You’re three weeks late, and there are no undertakers in Ystradfellte.
“I’ve laid him out”, Mrs Llewellyn had said over the telephone, “but you need to come right away.”
The room smells bad. In the gloom you see the body on the bed, pebbles, as smooth as old pennies, resting on his eyes. Outside the river mutters like a badly tuned radio. There are voices in that sound and you want to break out; to go to the window and pull open the curtains, let in October sunshine, crack open a window, smell clean mountain air. Better still, leave the stone cottage and climb up beside the beck to walk amongst the moss-covered stones on the mountain side, free as clouds.
Mother wasted no tears.
“He broke your grandmother’s heart, him with his wild ways, and when he left her and me to bum around the world… Selfish! He was no father to me. Steer clear of him is my advice.”
You remember when you ran away to stay with him when you were twelve. Together you camped out under the stars, snared and gutted rabbits, cooked them on a stick over an open fire.
The nape of your neck prickles. There is a sound, a dry rustle. One pebble slides down the cheek, like a tear. But the eye doesn’t open.
His linen shroud jerks and twists. Grandfather’s voice says.
“Toast and kippers, where’s that tea?”
At least it sounds like his voice, but strangely muffled. A bandage holds the jaw shut and the sunken mouth shows no sign of movement. Then there is a slow unravelling of cloth, a flash of scarlet, and something stumbles out from the bundled corpse.
Grandfather’s macaw, staggers clear from the shroud, red yellow and dusty blue against the drab room. He coughs and flaps his wings. His eighty year old chest is naked of feathers and as puckered as an old man’s scrotum.
Three weeks.
Osiris spreads his wings and hops into the air. He hangs before you, ragged feathers spread, stirring the foul air. Then sharp claws dig into your shoulder. He folds his wings, cocks his head and peers at your right eye with his black one. He whistles and speaks again with grandfather’s voice.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Heave-ho me hearties”
The beak opens and you gag on the smell of rotting meat.
—
©2009 Bill West
Bill West lives in Shropshire, UK. He is a member of a number on-line writing communities and is Group Host for the WriteWords Flash Fiction One Group. His work has appeared MicroHorror, Kaleidotrope, Every Day Fiction, Static Movement, Twisted Tongue, Zygote in My Coffee, FlashQuake, Heavy Glow, Bewildering Stories, 52 Stitches and other places. http://www.myspace.com/crowspark
![[del.icio.us]](http://images.del.icio.us/static/img/delicious.small.gif){kind=small}
June 19th, 2009 at 5:10 am
Wow, what an original and well-told story, Bill!
June 19th, 2009 at 1:35 pm
A most unusual tale, told very well.
June 19th, 2009 at 3:01 pm
Thanks Alan, glad you liked it.
June 19th, 2009 at 3:01 pm
Thanks Bob