Thursday Tales #65 Ravensmoor Farm

The challenge at Thursday Tales is to respond to an illustration with a story no less than 55 words and no more than 777. To read other stories, please click here.

'Guide' by Pierrick Martinez

Image copyright Pierrick Martinez at deviantart

Jonah Arkwright had loved the moors all his life. He had farmed sheep on the uplands since he was a youth, taking over the smallholding from his father when the old man became too feeble to struggle on. Through the seasons he cared for his flock, setting out each morning with a faithful sheepdog at his heels and two more running ahead.

Unlike other farmers he never worried about ravens attacking his flock. He knew they only resorted to that through hunger and so, like his father before him, he put out food daily for the birds. A pair of ravens, probably about sixty years old, appeared each day at the feeding station and Jonah took that as a sign that all was well. On the rare occasions that the birds absented themselves he knew there was a reason and always it was because of a problem with the sheep. Once he had found a pregnant ewe tumbled into a ditch and unable to extricate herself. The ravens were standing sentry over her. The next day Jonah made sure they had extra rations – the fat from the ham and some fruit as well as the bread they so enjoyed. Another time the ravens had alerted him to a lamb abandoned by its mother. Jonah respected the ravens and they repaid him well.

Now he too had grown old and his son was taking on more of the work. The flock had multiplied and Alfred was a caring shepherd, having learnt from his father how to manage the tough moorland sheep. Jonah still went out with his remaining elderly dog every day, leaning on his crook as he negotiated the steep pathways.

The weather on the moors was often capricious; a fine sunny morning would give way to a sudden thick mist coming down from the tops. Jonah was out one day when the fog descended but Alfred was not unduly concerned when his father did not return for his midday meal. As the afternoon wore on he was surprised to see the ravens. They had fed handsomely that morning and did not usually return until the next day but now they were flying round and calling agitatedly. Eliza, Alfred’s wife, said, ‘They’re telling us something. Look how they fly towards us and then away, as if they want us to follow them.’

She fetched her shawl and a lantern and Alfred whistled the rest of the dogs to him and together they set off up the hill. The wind was screaming in their ears and although the fog had fled, the daylight was waning. One false step on the rough ground could lead to a broken ankle or worse. The ravens circled them, calling all the time, then flying a short distance away and back. Eventually they landed on a tussock of rough grass, bobbing their heads and cawing softly, gently. As they reached the spot Alfred and Eliza saw Jonah lying on the ground, his crook by his side, his old dog stretched out beside him. They were both dead.

The little church was packed on the day of Jonah’s funeral. He had been well-liked by his neighbours. The sun shone brightly and a warm breeze blew through the trees as the cortege approached the grave, the freshly turned earth smelling rich and wholesome. 

After the coffin had been committed to the ground and the burial service was over the mourners turned to leave and each one of them noticed the two ravens on the roof of the church. As they watched, the great birds bowed and then took off to soar gracefully through the blue sky back to the moors.

Thursday Tales Tale #59 Fishermen

The challenge at Thursday Tales is to respond to an illustration with a story no less than 55 words and no more than 777. To read other stories, please click here.

'Fishermen' copyright  Damir Davarovic at Deviant Art

There were seven of them, all kin. Fishing was the only occupation they had ever known. They didn’t question their destiny but accepted it as they had done for generations, just like the other families in the village. Today, as every day, they set off at dawn in their small skiffs, rowing out to sea.  They had no need of conversation, each man knowing the rhythm of his fellows, the creak of the oars in the rowlocks a counterpoint to the screaming of the gulls.

They set their seine nets, those nets so frequently and carefully repaired, so valuable.  In the distance they saw other fishermen bent to the same task. They lived on the sea most of their days and their families lived off the proceeds of their catch. They feared and respected the deep and held faith with each other in the protection of the Holy Mother and Saint Michael. When the day’s haul was light they invoked Saint Andrew and believed that the next day would be better.

It was a simple life but hard and unpredictable. The weather could be changeable, blue skies clouding over and winds springing up out of nowhere. Then the sea was capricious, testing their skills as seafarers, challenging their beliefs, shrieking and screeching so that they began to lose their senses, only instinct telling them that they must turn back to shore. If fog came down, dense, all-encompassing, the fishermen lost their bearings but could drift until it lifted, listening all the while for other craft or for sounds from the land. Their greatest fear, though, was that fog and gale should join forces.

And so it happened that day. Disorientated, blown ever closer to shore, exhausted from rowing, they howled imprecations against the elements. Brother clung to brother, father to son, in desolation and despair. The ropes they had slung between the boats to keep the little fleet together stretched and strained and finally snapped. In each skiff the men pulled again on their oars, heaving in sobbing breaths, not knowing where they were going and praying that heading to wind would keep them safe.

As suddenly as it had descended, the fog rolled away, revealing heavy clouds scudding across grey skies. Momentary relief evaporated as the wind strengthened and the swell increased in height and towered over the tiny craft. As each wave broke over and away the men caught glimpses of the shore. It was not a sight to gladden their hearts.  Sharp rocks jutted menacingly from the churning waters. The tide had turned and united with the wind to drive them nearer the wicked pointed teeth. They had no more strength to battle the currents and the storm but slumped over their oars, weeping with exhaustion, sick with the understanding that their wives that night would be widows, their children fatherless.

And so it was.

Thursday Tales The Scarecrow

The challenge at Thursday Tales is to respond to an illustration with a story no less than 55 words and no more than 777. To read other stories, please click here.

Image copyright Sara Vandermeulen at DeviantArt.

The scarecrow was as miserable as any scarecrow had ever been. It wasn’t that he was lonely, oh no! He had more than enough company and that was half the trouble. He had been employed to frighten away birds but instead they came to perch on his arms and nest in his hat and roost inside his jacket. They snatched away loose threads from his hessian head to line their nests. Even the spiders regarded him as a safe haven. He knew his days were numbered.

Every time the farmer came to inspect his crops he would shake his head as flocks of crows or woodpigeons or rooks rose from the plentiful harvest spread so generously across the field. His little girl skipped beside him and always stopped to pat the scarecrow. The scarecrow liked her gentle touch and smiled through his sewn-up mouth.

The farmer said, ‘I’ll have to get rid of this old thing – it’s useless.’

The little girl’s hand flew to her mouth and she cried out.

The scarecrow’s heart sank inside his waistcoat and he struggled to keep the tears from his button eyes. Had it not been for the pole which held him ramrod straight he would have sunk to his invisible knees and begged for mercy.

Her father looked at her and saw her sadness. ‘We’ll take him home and put him in the garden,’ he said.

‘He’ll like it there,’ she said and smiled a watery smile.

The scarecrow’s spirit filled with happiness – he wanted to dance and shout with elation. A garden would be a wondrous place to live, sheltered and safe from the raging winds and beating sun, and the little girl could visit him every day. Life was good!