The Feathers

While wandering in the woods of her local park, Sarah finds an unusual bread-crumb trail of feathers. At first, it's just a coincidence. After a while Sarah knows it's got to be something of a higher power at work…say, a Fae King?

I had issues pinning down her age, so I assumed that at 15 she was a freshman, or about to enter the 10th grade, and at this point in time is a sophomore in college.

A story in eight parts.

Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth!

Into the Woods

Upon my arrival to the park, I am surprised to find it nearly vacant. I look up and see the dark iron clouds rolling. Naturally my absent-mindedness had allowed me to miss this particular detail. I won't deny it; I am distracted today. Not even a gloriously cheerful Toby can pull me into focus, which is probably why Karen sent me out here after putting him down for a nap.

"Go," She urged. "You've been working so hard this semester, and it's your break. You don't need to spend all of it babysitting. Go to the park. You used to love it there."

I went. And here I am, sitting in the abandoned swings. The rain clouds are almost fortunate, as under better weather the playsets would be swarming with kids. If I took Toby, there simply wouldn't be a chance of me getting on them-I'd be pushing him "all the way to the sky, Sawah!" Not that I mind in the least. I really enjoy playing with my little brother. However, it's easy to get wistful over things like swings and playgrounds.

Two years out of high school, and I couldn't let go of this place. For almost five years I've had a love-hate sort of appreciation for the park; in distress it comforts me, but otherwise it just serves as a reminder. My toys might be in Karen's cobwebby attic, my more childish desires diminished with age. But the memories are more difficult to shove away-they're part of me. They are the reason I'm the Sarah I am today.

The Sarah who straighten up to earn straight "A"s through her next three years. The same Sarah who realized she had a dream of writing, of art. The Sarah who finally decided to stop playing in the theater, and instead brave her first art class. The Sarah who became a national-award-winning essayist after winning three essay competitions over the course of those three years. The Sarah who dutifully applied to eight schools, was accepted into all of them, then attended the arts academy just over fifty miles from home. The Sarah who dated, but couldn't seem to find a match. The Sarah who loathed dancing and hated masks. That Sarah.

The Sarah who was currently working on her first novel….

In my spare time I had outlined, then began, a working story. It was, sadly, a small reflection of the events that shook me out of childhood, though I had not indeed it to be so. There is a fairy king, a spitfire young heroine, and a series of tasks the girl must perform for her freedom. A Scarborough Faire, if you will. The characterization of the villainous fairy king has weighed heavily on my mind. He lacked layers. I didn't want to present someone so 2-D, I longed for realism and depth.

All in all, the story was otherwise fine. I had began discussions with a potential agent, who had agreed to sponsor me. They had also agreed that the villain, King Ara, need some "tweaking."

My legs pump up and down with motion of the heavy chains I cling to. The rubber seat is tight against my rear, uncomfortable in a way I don't recall from the many afternoons spent in these seats. But it isn't uncomfortable enough for me to want to leave. Not yet.

A squawking startles my musing. I look up from the wood chips. Another cry sounds-"CRAWKAWKA!"

Raven-Darkness, Fear

I recognize the squall of a disgruntled crow. It comes from the woods. Between layers of branches, I can just make out a hopping, fat black bird. Without a thought, I jump out of the swing and stalk toward the sound. The creature hops from its perch. Another loud squawk.

Raven, crow, black bird. It makes no difference, truly. Though, I have heard crows to be intelligent above all other avian creatures, their reputation for irritating habits and overwhelming numbers outweighs this. Regardless, the symbolism strikes me-black birds always symbolize death, or ill-natured events soon to come.

"And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!"

Poe's poem was the very epitome of the creature's symbolic coming. I shiver, recalling the imposing oil rendition of the scene my English and Lit teacher had keep behind his desk in the duration of our Goth studies. A ruby-eyed bird, glowering from the pale bust above the threshold.

For whatever reason, I feel the need to follow as the crow dives into the brush. Compelled by an unanswering force, my feet fall into a jog. I crash into the line of trees, branches, and bush to follow a cawing. Into the woods, my whole world darkens. A dash of black crosses my vision. Left! No, now right! Keep straight ahead! Yes, that's the way. Now…duck!

