The flight of the Heron

Miranda was led barefoot into the great hall by her mother and father. They dressed her in white and atop her head was a crown of daisies and myrtle. It had been two days since Mirandas first blood. In those two days, the news had spread throughout the town and a feast was prepared. Tonight, Miranda and her family would dine at the head table while the langors sung songs of her victory. Miranda remembered going to her friend Erin’s feast-night. She helped pick the flowers for her crown. The langors sung, people drank and had their way with the night. She remembered seeing the smile on Erins face. How her cheeks turned a soft shade of red from all the attention. Erin was allowed two flasks of mead with dinner that night; it was her feast-night after all. Maybe if she chose not to imbibe she would still be alive. Mead loosens the body but dulls the senses; Miranda knew that. If she was to survive, she would need her clarity. 

The wind outside the hall howled like restless spirits as Miranda and her family took their places at the table. Miranda was given the center chair, an ornate throne carved from a single trunk of ironwood. She felt powerful and vulnerable simultaneously as she gripped the arm rests and stared out at her townsfolk. There was already plenty of mead in their bellies. The langors strumming of the harps stirred the hearts of her people into dance. After sometime of merrymaking, Mirandas father Arthur called the cacophony of celebration to a halt by tapping his flask on the great table. The clap of his flask bellowed like thunderclaps and the hall fell quiet. Great people, my people, my family, I thank you for gathering this night to honor my eldest daughter, Miranda. Arthur turned to Miranda and raised his flask to her. Miranda smiled and pretended to sip from her horn. Clear minds must prevail, she thought to herself. Tonight, Arthur continued, Tonight is about community, about the families we as a village wish to endure. The world outside these village walls is a savage one. It is teeming with demons and monsters that lie in wait deep in the hillsides. Our ancestors who first toiled with this darkness built these walls to keep it at bay. Now, it is our turn to carry that torch against the darkness of this world. Now, it is our turn to decide who shall carry on our names. Miranda’s mother placed her hand against the small of Mirandas back. Miranda sat up straight and smiled to the gathered villagers. We have always followed the way of strength, at the core of that strength is our women. They who give us Men sons and daughters so that we may live on after them. Though, that strength must be tested. It must be made immovable. Only then can we thrive. As you dine tonight and sing your songs, I ask of you, my brothers and sisters, to sing Mirandas name to the Gods themselves. Arthur paused and rested his hands on the great table. Sing for her! Let them know her name! LET HER COME HOME! The crowd swelled with excitement. The langors resumed to strum their harps. Their voices rang through the great hall once again, filling every nook and cranny with the great deeds of Miranda. 

As the night drew to a close, Miranda pulled her father aside. “Will I really be all alone, father?” Miranda’s voice was small; she could not have anyone still awake hear. Arthur took a knee beside his daughter. First blood or not, she was still a child. She was hardly past her thirteenth harvest. “You will be among the moon and stars; you will walk alongside all those that came before you.” Arthur gently pushed back the strands of hair hiding Mirandas face. “When the night draws in around you, look up at the stars and find the Great Heron. He is our families crest; under his light you could never be alone.” Miranda found little comfort in the stars but she smiled at her father just the same and kissed his cheek. “I will be brave father; I will come home worthy, I promise.” Arthur rose and brushed the swelling tears from his eyes. The memory of his sisters feast-night pulled at his heart. “I know you will, Miranda. I know you will. Now, please eat; you will need your strength and the green star will rise soon.” Miranda consigned herself only a handful of berries and a few pieces of dried meat. When she thought no one would notice, she stowed a few extra strips into the folds of her dress. 

The langors began their final tune and with it the hall began to empty. Each villager gathered their family and embraced them tightly, thankful this burden does not fall on them. 

“On this night, this night of the Herons flight,

We praise the gods and all their might.

Hang over our children through the night 

And carry them home to our delight.

On this night, this night of the Herons flight,

We sing of Miranda and all her might.

In the dark she will meet her fright 

To slay the demons and make it right.”

The time had come. The fires were extinguished and the mead ceased its flow. With the villagers behind her, Miranda approached the front gate. She was grateful the weather was mild and the evening air still carried the warmth of daylight. Men on both sides heaved thick chains, lowering the gate open before her. Miranda took a final look behind her; what felt like a thousand faces stared back at her. She knew she had to be strong, for them, and for herself. As the iron fastenings of the gate crashed on the grey stones, Miranda shot out into the night. She yanked up the hem of her dress, freeing her legs to make great strides into the night. The fields were damp and blades of grass stuck to her feet as she ran. When she arrived at the edge of the wood, she paused. She let go of her dress and inhaled sharply. Miranda held her breath until her lungs burned for air. She needed to feel that. That savage, carnal desire to live. With her spirit resolute, she took her first step into the domain of monsters. Miranda remembered listening to her father tell his hunting stories; she remembered the details better than he did after all his inflating iterations. She knew that her scent would carry down wind and that she needed to find higher ground. There was a cliff face where her and Benjamin would often go to when their parents thought they were gathering firewood. Miranda enjoyed the vista and Benjamin enjoyed being with Miranda. That would make for a safe spot to rest. Miranda took off in the direction of the cliff side; it was only a few hundred feet from the brook they met at and she could hear it babbling in the distance. It was not long before Miranda learned that the forest is a foreign place at night. The sounds play tricks and creatures move through the brambles and the treetops. They are only foxes and squirrels; to the beast they will make no noise, Miranda reassured herself. Follow the sound of the brook, then the cliff will be upstream. As Miranda progressed into the depths of the forest, the forest began to take notice. Tendrils of roots rose from the ground and swiped at Mirandas feet. The earth itself turned soft and began to twist. Sentinel trees reached out and pulled at Mirandas white dress as she tried to pass, tearing bits of fabric as she went. In the dark she will meet her fright to slay the demons and make it right. Miranda hummed her ballad and forced her eyes to bear the horrors of her forest turned against her. Desperate to find respite at the brook she wriggled and stretched her body through the clasping hands of the forest. Freed from the manacles of the dark, Miranda finally let the fear sink in. She felt the truth of life and death; of what it meant to die. In a moment of desperation, her youth betrayed her. Miranda let out a cry into the void she had found herself surrounded by. Only a moment ago, she could have been killed by the same trees she was climbing in search of honey.. Her peaceful world had shifted into an abysmal landscape bent on her demise. 

