The Birds

A young man rides into a small town on a carriage at about noon, under gentle rainfall. He bobs vacantly atop it, eyes fixed forward on the road and focused entirely on two things: trying to keep the horses steady, and trying not to vomit. His guts twist in his stomach, and his arms burn. His throat is raw from bile, and his skin is starting to become sallow. The horses trot along, unaware.

He passes into the town limits. A quaint sprawl of cobble paths and rough roads webbing between residences and a few small businesses. A few people peer out their windows at the sound of hoofbeats, only to turn their attention to the sickly man. He sways a bit in his seat, struggling to lift the weight of his own body. He thinks he ate something bad, probably, and he'll be fine if he just gets a good night's rest or two.

As he rides by a particular residence, a young woman emerges.

"Sir?" calls the woman. "Are you okay?"

He takes a moment to register her presence, turning his glazed gaze upon her. "Uh... just a bit... under the weather, madam." Looking in his face, it's clear there's something wrong. A faint yellow creeps into his sclera, and he looks gaunt. He needs a doctor, and urgently. Meanwhile, a small flock of crows begin to gather around the town center in which they've stopped to talk, presiding over them like a jury.

A few other people making their way through the town stop to watch the exchange, made nervous by the sudden gathering of crows. They keep their distance, and simply watch.

"Sir, I think you need a doctor," says the woman. "You look real sick... like, *real* sick."

"Uh..." he scratches his head, looking down for a moment. "Y'all got a doctor in this town? Guess it wouldn't... hurt to take a look." He clearly struggles to speak, his words halting and weak. The audience of crows watches intently. Out of the corner of her eye, the young woman catches a glint of violet in the eye of one of the crows.

"Oh Gods..." she whispers to herself, voice trembling. In that knowing glimmer, she glimpsed her home in flames. She takes a few steps back from the man. "Uhm. I-if you head 'round the bend up that way, Doctor McCall is just--"

Before she can finish speaking, the black birds begin shouting! All at once, startling the few people in the town square. The man, slower to react, looks up at the audience of birds in confusion. A particular raven lands itself on his cart behind him, that same violet gleam in its eye as it looks up at him. The townspeople freeze around him, horror in their eyes, while he simply looks confused. The townsfolk imagine famine, disease, and flames. The man wonders what's wrong with all these birds.

One of the other townspeople, a guard, gently places his hand on the flintlock under his coat. He clears his throat, and tries to speak over the commotion.

"Sir, why don't you just follow me? I'll take you to the doc right away." Were he not deafened by crow calls and dazed by his illness, perhaps the man would have noticed the apprehension in the guard's voice. Instead, the sick man nods, eager to leave the strange scene behind him and get some help.

The two depart towards the edge of town, and the audience disperses--both the birds and the people, who solemnly and uncomfortably get back to whatever they were doing.