not open our Treasure. The metal of it was strangely warm, seamless, glowing with an inward light. And always and ever the singing of birds.

With the dark, we retired to our beds, determined to open our Treasure upon the morn. To protect the Treasure, we set out four sentries, to be relieved at midnight and four of the clock.

I was so excited I could not sleep, no matter how tired I might be. My father, mother, and two younger brothers snored softly. At first, I envied them their easy repose, then reminded myself that envy was a grievous sin and turned my heart away from it. I listened to the night sounds, now dominated by the bird-singing of the Treasure.

Late in the night, I heard a sharp crack. I looked outside, but all seemed calm. The sentries were still on duty, though they seemed to be asleep. Aethelwulf would surely have some stern words for them on the morrow. The piping of the birds was louder, somehow, the sweet song becoming almost uncomfortable to hear. I returned to my bed.

Later, I knew not how much later, I was awakened by a cry.

Just one sharp, shrill, gasping cry. It had come from Mother, sleeping next to Father. Her back arched, and then she collapsed and began to snore most loudly, with a trickle of blood running from her nose. I strove to aid her but could not move. Nor could I speak.

A bird seemed to sing inside my head. I was aware of my father, mother, and brothers, their breathing ragged and pained, but all I could truly hear was the singing of the bird. A high-pitched piping both sweet and painful to hear. The same piping or singing I had heard coming from the Treasure all day.

A creature from the depths of Hell itself began to crawl up my body. Black it was, black as night, black as sin. In form much like a crab with long pincers feeling along my body, pulling a bulbous, slimy lump of flesh behind them.

I attempted to thrash and throw the foul nightmare creature from me, but my body would not heed my demands. I could but watch as the vile thing, piping its birdlike song all the while, waving its claw-tipped pincers, pulled itself up toward my face.

The claws reached my chin, my mouth, nibbling lightly. Tears ran down my face, unmanning me, but I could not help myself. Oh, the shame, I felt my bladder and bowels give way from terror. One claw prodded itself inside my unprotesting mouth, feeling my tongue and teeth, then withdrawing itself. Across my upper lip, to my unprotected nose.

The claw forced itself into my right nostril. I heard the cartilage and bone tear and shatter. I convulsed with the agony. Never – not even when my friend Cynebald by mischance had speared me with a harpoon – had I endured such pain. The foul creature, still piping away, I know not how, forced its body into my poor, mutilated nose, ripping and tearing through flesh, bone, and gristle.

When it reached my brain and began to consume that organ, I seized. My body shook and jerked like an epileptic’s. I drooled, phlegm and blood combined.

Then it was finished.

Something –not me, but something in my body—sat up. I heard the piping of birds all through the village, accompanied by the sounds of transformation. I knew my purpose now. Not fishing. Not living here in Rathole. No, my purpose, as all the other villagers, was to spread the ways of our otherworldly Overlords to the rest of the world.

So we set out the next day, and we walk the world.

For something yet pipeth like a bird.

.

Fiction © Copyright Mary Ann Peden-Coviello
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

More from Mary Ann Peden-Coviello:

Fright Mare-Women Write Horror
Short Story: One Hour Before the Dark

Women write horror and have written it since before Mary Shelley wrote FRANKENSTEIN. This anthology is to highlight the fact women write great horror and to kill the fallacy that they aren’t in some way up to standard. They are. Read here stories by Elizabeth Massie, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lucy Taylor, and a plethora of other great writers as they work on your nerves, get inside your head, and bang out some of the scariest tales written today. I’m proud to present these women for your consideration, as Rod Serling might say, as I ask you to step into FRIGHT MARE. Lock the door and windows, put on a light, and remember, it’s not real. It’s not real. Midnight awaits, monsters scheme to take you away, the strange and weird wait in the shadows, but it’s not real. Is it?

Edited by Billie Sue Mosiman, the author who brought you the SINISTER-TALES OF DREAD collections and her latest suspense novel, THE GREY MATTER.

Available on Amazon!