Skip to main content

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 9--- "Waiting", 502 words.....

Waiting

               I could only guess about what had happened to Cross that night. While he lay unconscious, it was clear enough from his appearance that his search for the suitor did not go well. And, I was suddenly struck by a pang of guilt.

                When he first burst through my doors wanting me to join his eager search, I can honestly say, when he left without me, that I was very glad to see him go. As he had so often shown himself to be adept at finding his way through whatever problems were at hand, I had little, if any, concern that he might meet with an obstacle he couldn’t get around.

                Yet, as I watched his disheveled frame, suddenly much smaller than I remembered, I realized that even the self-assured Cross was not infallible—and for one, brief moment, I wondered if I could convince Cross of that fact.

                 As best as I could, I tried to make Cross comfortable. It was no easy task for one injured man to shift another injured man, but I did finally manage to pull him clear of the door and onto a small pallet of blankets and pillows, which I gathered as a make-shift bed. Not knowing the extent of his injuries, I didn’t want to hoist him around too much.  All I could do was wait, hoping that once he regained consciousness, I’d be able to learn the truth of what happened.


*****


                The night passed, as all such ill-spent evenings do—with no great speed. Every sound that crept through my rooms made my heart leap and every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. As there was no way of knowing where the person or persons were that had attacked Cross, every cell within me was alert. There wasn’t a fiber of my being that wasn’t attuned to every sound, to every creaking floorboard, to every passing train, and every whispered breeze. The darkness of the night only served to make each noise, no matter how trivial or how commonplace, an ominous warning.

                I didn’t have the energy, nor the strength in my injured knee to pace the floor all night, though I knew it would have been Cross’s preferred method for passing the time. And, even if I did have the energy and strength, I’m afraid that pacing the night away would do little except stretch my nerves past their point of breaking. The manic movement might do well to calm someone of Cross’s frantic energy, but for someone of my disposition, I’m afraid it would do everything but calm.

                I had never before thought about the silence between the normal night sounds as a hiding place for danger. But, every break in the songs of the crickets and the nightingales sent shivers up my spine. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for their calming songs to resume. For, whatever it was that disturbed these small creatures during their evening symphony might very well wish to disturb others.  

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Y is for Yeth Hound.....

Yeth Hound--- one of the incarnations of the "Black Dog" myth, this one located specifically, in Devon, England.

"Black Dogs" appear in myths across the world, most are associated with death and bad omens... i.e. Hell Hounds.

The Yeth Hound is said to be the spirit of an unbaptised child that takes the form of a headless black dog. The Hound wanders the woods at night making pitiful wailing sounds (though, I'm unclear as to how it makes wailing sounds without having a head).

The Black Dogs were possibly one inspiration from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost dog in The Hound of the Baskervilles-- "an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen."



Heed Not, the Lonesome Cry
Heed not, the lonesome cry, the baleful wail echoing through the woods. Seek not, the black hound's sigh, look not where the headless creature stood.
One sound, your limbs will shake, your heart filled with the deepest dread. One glimpse, your sou…

B is for Banshee.....

Irish bean sidhe and Scottish Gaelic bean sith, literally, woman of fairyland.


The mythology and legend surrounding the Banshee is a bit mixed. The most readily accepted story is of a hag-like creature wailing the impending death of someone nearby-- most ancient Gaelic families, especially the more well-to-do families, had their own Banshees that attached themselves to the lineage of the family name. I suppose it was a sign of station for a family to be able to claim their own Banshee--- I mean, who needs an exciting/ tongue-wagging-inciting skeleton in your cupboard when you've got a Banshee wailing in your rafters?
The origins of the more familiar Banshee may have stemmed from the ancient Keeners-- women who were employed to sing a lament at a funeral. The best Keeners were in high demand to "wail" and "weep" for the great personage who had fallen.

The Great families would boast a bean sidhe or bean sith-- a fairy-woman Keener--and having foresight, the Keene…

S is for Siren.....

Sirens--- the beautiful, the terrifying.
Vicious, but, seemingly opportunistic creatures who lured sailors to their deaths by the sound of their captivating songs. Whether the stories of these creatures were a result of surviving sailors attempting to explain their near-miss in an effort to divert the fault of their shipwreck from their hands, or whether as a warning for those leaving to ensure their fidelity to the women they left behind, is unclear...

Considered the daughters of Achelous(river god), and though they have been blamed for the death of many sailors, they were not, however, sea deities. They have sometimes been called Muses of the lower world, their sad song causing the body and soul of those sailors who hear them to fall into a fatal lethargy.

In early myths, Sirens were the combined form of birds and women. Sometimes with a large female head, their bodies covered in bird feathers, their feet...scaled. Later myths show them as female figures with the legs of birds, tho…