haunted feathers

Clouds about and alone
Wandering under the sun
Bits of fluff above the flock
Clouds in the sky
Sheep on the slopes

A wedge of cheese
Wrapped with the mutton
Oilskin cloth within his tunic
A shepherd's lunch upon the cliffs

Scratching stubborn stubble
Watching over his flock
Midday's sun upon the greening mountain grasses
Haunting voice upon the breeze

Gathering his food together
His eyes search the slopes
She stands at the edge
Singing an unfamiliar tune

Dress as white as the melting snows
He stares at her and knows
Nothing
Nothing but the sound of her voice
And the look of her eyes

Purple

Meal and staff forgotten
He stumbles through his flock
Sandaled feet catching upon the rocks
Bloody footprints upon the ground

Holding out her hand
She whispers and smiles
He steps intoxicatedly closer
While wandering wonderfully in her wiles

Her hair trickles across his cheek
He takes her hand
His calloused fingers tracing the line of her chin
Edge of the cliff crumbling beneath her feet

She screams
pulling him over the edge

Shepherd look upon her as you fall
Fair maiden screaming in your arms
You know her
Fjällhäxa
Mountain witch
Luring the unwary
You stare into her fearful eyes
And let her go

    "Svordom Åsa...so he dies," a grandmotherly voice exclaimed as a great snowy feathered owl swooped down to alight upon the broken shepherd, "he almost took you with him."
    A dove flew weakly down from an outcropping just above the dying man, plumage just as white as the owl's.
    "He grabbed me and I couldn't make him let go," the dove's voice was breathless, still quite afraid.
    "Bli inte rädd för mej min barn,” the owl said, clicking a talon against the shepherd’s bloodied cheek,” I will not tell the others of your weakness.”
    “Tack så mycket Svärmor,” the dove said, fishing beneath a wing to resettle pinion feathers that had nearly been lost.
    The owl inspected the dying man a moment longer before shaking its head and clicking its beak in what could have been taken as a yawn.
    “Farväl Åsa, do not tarry here long or I will think you too weak to keep beneath my wing.”
    A cackling laughter echoed up the cliff, mixing with the unsettled bleating of shepherdless sheep.  The dove landed next to the shepherd.  His eyes fluttered open, blood slipping across the bridge of his nose and across a pale blue iris.
    “I can’t see…”
    In a flash of light the dove was gone and the girl remained.  She spit on her fingertips and rubbed it in his eyes, ignoring his fearful breath hot against her bare arm.  The ledge where the shepherd lay was still shrouded in snow, the once white now stained red.  He moaned as steam rose from his eyes.  Her legs grew cold as she knelt in the snow next to him as he writhed in pain, the bone sticking from his leg pushing against the rock face that rose above them.  She expected him to cry out, but he merely gritted his teeth and opened his eyes.  When he did not speak she looked away from his stare.  The cliffs continued down beneath them into the roiling mist that hung above the fertile valleys bellow.  Taking a deep breath she turned back to the shepherd.  He was still staring at her.
    “Why did you let me go?” her voice was weaker than she wanted, sad in a way she couldn’t be.
    He simply smiled and laid his head back into the blood sodden snow.
    “WHY DID YOU-”
    She stopped as he brought a bloody, broken finger to his lips.  Those lips, cracked and bloodied, moved, but no sound came out.  Leaning closer, she put her ear over his mouth.
    “Y-you…” his voice was barely above a whisper and thick with blood pooling at the back of his throat, “you looked like…”
    She pulled away as he turned his head to the side to cough, blood splattering across the snow and rocks.  Tearing a piece of his cloak, she wiped his mouth, leaning closer once more.
    “I thought you were…my wife…”
    Even though he was one of the simple mountain people, she was not ignorant of their customs.  The black mark tattooed around the ring finger on his left hand told her that his wife was dead.  But he was still so young.  She did something then that made her more afraid than she had ever been.  If any were to see her it would mean her life.  She wept.  Resting her head on the shepherd’s chest, she wept as he ran his hand across her hair, comforting her as he died.  And when his chest no longer rose beneath her she sat up and stared out over the ridges and peaks, most still capped with the fading snows of late spring.  The sun was sitting heavily just above the horizon when she stood, taking a moment to look back down at the dead shepherd at her feet.  Her bare toes were blue with the cold.  A flash of light and she was gone, a few white feathers falling in the red light of the setting sun, coming to rest on the still form that remained.

She lured him to his death
He died at her feet
Haunting her immortal dreams
The sound of bleating sheep

Lost on a mountainside in late spring