I do not pay the slightest attention to the whips of branches and brown leaves, nor do I feel the sting with each strike, until I slow. The bird has completely disappeared. I cannot even hear shrieking.

Running the back of my hand across my forehead and cheek, I am shocked to find it smeared with a sanguine liquid that can only be blood. I tenderly trace the expanse of flesh, awaiting the needling pain. Indeed, I discover a long cut running from my temple to my jaw. Marveling at the length, my hands reach for my cell. I can call my father. He can pick me up, see if I need real medical attention.

My hands pull away from my pockets. I left my phone on my desk, in my room. Karen told me I needed peace, so I had heeded her advice. After all, what sort of trouble could I get in at the park?

I feel the slash again. Wince. Ow. Okay, so this might be considered "trouble." Was I really so distracted by a bird I could not attend to my own physical well-being?

From ahead, I hear a distant cry. My elusive raven calling me. Once again, I am ignoring the pain to surge forward.

Yet my path is blocked. A single raven-coloured quill waits, lying across a parchment scroll. Innocent as it appears, I am wary. I tentatively take up the scroll, tucking the feather behind one ear.

"For the dreams that you so long to seek

You have not far to reach,

Follow ye the downy trail,

Lest you more prone to passionate fail

In that which you dreamily desire.

Eight you are to find,

Careful now, lest you be blind,

Seven of a kind are to find you,

And to each, yourself be true.

So, come now to find your fate

And let desires be sate—

Follow the downy trail beyond

For the life which you ought be fond."

I stare at the long, curled script, uncomprehending. Dreams? "Downy Trail?" What sort of poetic madness is this? Bad poetic madness, at that. The rhymes barely sound together….

I finger the corners of the paper. It is expensive, written on with a loose hand. The ink is pooled in a manner suggesting the use of a fountain pen. Using the pads of my fingers, I trace the letters, feeling the upraised ink with pleasure. Old-fashioned the method may be, it isn't subtle. Whatever the poem's interpretation means, the clearest message can be easily assumed; someone sought my attention.

Downy Trail….

"Downy" as in feathers? Down, as in the down of a duck? Or any other bird?

Follow the feather path?

Seven of a kind…

Seven different kinds of feathers? From seven different birds? I'd had an Aves class for a biology requirement. I can recognize different species and breeds from the area, but even so the idea of finding a legitimate path is ludicrous.

What sort of insane quest is this?

"Crazy," I say aloud. "Hundreds of birds live here. To find a trail of feather wouldn't be so hard. Someone is sending me on a wild goose chase."

"Pun intended?"

I jump at the voice, for it is not my own.

"No," I say slowly. "Not at all."

"What harm can come from it?"

To the air surrounding me, I snap. "I do not care to find out. Farewell."

With that being said, I turn on my heels to march out of the wood. Or, at least eastward. That's where the lake sat. I could make it to the bridge from the lake, then the road, then hopefully home. Touching my face, I pray the wound doesn't bleed further; I would hate to scare Karen over a scratch. Though, judging from its current texture, the blood is clotting and beginning to scab over.

Thrashing through the undergrowth I eventually make my way to openness and light (for there is still light, regardless of the clouds that rumble above). Just as I had hoped, I was on the banks of the man-made lake. With a relived sigh, I exit the woods. Safe. Not a creature in sight. Merely rolling clouds, threatening downpour.

"A black bird. A symbol of misfortune." I say, to one person in particular. For if it is him, he must surely be watching. "Do you intend to curse me? Or frighten me? There are better ways. After all, it's merely a bird."

I cross the shorn grass at an unsteady pace. Not being a runner, the tumble through the brush has take breath from me. Another sigh—this time of pain. Hopefully the walk would be a distracting one.

Distraction does come, and soon. I catch it from the corner of my eye. Upon seeing it, I am once again drawn by some unknowable force. Approaching the water's edge, I ignore the mud to watch the loveliness that sits on the mirrored surface.