MicroHorror

Emmett Poel was pissed off. He had traveled days in this stinking forest with its too-large trees and was getting sick of it. He looked across the fire at his “guide,” a third-generation voyageur named Remy Latour who knew this area very well, so he said. The problem was that Emmett only understood about one word in three, and the little man didn’t speak much to begin with, usually just “Follows me,” or “Careful with your walking, la.”

They had set out from the California border and worked their way steadily north. Time was getting tight. He had to make the deal with the coalmine soon, and get over to the coast where an American steamship would meet him.

Today they’d met the Indian. He was young and powerful, dressed in deerskin with two black feathers strung into his hair. “C’est Two Bear, mon ami.” They were getting close to the settlements. It was good news, but it also meant that Remy spoke to him even less, and instead conversed back and forth with the tough-looking young man in broken French, disastrous English and the guttural native patois. Tired and frustrated, Emmett cleaned his revolver by the firelight, and hoped that tomorrow he would finally meet people who spoke for-God’s-sake English.

As he snapped the cylinder home and filled the chambers with fresh ammunition, a huge croaking shriek startled him off the log he’d been sitting on. Both the guide and his “ami” were chuckling. Flushed with embarrassment, the American spun around to see a huge black bird sitting on a branch just above their heads. Without another thought, he pulled the trigger and watched with satisfaction as the ugly beast tumbled to earth like a rock, shedding feathers all the way.

Two Bear’s reaction was immediate. Moving faster than seemed humanly possible, he was around the fire and holding a massive bone-hilted knife to the man’s throat.

“NON!” Remy was screaming at the savage now. He held the man’s knife-hand firmly, and was talking rapidly. Emmett heard, “Beaucoup Americains… mauvais… des carabines–BANG BANG!”

The warrior stared at Emmett, hard black eyes full of primal rage, and he could tell it was taking a supreme effort of will not to rip out his neck. After what seemed an eternity, he sheathed the knife and walked over to the corpse of the bird. He picked it up reverently, and again with that uncanny speed vanished into the woods.

Emmett was shaking. “What in God’s name was that, Remy? It was only a bird!”

“Non, monsieur. It was… un corbeau, the Raven. They are sacré. Raven is God here.”

“Savages. Your job, Remy, is to keep me safe, no matter what. That was way too close.”

“Apologies, monsieur. But this, she going to be bad.”

“I don’t give a tin shit anymore, Remy. Let’s get some sleep. We got business in the morning.”

That night, Emmett dreamed of the bird. It was gigantic in his dreams and he was a mouse on the ground, squealing, trying everything he could to stay alive. The black bird dove at him, and it was as if the sky itself had become black feathers, closing in on him.

He started awake, but couldn’t move. There was a man sitting on his chest, powerfully muscled, with the head of a raven. The thing was staring at him with cold animal eyes.

“Look, mister, I didn’t mean no harm. I didn’t know nothing ’bout special birds or anything.”

Emmet screamed as the beak darted forward twice and took his eyes. He flailed for his pistol, but the bird-man swung one talon-fingered hand and removed the man’s throat to the spine.

With a squawk that sounded vaguely like “nevermore,” the Man-God’s body rippled once, and the raven flew away with the body. Across the fire, Remy made the sign of the cross, picked up his bedroll and started for the trading post.