Content warning: this article contains mentions of death and body horror
In spite of everything, we know what the old man buries.
Out there, the ground resents the dull flash of his rusted spade. Stubborn roots and thick moss fight him for space, while the mottled light under the canopy makes the depth of his pit hard to judge.
Not like our fields, well-tilled and used to the small indignities of farming, but then our Pas had to go and have a word, all quiet-like, when the old man started on them. He could do what he liked in his own home, but it wasn’t to affect the rest of the village. Besides, they said, it attracts predators. Better to leave him to the forest and the silent stare of his wife from behind the warped glass of their cottage windows.
Eventually, the old man will stamp his way back to her, trailing gritty feathers that are livid against the dark earth. A grim embrace at the doorstep and they withdraw. The door stays shut until she reappears with a broom to beat any feathers away from the house. We ran home after the first time. Her quiet fury makes the quills rustle strangely, and we won’t let them touch us.
We’re supposed to be too young to know any of this, but we’d watched the old man and his wife plenty even before our Das told us to stay away. You have to pay a tithe of scuffed knees and grazed elbows if you want to follow him all the way through the woods. None of us use his path. He’s carved his way into the forest enough times to leave a scar, but the carpet of feathers stops us from getting close. Coverts and pinions and scapulars. At night, the wind turns them into a breathing river we dare each other to jump over.
One time, Billy got there first. He fed the meat to Nell, the family collie, then dried out the rest behind the shed so his Ma wouldn’t find out. You’ve got to be careful with the wing joints, else they crack in the heat, but he managed it okay. Turns out the hardest part was hanging the bones so Nell wouldn’t jump up at them.
The old man’s wife doesn’t go into the forest, only sweeps more feathers off her doorstep, but she still gave Bill a filthy look next time she was in town. She can’t know really. Maybe her husband mentioned how thorough the scavengers had been this time or something, but she can’t really know. We were careful.
Still, Billy’s not keeping the skeleton anymore. Tom bought it off him for an old coin with a hole in it he found in the river. His Mam’s let him hang it up in his room as long as it can’t be seen from outside. Eventually, Tom gives the rest to his own dog, who buries it – Tom won’t say where. Says he’s getting too grown up to play with bones anyway.
There are enough small mounds out there for a skeleton each if we wanted but we’ve not had another go. Didn’t seem right after the old man’s wife died. She got buried in a graveyard, of course, but downy feathers still lead from the headstone all the way to her old cottage door. Without her, the grey tide has drifted onto the front step.
The bundles haven’t stopped.
The old man moves slower now, all seized up with sadness. His spade seems to weigh more, and we can hear his wheezing as he shuffles through the banks of feathers. His coat shifts as he moves these days, as though there’s not enough of him to hold it in place. Not like us: we’re fast outgrowing our shirts even as our Mas make them, limbs twinging as they stretch beyond cuffs made ragged by snagging branches.
It’s harder to follow him now. We’re taller, more solid, and the undergrowth doesn’t hide us the way it used to. Lucky for us, we don’t think the old man sees much beyond his spade anymore. Journeys into the forest take longer and longer until the shadows flow together and we can’t stay to watch him fill in the pit.
Then he stops coming out at all. We’re braver now, we go right up to the walls but even Bill isn’t quite tall enough to look through the window properly. The glass is dark and wavy at the bottom, stretching what we can see into strange shapes.
We can’t go in.
We shouldn’t, we mustn’t, we can’t go inside but the door isn’t locked, and the window is too high and, actually, we can. Easy as you like.
Bodies are everywhere. Birds of all sizes lie in piles, some with chests torn open. In the middle kneels an emaciated figure, raw skin not quite covering what little meat is left on him. We cluster round the doorway while his blunt teeth sink into the breast of a wood pigeon. As the old man chews, his skin knits together over his flayed back. He flings the pigeon into a corner and grabs at a dove. His new flesh melts away again, falling to the floor as soft feathers.
Tom gags. Can’t blame him really. He’s always liked the doves in his Da’s cote, sneaks them crusts after supper. But the old man hears him. He drops the bird as his head jerks round, neck cracking. He gurgles hopelessly.
Whatever he tries to say, it’s too late.
The villain of our childhood stories chokes on his mouthful of feathers and blood. We can’t move. Not to run, not to help somehow. There’s more of us outside, trying to see inside. Keeps us trapped. We stand vigil while the old man crumbles into feathers and dry, cracked bones.
Illustrations: Annie Collier
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