There was little trouble between her last encounter and her arrival at the brook. Her feet were cut and bruised. Tiny streams of blood twisted around her calves. She let the blood dry in its course. A course that reminded her of what was out there; what was inside her. Life. The brook carried on as it always had. Its currents glittered like flecks of silver in the light of the crescent moon. Peep frogs chirped alongside the crickets and for just a moment, Miranda felt the warmth of safety. She sat in that moment, her feet twirled in the cool eddies of the brook and she thought of the forest in the light of day; how it felt like a part of her. Enveloped by her thoughts, Miranda did not notice the song of the peep frogs fell quiet; that even the brook seemed to whisper as it passed. A thick mist of darkness came upon the glade. It permeated Mirandas now threadbare dress and sent shivers down her spine. It was too late now; she knew she could never make it to the cliff-side. She pulled her feet from the now icy waters of the brook and panned her head around hoping to catch a glimpse of what was coming. As the fog crept over the dead fall that surrounded the glade, the leaves and sticks turned from black to gray and finally took to the air as ash. Miranda inhaled deeply and held her breath. There is life inside her, she thought, I will fight to prevail, I will prevail. I will FIGHT to prevail. With her lungs aflame, and her mind quickened she let out a screaming proclamation. “You will not have me tonight! You will not have this girl!” The darkness ceased at her words, then began to condense into several pools. Shifting masses of gas churned into pitch voids that stood upright on two legs. Their arms hung low to the ground, their heads where large and bore no face. Miranda felt her legs tremble and her heart felt as if it flipped upside down. Before her mind could make itself up on what to do, she bolted away. In her wake the creatures once again stirred and churned their ethereal forms and where they once had two legs, now four large paws dug into the earth. They became wolves the size of bears with pelts as pitch as a starless skies. Only their white teeth gleamed in the dappled light of the forest as they rushed upon Miranda. She could hear them closing in on her; a pack of wild demons hungry for her flesh. FLESH! It was then that Miranda remembered the strips of dried meat she tucked away in her dress. There were only two pieces remaining but that would have to be enough. She smeared the blood from her cheeks and her legs onto the meat. She then used a sharp rock to cut away at the rips in her dress, removing the lower trimming. She wound the fabric around the bloodstained meat and placed it on a boulder beside her. Then she scrambled up the nearest tree she could find and laid still against a thick branch. The hounds teeth glistened as they pushed through the brush, their pace slowed, blood was in the air. Miranda slowly lifted her head she needed to see them. A part of her was in this forest, a part of her wanted to know the face of darkness. With their noses to the ground they circled the decoy. Round and round they walked about the piece of Mirandas dress until they were sure it was her blood they tasted. In streaks of white the hounds pounced upon the dress and ravaged what they thought was Miranda. She gripped the stone she used to cut her dress so tightly she thought it would draw blood from her hand. In one final breath she leapt from the branch and plummeted the stone into the skull of one of the hounds. It evaporated into a cloud of smoke and fog, sending the remaining pack back into the forest. Miranda laid there, in the wake of her fall, sure that her leg was broken and her arm dislocated from the fall. Her eyes swelled with tears and her body winced in pain. The hounds will have me now, I was not enough. She said to herself. I am sorry father. Miranda began to cry, she forgot about the hounds and the darkness, she ignored the fear in heart, instead she wailed into the night; broken and defeated. There was nothing left for her now, nothing but death. In the final moments of her resolution she began to sing in broken voice, though it rang sweet on a night such as this. 

“On this night, this night of the Herons flight,

We praise the gods and all their might.

Hang over our children through the night 

And carry them home to our delight.

On this night, this night of the Herons flight,

We sing of Miranda and all her might.

In the dark she will meet her fright 

To slay the demons......... and make it right.”

Miranda opened her eyes. She wanted the last thing she saw in this world to be the stars. Her father was right after all, there is a certain comfort in their light. There, just above the green star, was the Heron constellation, her families crest. Her father would be looking at the very same stars tonight. Her father would soon be gazing upwards alone. Miranda’s hour had come. 

She could still feel the blades of grass stuck between her toes. The fingers on her right hand seemed to still work. The pain in her legs fell to a dull ache and she was now certain they were not broken. Miranda continued to gaze upon the stars above, waiting for the hounds to return and consume her. Moments drifted into one another, streaming into hours and Miranda began to notice the stars were turning dim. Beams of breaking light shot across the forest and illuminated the treetops. Day had arrived. Miranda rubbed her eyes in disbelief. It was over; she was going to live.