Entry #50

The Song Of Spring
by Raine Weaver


He loved the innocents best of all.

Children of the conquered land, weeds spread by wind, they grew spindly and rootless in the hills. Their ignorance fed his fervor, and their naiveté lingered in the memory of his loins.

He easily lured her to the tree. “Your people sang my Song. The Song of Spring. I am He, who crawls from beneath these roots, whispering promises of warmth.”

“Tales for frightening children.” Her feet were wrapped in rags, but her chest was budding and ripe.

“You sang my Song. I am here.” Rust-red hair, like the scavenging birds that cleansed the earth of carrion and gathered on the upper branches.

“’Tis truth?”

“Frightened child. Poor girl.” He raised a hand in blessing. “Worship me, and I will bring you Spring.”

She dropped to her soiled, battered knees. “With the loss of the elders, we now sing a different Song.”

“Poor girl.” He trembled, prying his zipper apart. “Teach me your Song. I will teach you truth.”

“We sing not of warm hope, but cold revenge. Not of worship, but of blood. And that the whispers of the tree are not promises…but warnings.”

The limbs drooped with fowl. He stiffened and made to scream as they descended in dark fury, burnished wings beating out the last frigid lash of winter.

She smiled and drank in the bloated sun. This day would be longer than the last. Still time for another to share his Song.

She loved the innocents best of all.