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The forest sent a small brown nightingale to Tincuta.
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TINKAS WARPED REALITY FULL
She lived in a pretty red hut in a clearing full of flowers, where everything was clean and neat, and even the toothbrushes were arranged to look beautiful, as well as useful.
TINKAS WARPED REALITY CRACKED
Her voice was cracked and clear and told of the joys and sorrows of everyday life. Tincuta was a bright, light spirit with the face of a flower and a singing voice like a blackbird. Birds began to stir, and in the undergrowth, there were sounds of small, brown creatures on the move. In the tops of the trees the twigs began, very faintly, to rustle, even though there was no wind. With that, Death picked up their scythe, and made their way with heavy footsteps back to the village.īut the forest had listened. You cannot know what it is like never to hear songs that are not funeral dirges, and never to eat dishes that are not funeral foods.’ ‘We are rarely welcomed and each house we leave to the sounds of tears and heartbreak. ‘That is not to say we like it,’ said Death, sorrowfully. We are weary, and hungry from our terrible labours, and still there is work to be done.’
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‘We only know that we should come here and take our toll. Their long years had taught them well that it only takes a tiny chink in the foliage to let the light fall in. ‘Why do you carry out this terrible work?’ They asked. We are here now, and we must do what we are sent to do.’Īnd because the trees were old, and wise, and stood quietly and noticed things, they listened to what Death said. ‘Look at the grief you have left behind you. ‘But it is a terrible job,’ said the trees, thinking of the villagers who no longer went courting in the forest, or sat under the trees for shelter, or rest. Death is legion, and comes in many forms, and each has its own tongue. ‘It is not our fault,’ whispered Death in their many voices. But it so happened that Death was resting from their labours, and overheard the forest’s laments. They were crying out to the air because they were in mourning. ‘Why did you come for our village?’ whispered the trees to the sad air. One by one the villagers found themselves short of breath, then gasping for air, then drowning, and as the churchyard began to overflow with coffins, the branches in the forest pointed their bare twigs towards the sky, accusing Death. They came silently, a breath of frost-tinged air wafting in the spaces between conversations, but they were no less deadly because their approach was gentle. They came just before the spring, tiptoeing through the mulch on the forest floor, creeping softly along the paths that led to the houses. Death came to the village on the edge of the forest.