fiction - brigits_flame - reprisal

[hwango]

The scent of roses is thick in the air. On the one hand, Tim thinks this is only natural, considering the overwhelming quantity of the flowers that surround him. On the other hand, Tim is having trouble remembering whether prior to now he has ever smelled anything while dreaming. This, in turn, causes him to doubt whether or not his current experience is actually a dream.

He takes a few steps closer to the nearest rosebush, which sports blossoms of an unlikely and particularly electric shade of blue. Their aroma possesses a subtle hint of ozone.

“Pardon me,” Tim asks a small rabbit wearing a straw hat that is busily watering the bush with a tiny tin watering can. “I was wondering if you could confirm that this is, in fact, a dream?”

“Piss off,” says the rabbit. “I’m busy.” A tiny flash of lightning arcs between a thorn and the watering can, and the rabbit curses like a pirate.

Tim supposes that this indirectly answers his question. He is fairly certain that rabbits are much more polite in the waking world. Or at least he cannot recall one ever being rude to him while he was awake, which is very nearly the same thing.

Wandering a bit further up the path, Tim leaves great gouging boot prints in the soft brown earth with every step. He feels guilty about this, but is reluctant to go barefoot in so unusual a dream, and traipsing about such a beautiful place in his grungy tube socks feels altogether inappropriate.

Tim pauses now and then to inhale deeply from a random blossom. The novelty of this strange new dream experience appeals to him greatly, and he impulsively plucks a particularly fragrant rose and places it in the lapel of his coat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim spots a scarecrow. At first this seems incongruous simply because the scarecrow is truly hideous, and the flowers are so lovely. Upon further reflection, Tim decides that it also feels out of place because crows don’t seem like a typical pest for roses.

Why have such an ugly feature in such an otherwise beautiful place? For some reason, Tim holds the scarecrow accountable for its own presence in the garden. He stoops, picks up a small stone from the path, and hurls it at the scarecrow’s hat.

The scarecrow ducks out of the way, and the missile sails harmlessly overhead. The wretched thing straightens, secures its hat more firmly on its misshapen head, and then lurches forward determinedly. It storms out of the field and strides directly up to Tim, who is paralyzed by equal parts embarrassment and terror.

Up close, the scarecrow towers several inches above Tim. The difference in their relative heights is augmented considerably when the creature grabs ahold of Tim and hurls him to the ground.

“You think that was funny?” the thing roars at Tim as it grinds his nose into the dirt path. “And what the blazes do you think you’re doing wandering around my garden in the first place?” The scarecrow looks back along Tim’s route and sees the line of footprints marring the otherwise pristine soil. It splutters incoherently in rage.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Tim manages to say in spite of having his lips mashed into the dirt. “I didn’t realize I had dreamed myself such enormous boots.” Tim is roughly heaved back onto his feet. A spindly twig finger is shaken menacingly at him.

“You dreamed yourself here?!” the scarecrow shrieks. “What is wrong with you people?” Then the scarecrow seems to notice for the first time the rose in Tim’s lapel, and its rage transports it beyond speech.

A huge crow swoops down and alights on the scarecrow’s shoulder.

“I’m with you on this one, boss,” the bird says to the scarecrow. “You can’t let this sort of thing go unanswered. Swift and terrible reprisal and all that. You know how unredressed wrongs just fester. Or curdle. I can’t recall which – it’s been a while since we’ve left one unredressed.”

The scarecrow is still furious beyond words, and does not reply.

“You could pluck off his nose!” the crow suggests eagerly. “That’s poetic justice sort of stuff right there. Always a classic, poetic justice.”

Tim would very much like to strangle the crow, but fears such an act will not improve his current predicament. Waking up would seem to be the most direct method of escape, but he does not appear to have any control over such things. Desperate, Tim attempts diplomacy.

“Truly, uh...sir...I am very, very sorry. I came upon your garden entirely by accident. As to the rose, I admit that it was quite thoughtless of me, and monstrously selfish. But it did smell ever so lovely, and I did not believe I was doing any real harm, as it was only a dream.” Tim’s words do not calm the scarecrow as much as he might have hoped.

“Ah, because things that happen in dreams don’t really matter, is that what you’re telling me?” the scarecrow asks.

“That was my understanding, yes,” admits Tim.

“We’ll see about that,” the scarecrow says, the words thick with menace. Then its demeanor softens ever so slightly. “But I’ll not take your nose. That’s far too cruel.” Tim realizes that the scarecrow, having a sack for a head, has no nose of its own. Can it not enjoy the scent of its own roses, he wonders? How sad that would be.

“But I will pluck something off,” says the scarecrow, neatly shattering the sympathy Tim had begun to feel for it. The scarecrow reaches for Tim, and he screams.

Tim awakens, thrashing violently at his blankets. He stumbles out of bed and presses his hand to the side of his head. There is no pain, and there is no blood.

Nevertheless, he is missing an ear.