Autumn is a time of
tumbling, whether it be from the arms of a tree or into the on-coming
winter. It is a time for farewell, whether it be to the leafy green
forests or to the child being sent off to school. It is a time for
rest, whether it be for a short while or forever.
Death pushes the incapable south with a
breeze from his wing. The few that remain prepare for the inevitable
struggle. The black birds of his image will prey on those who have
fallen, but for now they replace the leaves on the branches with
their big black bodies. They paint the sky black and fill the void
with their cries to the spirits. Death holds the souls in his talons,
but occasionally allows one to go free when the crows and ravens beg
him to do so.
It is a time of decay. Pumpkins are
grown to their personal peak, flourishing in the ecstasy of
nourishment, only to be torn away from their roots, their home, to be
slaughtered for amusement. These pumpkins become shells of their
former selves, with their horror sketched, carved, onto their bodies.
Their innards are prepared, like some ancient funeral rite, into a
treat for their captors, their killers, to eat. Then they, the
devoured and mutilated, are thrown away, left to the elements to that
decay's invisible hammer may slowly finish the pumpkins off. Then
they, like the leaves, will disappear forever, taking their eternal
rest.
Pine needles fall to the ground like
kindling for the autumn burning. As the season progresses, they join
the leaves in hordes to set the forest floor on fire. The crackling
and rustling of the widespread influence reminds the inhabitants to
find food, digging through the ashes for the phoenix egg to keep them
warm through the winter. Their stomachs will get full, their stashes
filled, or else they will fill another's. All the while, the carvers
of the pumpkins prepare for the spirits with a festival of the dead.
Masks are put on, and treats are giving out. While the world solemnly
prepares for the frozen embrace of Death's wing, the carvers
celebrate the misfortune of others, angering the dead, and binding
them to the tradition. Then, once the children have had too much, the
carvers prepare for a feast, another celebration. Then a turkey is
slaughtered for every house, an example of the ease that the carvers
live in. Then they feast on the remains like jackals of the barren
desert. When satisfaction has filled their fat bellies, they rest
with little thought to the suffering of those in the wild, where a
heating fire is Death's beak, pecking at the homes of the forest. The
ceiling collapses on their heads and then they suffocate, becoming
the dust in their lungs.
Death perches on the sky-bound moon and
observes how his influence has shaped the forest of his white sister.
The haunting light sparingly reveals the desolate land, where bare
arms shiver with fear and cold as they reach for the salvation of the
warm sun. Death's children, those of the black flight, restrain these
outstretched branches with their piercing talons and overwhelming
numbers. They are the masters of late autumn, the symbols and
messengers of their great father. His mighty cold comes over the
land, chilling the bones of the dead. Days shorten as it all falls
into his domain, and then the ice is sent from the gray sky. The
silent winter arrives, bearing the misleading snow of his sister's
color. The sparkling beauty tempts the foolish to bound into Death's
cold domain.
Still, the sons of Death paint the sky
black. Their cries echo through the dark abyss of being.
-Zero
