Tend Towards

[F] Call of the Robin

The lethargic call of the Robin - a low pitched whistle rising into a quick crescendo - filled the air. The sunlight streaked through the window, lighting up motes of dust floating throughout the room. 

The robin called again, and the others started singing along, a ululating song of sorrow and lament.

Uncle Richard was never so dear to my heart, and not particularly my favourite sentinel growing up, when I would spend long, terrible nights on the estate.

However, it is not polite to speak ill of the dead, especially on the day of the funeral. For as much as it was worth, Uncle Richard was kind and compassionate to his birds.

While he did frighten me to no end with the cold glare of his eyes, or the severe tone of his voice, when I was little, I was never remiss in noticing those eyes warm up or his voice soften to a fond whisper when he was in the aviary.

I rose from the bed, unceremoniously, and unexcited about the funeral. I hated the estate. It bore me nothing but terror and painful memories from my childhood, but even I had to admit that it was a glorious day to send off the departed. Though, I was certain Uncle Richard was not deserving of the fine weather. I had always suspected that his send off would be accompanied by the gloom and terror of thunder and lightning - a superstitious air of electricity filling the dark of the day as was befitting for a witch.

I never could confirm it, but, in my heart, I believed that was exactly what he was: a witch. A terrible, dark servant of the unholy, who liked to scare children and talk to birds.

There was no fondness for the deceased, no love for the estate or the wealth he once possessed. I had one sole purpose in attending the funeral, and that was to watch him be lowered into the ground, sealed up and covered, interred into the earth where he would forever remain.

Breakfast was a morbid and silent affair, and both my brothers and one sister seemed somber as I was. The silence of the estate only broken by the continuous song of lament from the robins.

At eleven, the few guests who would attend arrived, offering condolences and well-wishes, while we upheld the false smiles masking our indifference.

The funeral was nothing remarkable, something as fashionable as it was interesting. The joy I felt that day was only spurred by the event of his interment, when the coffin was finally lowered into the ground in the family graveyard, and the diggers chucked heaps of soil onto him, sealing him away. Throughout the event, my heart was wrought with the concern that the coffin lid would lift, that I would see his pale, fleshy arm squeeze out against the crack, followed by his grinning face and rotting teeth and milky eyes and -

When we returned to the house, the sun was setting, and the robins in the aviary were screeching. I grinned at my sister, and she raised an eyebrow. The thought which has wormed its way into my brain, the idea of some sweet revenge, had sent my heart into a race and I ran over to the aviary. 

The robins, almost one hundred of them, were fluttering around in a panic, screeching and clawing at the nets. I flung open wide the gate, and stepped back. As soon as the first bird found its way out, the others followed, screeching their lament into the winds.

The night grew silent, and I turned to see by brother and sister smiling at me, equally glad to be rid of the horrid things.

Inside, we were celebrating, wine and laughter by the fireplace, verbalising our joy at Uncle Richard's demise. Perhaps disrespectful, but the recounting of the memories we shared with the man justified our sinister remedial.

"I always thought he was a witch," I told them, and they nodded solemnly. "When we were seven, he told me he'd never really die, that he'd come back. That he'll always follow me. He was sat right there, grinning at me, telling me how his body would rot slowly, how the goop would drip from him, and his flesh would fall off. He said he'd stink, and he'd die again, but he'd come after me. He'd have to find a new, younger body to live in, just like he'd done before. I was terrified."

I sat a moment in silence, then admitted my reason for attending. "I know it's ridiculous," I whispered, "but I absolutely believed it. It had ingrained itself into my thoughts, the same way any frightening story could worm its way into the open and impressionable mind of a child. I had nightmares, and I was always afraid that the day would come when dead Uncle Richard would come rip my body apart.

"I know it's a very irrational fear to still harbour, but, somehow, I still believe that. Even now, my mind conjures up images of him crawling his way through the dirt, coming for me."

There was a shared glance between them, before my sister leaned forward to clutch my hand. "It's not stupid," she whispered in a low tone. "He was a frightening man, and these things stay with us for a long time. Do you want to go look at the grave, just for some closure?"

I nodded, and she rose to her feet, smiling at me. "Come then," she tugged on my hand, and led me to the family graveyard.

Our approach was met by a lethargic call of the robin. I stopped in my tracks, and so did my siblings.  The gravesite by Uncle Richard's plot was flooded with the birds, clawing around in the dirt or perched atop the stone, chirruping and chattering.

It was a strange sight to see the birds congregated, and some form of superstitious fear clawed its way back into my heart. I made to approach, in order to investigate the soil in the dying light of the day, but my progress was met with a screech from the birds.

I retreated, satisfied that the gravesite was still turned over, but not open, and we headed back to the home.

My fear, however, was never quelled, and I did not sleep with a light heart. The moon streaked through the window, casting solid shadows across the wall. I imagined, just as I had when I was a child, the wasting form of Uncle Richard, scratching through the dirt as he dragged his decaying body to my room.

I could see his rotting form push open the door, and crawl up the stairs, leaving filthy trails of flesh on the clean white carpets. I could see his purple and white, bony hand reach up to my doorknob, twisting it slowly and pushing his head through the crack, grinning at me with filthy, dirty teeth. I could hear his raspy, guttural voice sing out my name. 

I shook my head, and buried myself under the blanket, just as I had before. I was a grown man, and I was reasonable, but the nighttime is a dark world, and terrible things happen in it - terrors of unimaginable superstitious fears that seem more alive in the shadows than in the light, and I could hear them.

The lethargic call of the Robin - a low pitched whistle rising into a quick crescendo - filled the air.