User:The Koromo/The Legend of the Hightown Crow

The Legend of the Hightown Crow by Cheese Lord The traveler's last drop of water trinkled out onto his hand, drying in almost an immediate instant as a result of the baking, scorching sunlight which drenched him in heat and left him helpless against the rays. A few days ago, the traveler's luck had run thin during his cross-country travels. On his way through the Mojave Desert, his car had broken down, run out of gas entirely. He had began his trip in Kingstown, Massachusetts the previous three weeks, taking a mild majority of breaks, most of these involving crashing in worn out, two star inns that stank of must and old age, but all that didn't matter to him; sleep came first, specifically in the eyes and mind of a devote traveler. Most may wonder of the motive of this man, but do duly note that in his mind, the thrill of his traveling is entirely for that alone - fun. There was no work-related voyages, business trips, or mindless industrial drudging, and was entirely not needed on his adventures. He had explored the majority of America's states, often leaving his cottage home in Kingstown, Massachusetts for a short or long-winded drive (in this case, being the latter). He had no children or spouse, so he needn't make them worry of his long and occasionally treacherous adventures. A definite example of the aforementioned "treachery" was evident in this particular venture. Days before, his car had suddenly shuddered to a stop in the middle of the Mojave Desert, California. Upon further inspection, the traveler (who shall henceforth be referred to as Charles Ray Keenan, his full title) discovered that the fuel in his car had drained entirely, leaving him isolated in the middle of the scorching desert, no end in sight amongst the oceans of dirt and sand. Charles, luckily for him, had been prepared for a situation like this from the beginning - he always was, specifically on lengthy travels to more foreign, distant states in the large country - packaging various water coolers and other refreshing beverages, consumption items, and health safety kits in the trunk of his middle-aged car. He also managed to wedge a few more less needed items into the cluster of useful or semi-useful contraptions in his car's trunk. Time had proved itself to outmatch Charles in a matter of days, however. Charles' water coolers had drained completely, as did the just as equally mandatory need for food. Charles' voracious appetite and thirst in the vast regions of sand had caused him to overlook his true destination (that being returning to civilization) and devour copious amounts of beverages or food products, in a hastily planned and paranoid attempt to keep himself up to shape (specifically as he did not know when he would come back to contacts with civilized society). After about two and a half days of endless drudging and mindless drek, Charles began to collapse underneath the sunlight's searing rays. His water supply had ran out completely, rendering him useless against the tirading onslaught of seemingly unstoppable heat and blistering hot sand, which even proved itself to pierce through his shoes and onto his feet. In a vain attempt to keep his sanity and his own life, Charles refused to give in to despair entirely, and began crawling helplessly through the desert sands, leaving a full-body drag track. After various hours remaining beneath the sun, Charles' vision dimmed, his ears blurred, and he faded out of consciousness. The thereafter dream Charles experienced following the loss of consciousness was rather queer, if Charles himself needed to describe it. The dream in itself was considerably morbid, though it would prove to become child's play in comparison to the subsequent nightmares that would dominate him in the following nights. Charles' imagined himself on the steps of a large, intimidating Cyclopean structure that stretched considerably above the skyline. The entire vicinity resembled an oversized church. Charles could not be certain of the subsequent events following the dream, but he recalled a low, perverse, and strangely humane bellow coming from what seemed like a cavern among a network of other stone chambers. Charles' dream fantasy was plummeted back into reality, as his consciousness began to slowly but surely resume back into the real world. After a few minutes of half-sleep, his eyes finally fluttered open. Charles' eyes were greeted with the familiar sight of a dusty, creaking household ceiling fan in his line of sight. Charles' groaned, sitting up and coughing the seemingly ancient, discarded dust from the ceiling fan above him. In the midst of his confusion, he did notice a window in the small, wooden room with creaking planks and dusty, unloved furniture. Upon hauling himself from the creaking, springing bed and looking out the window, he was assured he was still in the alien, foreign desert in which he had ventured the past few days. Outside were a collection of "ye Old West" townhouse buildings, and the familiar sight of sand and tumbleweeds. It looked as if he was within a scene from an ancient, laughably tedious Western film. Wheelbarrows and hay lay strewn at random turns or alleys between buildings, seemingly uncared for. There were a few larger, more robust buildings, particularly a church that towered a considerable bit over the other buildings in the area. A soul outside, Charles did not see nor hear through the window. The only sound he heard was a distinct, rather loud cawing of corvidea, specifically crows. It was then Charles' sense of hearing came to grasp with the faint, ever so familiar sound of sizzling and bubbling. The sharp, doorless corner lead into some unknown corridor of wherever Charles was in, and he immediately thought of the comforting sound of a breakfast treat, preferably bacon, frying on a frying pan in the early hours of the morning. Charles grinned, taking in the delightful aroma of eggs and ham. Wherever the smell was emanating from, he would feast - he would let no food go to waste after starving in a desert! Charles' followed the odorous delight through the corridor, finally approaching a wooden door that looked like it could be unhinged at the slightest touch. Suddenly, without a moment's warning, Charles began to feel a deep pang of dread in the pits of his stomach as his hand gripped the limp, wooden knob. Charles wiped