• Tristan woke up late the next morning, his head throbbing with pain. However, he couldn’t let a headache get the better of him for he had things to do. Not to wash the windows, sweep the porch, or plant flowers, but visiting. Dressed but hungry he packed a basket to carry for the journey. Tristan stepped outside; the shriek of the hinges on the little wooden door hurt his ears.

    Stonebridge is a peaceful place, not at all corrupted by change. Every residence was neat and clean. There were no dirty windows, loose shingles, or vines crawling up the walls. Birds chirped and flapped their wings while squirrels scurried to find food.

    Ever since his mother died Tristan seldom stepped outside the house. Living on the outskirts meant that being in town no one could remember who he was. He is such a filthy child covered with patched up rags and nothing to protect his feet. He couldn’t afford food either, so he took to stealing from the fields.

    On his way through town, Tristan broke out into a coughing fit that forced him to stop. He coughed again and again until he felt blood on his hands. It hurt his sides and his lungs and caused his eyes to water. A passerby walked his way so he fled as fast as he could to avoid trouble. He didn’t want anyone to see and he didn’t look back.

    Tristan continued to run. The houses disappeared and the land grew flat, changing from short grass to fields of wheat and corn. Suddenly, his foot snagged a root and he fell down, the basket tumbling away. He coughed from the dust and grew dirty all over again. He felt like crying. His life was so miserable being all alone he didn’t know why he stuck around. He had no friends, no family, and not much to call his own.

    He refrained from crying and got back to his feet. Next he picked up his basket that remained closed. Although now he walked until the fields vanished and the wilderness began. The sky was a nice blue with clouds lingering above, casting splotchy shadows over the landscape. Up ahead are rolling green hills and the Crook Mountains in the distance. The rocky slopes took on the colors of summer with brilliant green trees. It made Tristan feel good.

    After hours on foot he reached the base of a hill. Reaching the top he stood still. The shade of an apple tree protected him from the sun as a soothing breeze brushed by causing the tree to stir and leaves to flutter. In front of that tree laid many stones, arranged in a circle around a cross. The wind picked up ruffling Tristan’s hair as he knelt down before his mother’s grave.
    “Hi Mom,” Tristan said softly.

    Time flew by and it quickly turned noon. Tristan lay on the quilt he got from his basket under the protection of the tree. His finger brushed over the smooth stones surrounding the grave. A shadow passed overhead but Tristan didn’t think much of it. He thought more about his mother, about her long hair and pretty face. She would always play with him and talk to him. He could remember…remember the time when the world was clear, the hills were green and the fields flashed with color. Trees bloomed as soon as the sun hit their leaves and the water was full of life. That was back then and this is now. The shadow blew past again and this time Tristan looked over seeing nothing but the Mountains, rays of light that penetrated the clouds spotlighted them.


    The region looked its best when summer hit. The sky is normally blue with white puffy clouds. The mountains touch the sky varying in size, shape, and value but all are completely wild. Down their rocky slopes trees dotted the area. Stonebridge itself took up little space amongst the wilderness however; the farms and fields stained the land with golden wheat and vibrant greens. The real haven started when the fields vanished into grassy plains. The wind combed through blades of grass creating a flowing sea of green, broken apart by freshwater streams. Next came the rolling hills, one of which held the grave of Catherin Gale.

    The shadow shot by followed by a torrent of wind. The gust disturbed the apple tree causing its fruit to fall. Tristan covered his head to protect himself hearing loud sounds of flapping, a hard thud, and a soft shift. Tristan moved his arm so he could see the ground. His brown eyes followed the wide black rim and a large top hat, something he hasn’t seen before. Next to the hat he saw large black claws and a scaly foot.

    “Sorry ‘bout that. Darn hat just doesn’t want to stay put,” It said. A large black wing reached over and picked up the hat before placing it on its head. Tristan screamed in fright which ruffled the bird’s feathers.

    “Pipe down boy!” It squawked, flapping its wings. The gust they made was enough to quiet him down.

    “What are you?” Tristan asked.

    “A crow, haven’t you ever seen one?” The black bird asked. Tristan shook his head.
    The bird cawed.

    “I’m not here to hurt you Tristan now let’s go,”

    “How do you know my name?” Tristan asked.

    “That’s nothing important now come one! We got to go. Come on!” It squawked, flapping its large wings. Tristan climbed to his feet. “Where are we going?”

    “Boy you ask too many questions!” the crow scolded. However, he couldn’t blame him for his suspicions. The bird stretched his wing, the large black feathers draping over the boy’s shoulder.

    “Listen here; I have come to take you to your mother. She’s been gone for a while and she misses her son,” Tristan hung his head at the mention of his mother. “You still miss her don’t you?” the bird asked, its wing folding back. Tristan looked back at his mother’s grave.

    “Yes,” he mumbled.

    “Well then, let’s go already!” it cawed. Tristan looked up at the bird. The crow is much larger than him, about three times larger. Its hat shielded its eyes but not its devil-like smile. Wrapped around its neck are a red ribbon and a large red bow. A strange bird he is.