Keeper's Bees - Part 1

“Humans are a rather funny thing. They croon their songs of love and endearment, of goodwill and tenderness; such a curious notion I should think it, and yet they are the ones that eat one another alive. Inmates turn on inmates; family stabs family in the back. Innocence is befouled with the cruel, bitter taste of affliction and iniquity, and jubilation is met with anguish and sorrow.

It is no wonder their wings were clipped.

They crawl, bloody hands and knees, across the earth, wretchedly grounded as punishment for their own wickedness, a once oh-so-mighty people, brought low. Their pitiful belief of their place as superior being is nearly laughable; they are not the ones who can fly. They cannot embrace the high heavens; cannot hold the skies within their palms. It is not before them that great mountains kneel to their heights, and the trees do not surrender to their grandeur.

We, the Harbingers of Death, devour their every harvest; we take refuge in their sacred churches, rearing our children within the sanctuary of the holy grounds, and we consume the flesh of their unfortunate fallen brethren, scavenging and claiming what we desire from their remains. We of great numbers cannot be commanded nor can we be contained; we are revered by some, and feared by many. Death’s eye and claw.

Justice shall be poured upon the lowered heads of humankind, as it is the rule of nature. If they wish to be the superior being, then they shall have to defend themselves as such. This will—”

“Shall we attack the humans, Ousel, surely surely?” A low voice interrupted, a soft chirp paired with a set of gentle, silvery eyes. They stared expectantly with a kind of youthful anticipation.

The elderly crow nuzzled the fledgling tenderly, quietly settling into the pocket of twigs and grasses high up in the eaves. In the moment, it served as a safe haven for the pair, far, far away from the wicked world. “One day, my dear one.” He replied, a croon rumbling deep in his throat. He wrapped one of his wings around the creature’s small, delicate frame and he nestled closer. “One day, when the time is right, we shall. But that is for the future to come…for now, sleep well my heart, knowing all will be righted once more.”

Ousel watched as the fledgling was taken by the tendrils of a peaceful sleep, his sharp eyes resting on the brand new, white spotted feathers that were beginning to grow in. A heavy guilt began to take root in Ousel’s heart, and he sagged gloomily under the invisible weight. It was only a few sundown's ago when Faolan’s mother and father were murdered in a corn field, shot down mercilessly by crudely made arrows, their pointed tips stained crimson.

Squinting his eyes, he could recall the twang of the arrow leaving its hand to fly true to its mark, and the dying shriek they had let out as the projectile pierced their flesh. He had watched—only watched, for what was he to do?— in a startled dismay as their limp, ruffled bodies plummeted to the dirt, dark blood blooming from the holes in their chests. It was the smell of fresh blood he could recall very well.

Where the crows had fallen, white blossoms flowered between thick roots, almost as if the earth in pity for the unjustified murder, had created an eternal resting place for the creatures to sleep…though they had not been destined to be put to rest. When the humans found them, they devoured the pair like some common farm animal; such beautiful beings robbed of their grace and dignity. Ever since then, guilt had been eating Ousel alive, for it was he that had told them to scavenge that field; he alone was responsible for their wretched death.

The pitiful chick was hardly a moon old, barely fit to have left his nest, and yet life thought it amusing to toy with the young creature. Faolan was born different from the rest—how or why, Ousel was not sure—although he knew it would cause him difficulties later in life. Such imperfections were not taken kindly in the wild. That he knew for certain.

But until he was old enough, the orphaned fledgling would be under his care, and he could protect him from the world as best as he could.

“Sleep well, dear one,” Ousel whispered, closing his own eyes slowly, “in knowing I shall watch over you, in honor of your kin. Sleep well, knowing in the name of our kind, they shall be avenged.”

Ousel was only biding his time, until it was right. Mankind would soon learn what it meant to be superior being, and underneath the bosom of the high heavens and reeling stars above, the old crow waited patiently. As it was, words were simply only the beginning of Ousel’s plan, just a mere thread in the tapestry of his grand, final design. In the end, his kind would one day flourish. All he had to do was wait.