SEVENTEEN
Where a murderous rookery of noisy crows discussed such world events.
August 4th, 1914The dawn seeped slowly over the eastern slope of the valley, a sickly pale grey-yellow wash, so faint, so vaporous, that only the deep black shadow of the valley sides, standing stark against the diffused pale luminosity, could delineate where night ended and day began.
Jeb Fulcher tested the blade on his scythe again. He already knew that it was sharp, honed to an edge so keen that you could shave the fluff from the soft pale-peach skin of a baby’s back and leave not a mark, but it gave him something to do, something to fill his hands with whilst waiting for the wan, sickly dawn light to thicken.
Vague grey shapes, mere outlines, of the other reapers swirled around the edge of the field, 24
