Wind-chimes sang, and like shapes bleeding in unstill water, Crow could find words in the tone. Sing, they said. “Sing…a song…”
Click click click.
He blinked. The worlds of his dream and waking collided. The latter was warm toned, clay colored.
“…Of six pence…six. There.” Click. “A pocket full of rye.”
His lips stuck together. He pulled them apart and gasped. The air was perfumed – and dry. His lips split painfully.
“Four and twenty blackbirds. Heh.” The singer chuckled. A hand fell on Crow’s head. He cried out – the weight of it made his shoulders and back twist in agony. He felt needling pricks through his hands and realized his arms were dead from lack of blood flow, tied too tight. “Baked into a pie.”
“When the pie was opened, black bird began to sing. Wasn’t this a dainty dish to set before a king.”