Blindness

Blindness

Blind, waiting, listening intently. A crown of hills cradle a quiet valley, shaded and melancholy. Incapable of surmounting the precipitous slopes, stood at the single lowest point alone, painfully alone. Hunger gnawing at the tattered edges of sanity, ribs showing clearly, breaths quick and pained.

Death waits patiently in the shadows, leaning on his scythe. It is only a matter of long, agonising passage of time

A turbulent river, a flowing, a rushing of feeling as it washed through tired muscles and ligaments, awareness of a pulsing of adrenaline and the quickening of already strained breath, all caused by the most minuscule of sounds disturbing the quite melancholy of the lonely hills. The sound’s volume slowly increases but with blindness there is naught to do but wait. Footsteps become articulate, a quiet padding of soft feet against hard stone, yet without a pause they fade into the darkness that surrounds the valley. The river abates, the once rushing blood slows and so too does the breath.

Once again the vigil commences, a vigil of ears and mind for the eyes show only darkness.

A cooling marks the passage of time; snail’s pace at first, the harsh heat of the day abating as a chill begins to bite at famished sides. A freezing wind snakes across the earth, icy tendrils slipping through flesh; mist forms before the mouth, and legs shake slightly with fear and fatigue. Now is not a time to be alone and exposed. Exhaustion causes one’s strength to waver; a silent debate takes place. Is now the time to rest? But fear and instinct prevail, Hunger gnaws. The night opens its icy hands, a far from welcome embrace. 

Adrenaline, a harsh sound starts to total awareness, white, blind eyes franticly search; ears painfully aware, and once again the legs shake. A sharpening pain causes knees to buckle, except that death has yet to tighten its grasp, a long time before release and so once again to tired feet. The sound is gone, adrenaline abates. Again a vigil of ears and mind waiting for exhaustion to take over the soul.

Ragged breathing marked the change. Pained breaths surged in and out. Temperature begins its inexorable decline, Death humming in the shadows.

Suddenly a sound caused elation to flutter in breast. One’s own kind nearby, suddenly a belonging, suddenly no longer alone. But too weak to call, too blind to find a way. Death mumbles in the shadows.

A change occurs, not in light or position, but sound. Slowly the crickets stop their nightly calls, a single bird begins its song. Terror accompanies the call though the reasons why are not known. Adrenaline surges and the heart pounds" but once again nothing happens, and the fear recedes, its apex reached.

Terror, marked by the sounds in the bush. Breathing, already ragged, reaches new levels. Pain forgotten, weakness ignored, awareness and survival take hold. But still to remain still, to stand frozen upon feeble legs, to weep within the mind for a glimpse lost. Unable to express. The sound again closer, a low murmur accompanies the shifting of leaves. Terror. The adrenaline runs. Closer and closer. Weakness becomes less, in desperate preparation for the final flight.

A wild dash racing away from danger, up the steep slope, the cause of fright perceived to be in close pursuit. Hunger and exhaustion take their toll; legs collapse. A scramble to ones feet but a pressure on the back holds the body down. Turned around, blind eyes flailing vainly searching, the body somehow immobile. A blade begins to separate skin.

A thrust to the jugular and blood leaks out the new wound. Death sighs in the shadows, and hefts his scythe.

The blade continues to separate the muscle and tissue, staining the blade and its wielders hands crimson with life. Yet with warm blooded proficiency the hand manipulates the blade to slice open even more of the neck, allowing blood to pool freely on the ground. The mind’s struggle abates, total darkness closes around its soul.

The figure kneels next to the staved form of the sheep, quietly cleaning hands and blade on the taut skin and wool. Now the farmer pauses, a single tear wells up in her eye but doesn’t fall. Sheathing her blade she slowly stands and gazes with sadness and no small part of torture at the starved, derelict form. White empty eyes look back, not judging, not anything, just open. The farmer rises and begins to walk away, leaving the single tear on her weather worn cheek where it glistened unhindered in the afternoon light.

Collecting her radio she speaks into it quietly, though easily heard:

 “Another one gone. Curse the Saint.”

Releasing the button she smiles sadly at the response.

“Aye. With livestock comes deadstock.”

“C’est la vie” she responds with a small chuckle.

But it was a sad smile that she took home.

Author's Note

"Saint John’s wart is a weed that causes ‘sensitisation’ in the livestock that eat too much of it. In this tale the sheep has become sensitised and consequently gone blind. Unable to follow its flock and find food it slowly begins to starve to death. There is little a farmer can do to help a fully blind sheep like the one described. Instead the farmer will give it a quick and relatively painless death. There is disagreement as to how is the most humane way to kill a sheep in these situations. This is based on a true story."
This story was written by my brother, who asked me to post it up on the site. I have changed nothing of the grammar or content, only spelling.