Black Morning

In the pearl grey dawn, shadows blended with reality. Wraith-like wisps of white mist hung through bare-branched trees, threading their way in and out of ironwork door signs. Silent metallic cockerels, posing clawed dragons and stiff grim reapers clung to rusty nails on chimney tops whose own first whiffs of morning smoke soared aloft to join the roof-high dance.
Spires atop the Cathedral on the edge of the small provincial town, rose high above the swirling fog of night dampness and newly acquired pollution. A deep dull bong sounded from the cracked bell that resonated high up in the belfry tower.
At seven a.m., a line of black shrouded figures made their way swiftly along the cobbled street. As they disappeared down the steep winding pathway heading towards the distant church, they gave the impression of a group of comedic penguins, their robes swinging from side to side like quaint webbed feet, their sleeves floating outwards in the guise of flippers. As they hurried down the hill, they seemed for all the world as if they were headed for some distant frozen beach, ready to cast themselves into a broiling ice-grey ocean.
The church door was opened, ready to admit the priests, by the ghastly looking figure of an ancient Cardinal. Garbed in the same ethereal cloth, a pointed mitre tilted at an angle, he was like a raven waiting to pounce.
As the day broke, so did the mist thin and rise above the jutting spires. Black birds, wheeling and diving above the tree tops out across the textured cornfields behind the church, cawed their chorus to the fresh dew-filled air.
It was like a morning full of crows, the sight of the iron-spiked railings that surrounded the ancient burial grounds to the side of the Cathedral. A morning full of stiff, black birds with their beaks pointed skywards in anticipation of the sombre service and funeral of the richest old man of that Parish, to be held a few short hours hence.
The death of a man whom no one mourned, was an unusual occurrence, yet there would be attendants to watch him sink into the dank earth. Those who would benefit by this man's demise would oversee the event - the Church, and its compliment of keepers. These dark-gowned vultures were ready and willing to pick his 'gold-lined' casket clean of every coin, every speck of that sparkling dust as remote from their dismal mood and colour as the Earth is from the centre of the Universe.
Rooks, crows, ravens - those harbingers of doom would mark his passing, wheeling aloft in the drab morning sky only to swoop and settle around the open grave, saying their last farewells to their Master whose attendance on their needs during his lifetime constrained these free-flying avians to his earth-bound body.
The local rector, a beaky jackdaw of a man, made his way up to the Cathedral at the stroke of nine, summoned by the off-tune bell. Tipping his clerical topper to the chattering old crones who wished to know where he was going so early in the day, he bowed and bobbed to their magpie-like appearance - white ruffed collars and black wrinkled dresses that clung to their ankles in the dampness of the morning. Making his excuses, the rector turned and hurried away, leaving them gawking.
Not wishing to be left out of local gossip, or possible handouts, the hobbling crones, their wicker baskets clasped tight against their shrunken bosoms, followed the strutting rector whose jutting stomach, swollen with good living, bounced at every stride, his quick jerky movements made in haste. He would not be left out when division was made.
Old Samuel Broley had spoken as he lay dying. You shall be included, he had said, voice quavering. Glee had lighted the rector's red face and the thought of what he would gain put a zing in his step as he arrived at the Cathedral door, puffing and shiny. Soon - it would be soon!
Within the darkened Hallowed place, the bier rested upon trestles within the central aisle. Dark stained oak, the coffin lay peaceful in the gloom with but one solitary beam of light from a lamp high up in the Nave shining on the head of the casket.
As the rector entered, a gust of wind blew the doors from his grasp. Wings beat the air as the mixed flock entered upon the squall, feathers just missing the upturned faces of distraught churchmen. Floating cassocks covered bleating faces as arms flailed in the gale. Bits of dead leaf and twig, carried in on the wind, battered bare skin of all those who could not cover themselves.
Dust rose in the gloom to dance in glinting rhythm within the beam as the whirlwind subsided. The hubub of shouting churchmen, each trying to calm the other, began to ease but above, the whirling birds called noisily. Caws rocked the Chancel as each bird added its voice to the cacophony. The Nave echoed to their sounds.
At last, the coal-coloured creatures settled, some high above in nooks and on ledges, others perched upon the backs of dun-hued pews. The last bird settled atop the head of the coffin. Black and shining, the crow fixed a baleful eye on the rector who had crept along a side aisle during the commotion and was now on his knees in the front pew. The jet black crow, pecking on the lid, brought stillness to the church.
Like silent ghosts, the birds clung high above whilst the old Cardinal shakily prepared for the Service trying to ignore the stiff-backed sentinel that stood motionless upon the coffin. He was the Guardian of his Master's soul. To him was given the last right.

© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. Sept , 1995.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.11.2010

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