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Old works, number 5: Harbingers

Here is a story I wrote in 2018.

Harbingers

The harbingers knew it was time to fly.

In their earthly form of black birds, they flocked in an ever-twisting cluster to the craggy rocks, scrabbling for purchase. Once they found spots that they could clasp with their small, razor sharp talons, they froze. They were harbingers and they had to be sure their message was seen.

The harbingers knew to keep waiting.

The black birds didn't know if anyone still understood their omens, but they hoped they did. The greater their number, the greater the obstacle that was on its way. 

One harbinger meant an individual misfortune, often an untimely death. When a harbinger had that message, they perched for a lengthy time, because they had to be sure the ill-fated person, or one of their closest loved ones, saw them.

Two harbingers meant a household of misfortune. Harm would befall them all directly and its painful tendrils would snake out into the community. While the omen was darker, the harbingers were glad for the company on their perch. Warning unsuspecting people of doom was neither an appealing nor a rewarding task. One may go unnoticed as, after all, harbingers looked to the passing eye like little black birds. Only on closer inspection would someone notice the blackness of their feathers reflected little light and held no flecks of other colors, revealing their otherworldly origins. When a harbinger was noticed, they would witness the shock and fear flash onto the faces of their watchers, they would often be cursed at or shooed or fired upon. But they would not move. Having a fellow harbinger to bear the duty was welcome.

Three harbingers meant ill would befall the whole community. These were some of the heaviest omens to bring on their hollow-boned wings. The harbingers knew that all who saw them would be harmed, no matter the brightness of their eyes or the kindness of their smiles. The harbingers could only hope that their warning would save a few or give them some thin layer of protection and foresight.

The three who had come to this island chose their spot with care. The rocks were beside a well-traveled road to the commercial center of town; they hoped many would see their dark feathers and unmoving silhouettes and at least one would think to raise the call. The road was also on the edge of the island, damp from the sea spray. They hoped this would give at least someone who still believed in harbingers a clue as to what was coming.

The harbingers knew a wild storm was beginning to brew, they had felt it in the air, had seen its path in their minds' eye, and had flown as quickly as the increasing gale would carry them. No one could change that the storm would come. No one could change that the coast of this small island would be cruelly ravaged by the tempestuous water that surrounded it. No one could change that the storm would crash into the houses that enjoyed the majestic views of the open water, claim the hulls of some of the boats, and topple the few trees that still grew on the island. But perhaps, if the community were warned, most lives could be saved.

The first person who passed the harbingers by didn't even notice them. He was absorbed in the little screen he carried with him, tapping it and smiling absently, hardly even noticing that he was walking in the middle of the road that cars traveled on. He paid the three little birds no mind.

The harbingers knew to keep waiting.

The next people who passed were a mother and child. The mother was trying to walk briskly, while holding onto the child whose little wobbly legs would only go so quickly. She stared straight ahead, but the child pointed at the birds and exclaimed, "Birdies!" The mother glanced at her watch and then picked up the child so that they could be on their way. Neither of them had seen the birds for what they were.

The harbingers knew to keep waiting.

The next person to pass them by was clearly in no rush to get anywhere. She was looking about the island with a newcomer's wonder, snapping photos on her overly large camera. After snapping a photo of the birds, she immediately reviewed it on the camera’s little screen. Clearly pleased with her photo, she looked back up at the birds, eager to snap another shot. 

But she saw they hadn't moved. 

She waved her arms, called out to them, and ran towards them. 

But the harbingers didn't move. 

Her eyes slowly went wide and she huskily whispered and stuttered words to herself. She began to back away, making eye contact with each bird. When she felt her heels reach the road once more, she turned and bolted into town.

The harbingers knew they had been seen—it was time to fly.

(Prompt by me but encouraged by Emily Kleeman)
"African long-tailed shrike" by pdh96. Attribution-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-ND 2.0).

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