off a trinkle of sweat from his brow, and shrugged the feeling off nonchalantly. Putting aside all hesitation, he opened the door. Contrary to Charles' expectations, the door did not unhinge or crack, but merely creaked loudly as it was pushed open. Beyond the door, there was a visibly short, straw-hatted old man hunched dangerously over the stove, in which he was fixing a scrumptious smelling bacon and egg breakfast. He whistled tunelessly as he did this, before turning his gaze upon noticing Charles. He smiled crookedly, revealing an array of mostly missing teeth. Turning off the stove and placing the eggs on the small, two seated table in the kitchen, he began to speak to Charles in a raspy, thick and somewhat stereotypical "farmer" vocalization. "Aye! I'm glad yer' up, laddy!" His crooked grin then expanded into a full smile, revealing once again those teeth, or rather, the lack of the majority of them. Before Charles could do, say or ask anything, the elderly man motioned to the table, beckoning Charles to take a seat. He did so. The old man also sat down as well, across from Charles. He placed a quad of silverware in front of him - a fork and knife for himself and a fork and knife for Charles, whom he gave the latter to before Charles could reach out and pick them out by himself. In spite of the nonchalant atmosphere in the room, Charles had obvious curiosity and questioning for this elderly man. "Sir, what town would this be?" Charles asked in his deep, baritone drawl, struggling to overcome the splendid aroma of the food beneath him. "In what desert and village am I?" The old man frowned quickly, but then his face quickly mutated back into a smile. He laughed, and Charles was unfortunate enough to be in the line of smell. Charles nearly gagged at the old man's tooth smell, an odorous stench that stank like an unholy cross between vomit and defecation. To avoid sounding impolite, Charles choked back the smell and smiled, as the elderly man began to speak once again. "Y'er in Heighton, lad," he explained, a hacking cough erupting from his mouth. "I'm s'prised ya never heard mah name b'fore. Oh right, mah name's Revern'd Michaels. Nice'ta meetcha. What's yer name, boy?" "Keenan, sir," Charles responded. "...Charles Ray Keenan." Charles, however, was not going to lose his opportunity of asking vital questions to this elderly man - he needed to express the important need to know where exactly he was and how he had ended up there. "Why am I here? What is going on?" "Aye," the old man, Reverend Michaels replied, "me and some of'tha ot'er townsfolk found ya ly'n off in the des'rt. What w're ya doin' out there, not sure I wan't ta know, lad! But yer here now, and ya need some shelter b'fore ya contin'ya on yer ventures, s'that correct?" "Yes, sir, that is exact." Charles attempted to avoid sounding awkward or stupefied, but his voice cracked in slight which he hoped Michaels did not hear. "But I must know...what exactly is this town?" This was a particularly vital question - Charles had not recalled seeing any "Heighton" on any map. Then again, putting unfairness aside, a small desert town would likely not garner much mention in general. "Ah, Heighton, we've all l'ved here fer as long's we all rememb'r." Michaels sounded another hacking cough. Charles didn't notice it at the time, but it sounded rather excruciating. "Us townsfolks 'ere only gots a populat'n of fifty-four folks. N'much people knows 'bouts us, but I myself'm kin'a known 'round some places. N' we love crows. Each'n everyun of us gots at least one pet crow. They're stunnin' animals, if ah do say so mys'lf!" "Yes, indeed they are," Charles complied, the so-called reverend's words bringing to mind the bloodcurdling cawing of crows he had heard earlier. However, Charles did find it odd in the way that this old, crooked man spoke of the crows. Something about the elder's raspy, croaking tone was off-putting on Charles' ears (and the stench of his breath certainly did not help!) Charles also pondered why anyone in their right noggin would keep a corvidea for a pet. Almost immediately after this peculiar thought, however, the elderly reverend motioned for Charles to eat, breaking his train of thought. Without hesitation of a second thought, Charles immediately dug into the delicious breakfast item, devouring the majority of it in a matter of minutes. Charles was too food-depraved to care about seeming polite or not in this situation - classless as it was, Charles was desperate to fill his stomach, and figuring the old man had found him wasting away in the desert, he should thoroughly have been able to understand. Charles was only a sliver from satisfied even after downing so much breakfast delight. Decaying in a desert was certainly not fun, but he figured that an apple or some type of fruit after the mainly pleasing morning repast would be enough to satiate his remaining hunger. Afterwards, Charles was back to the initial, and even far more important issue of getting back home. Charles rubbed his chin just below his graying mustache, removing any leftover crumbs. "Sir, I fear I am in dire need of a vehicle to find my way back to my home. I assume you own a wheeled vehicle of some sorts?" "Ah down't," the old man persevered crookedly in response, and Charles let a pang of dread rise above the mires of his throat once again, though this time it was more of a feel of desperation rather than fright. Without vehicular assistance, how would he escape from this damned desert? In spite of this, the old man continued to speak. "Ah do know some'un who does, tho. 'S name's Rodney. He lives up on that hill near tha big church in the middle of the v'llage. Ya can't miss it, bucko. I dunno 'bout his car though. Tha last time I saw it, t'was rusty n' beat up to all hell. It'd probably work tho. Come back ta me if ya need anything afterwards, boy-o." "Very well, understood, sir." Charles meant to say this with more grace and kindness, but his voice fell flat. "Thank you very much for taking me into custody for a night, sir. Have a fine day." Charles stood up, using the sliding glass door (which was inconveniently placed right next to Reverend Michaels' stove in the kitchen) and exited, stepping out into the heat of the sunlight once again. "Lurd haf mercy on 'is soul," Michaels said from inside the house, inaudible to Charles' ears, "cuz tha town will show 'im none."