The Angry Vagabonds
Raymond Daley
Copyright 15/10/12 by Raymond Daley
Smashwords Edition


When I was but a child it was still a time of magic, all animals still spoke with the voice of man.
We moved too often, unable to put down roots, unable to make any kind of home.

People knew our sort, always cursed by their judgement.
We would arrive and go about our ways, hunting and scouting, but before long the accusation of crime would reach us again.

"Cry Murder!"  would go up the call, by one and by all.
And with no chance to defend our name we would move on again, flitting away with them cursing us still.

A new town, a new village, no more than a few days ever anywhere.  We lived on the move, this was the life I was born into.
Again a new home, a few days or more.  And again would the accusation reach our door.

"Bloody murder, most foul!" and again no chance of defence.  We would take flight in hope of finding safe haven again.

Our next home was our longest stay, a quiet kingdom ruled by a kindly man who took pity at our plight and granted us carte blanche.  None of his subjects would dare question his judgement or his wishes as they loved and respected him in equal measures.

We lived in true contentment with the sky at our backs enjoying the most freedom our people had ever known.

Until that fateful day.

All had not been well within the kingdom, one had sought to conspire, lusting for power that was not rightfully his.  Taking matters into his hands he slew his king.  As Chief Advisor to the court he was above suspicion, instead sending the finger of blame in the direction of our quiet enclave.

Anger and hate drove the people flocking into our midst, only our Khan stood fast as the rest of us took flight in fear for our very existence.
"They have killed the King!  They have murdered our beloved King!"  The screams echoed across the glades in the forest where we had built our homesteads.

The Khan, my father, tried to appease them but there was no way to stop this avalanche of hatred.
Seeing their purpose was set for intent, he too tried to flee but their archers caught him on the wing.

As Khanzadeh it was the last image I recall of my father, the moment of his death in a hail of arrows. Caught on the wing.
Caught in full flight.
Caught.

Caw.

Caw.
Caw.
Caw.

Taking flight at no crime, will there ever be a time?
That a child will feel sadness for the murder of crows?

Can they bear to carry on, these simple carrion?
Who here will weep for the murder of crows?

"Hear our cry!" they will warn, as no man will mourn,
For the murder of crows, the murder of crows.

THE END.

Authors Notes:- I was totally fascinated by the term "A murder of crows" which is the main collective noun for a group of crows.  It is said that crows originated from Central Asia which is why I chose to use the term Khan for their leader, this story is told by his son.