Ork (Part 1) by Richard Wells

Ork can hear something out there in the pitch black night, some noise behind the buffeting of the wind in the eaves. The bed is almost warm. Reluctantly he heaves off the blankets and walks in his bed-socks to the window, pulling back a corner of the heavy curtains. He is rewarded with a view of complete darkness, not even a twinkle of light to be seen. He hears the sound again, an unpleasant sound.

He returns to the already cold bed, lies on his back, covers up to his chin and tries to forget.

At first light he is awake again, dresses and descends the steep stairs to the kitchen. He pulls back the heavy oak door and peers out into the yard. The crow is clearly dead. It’s not the first time, but he still doesn’t know the meaning of these messages.

He fills the wooden pail, moving the pump handle vigorously, watching the live crows circling the beech copse on the hillside. The axe is newly sharpened and he’s able to split the logs with minimal effort, storing them in the large wicker basket by the range.

The bread is stale but it’s all he has and he spreads the almost rancid butter thinly as he watches the kettle come to the boil. The precious coffee is eked out – one small miserly spoonful. He breathes in the smell greedily as he waits for it to brew. The egg sits on the saucer, large, brown, covered in shit and straw. Should he eat it now or save it? He decides to abstain. He chews slowly, planning the day’s work and thinking of his wife. How long is it now – a month?

Victor is pleased to see him and Digger fusses around his feet, tail wagging. Mounted up, Ork allows the horse to find its way along the stony track at a gentle pace towards the town. The trees are in early leaf, an almost blinding green. Occasional gusts of wind, the remains of the overnight storm, blow raindrops from the branches above, onto the passing trio. As they reach the top of the ridge he sees the town spread out beneath, smoke curling from chimneys, the river sparkling in the intermittent sunshine. He can just pick out the men on the bridge, armed men dressed in dark coats. Ork knows he will need to be careful with his work today, more careful than usual.

He stables Victor and looks into the horse’s eyes for a few moments. Digger waits patiently. Ork unlocks the door to the printing room and knows immediately that someone has been there overnight.