Portent

Tracing arithmetic figures in damp soil, a young boy listens to the orchestra of birds. Maroon eyes reflect curiosity in pinpricks of red light that quiver like tentacles when he blinks. As it curves around through the finishings of a 6, the finger catches on an earthworm. He carefully hooks it and raises it to a closer viewing distance; he watches it curl and wriggle. So insignificant and dirty--but it is essential to the foundation of healthy soil.
A raucous flap of feathered appendages accompanies a cloud of birds rising from the trees and scattering over the horizon. The worm almost slips to the ground, but the boy catches it in his other hand.
"Anniba! Anniba!" a young girl with tangled hair is running back into the clearing with their cabin. She approaches the boy, trampling the earthy equations with clumsy feet.
"Anniba! This birdie isn't moving; do something!" She has a starling cradled in her pudgy palms. The oily black feathers are dull and disheveled and it's wings are limp and crooked. Upon closer inspection, its chest does not rise or fall.
The boy 's eyes never cease to flare crimson. He looks at his sister, but his fingers continue to straddle the worm--passing it back and forth and feeling it twist into a ring around his digits.
"Mischa," he speaks in a musical tone, "This bird is dead."
She juts her lip out and furrows her brow. Rosy cheeks quiver and eyes swim. "I just wanted to pet it. It's not my fault it broke."
The boy's face refuses to change. He reaches out and presses her fingers so that they fold over the little carcass. The worm squirms betwixt them. He kneels down to his ruined writings, then gently scrapes a hole in the mud. Lifting the starling from his sister's hands, he lowers it into the grave. After a moment, he drops the worm in with the body.
"This way, the worm will help eat the bird, and fertilize the soil. Plants will grow here; maybe even a tree--and new birds will come."
"Can we sing for the birdie?" the girl asks softly. The boy with the red in his eyes nods. The little streaks swirl.
"Ein Männlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm,
Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mäntlein um.
Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein,
Das da steht im Wald allein
Mit dem purpurroten Mäntelein.

Das Männlein steht im Walde auf einem Bein
Und hat auf seinem Haupte schwarz Käpplein klein,
Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein,
Das da steht im Wald allein
Mit dem kleinen schwarzen Käppelein?

Das Männlein dort auf einem Bein
Mit seinem roten Mäntelein
Und seinem schwarzen Käppelein
Kann nur die Hagebutte sein." Mischa's voice pipes like a flute sharp from humidity. Hannibal smooths the dirt over his new equation.

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A little story I wrote about young Hannibal and his sister Mischa. The song is "Ein Männlein steht im Walde" which is featured in Hannibal Rising.

I like drawing Mischa.

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Hannibal tonight!! Whoot!

Materials: printer paper, eraser, mechanic pencil (.7mm)
Time Taken: 10 minutes

This drawing and short story belong to me. No copying, stealing, claiming as your own, or using without my permission (or credit to me). Thank you.

I in no way claim to own the characters Hannibal or Mischa Lecter. They belong to their proper owners.