The Flock of Luka

Darren’s mom awakes him at 5:15am the following morning with an “Oh for Christ’s sake Darren; why do you have them in bed?”

It takes him a while to adjust to the waking state before Darren gets her point. “Oh…uh… They whined…?” he attempts, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying not to wake the sleeping dogs.

His mother cocks an eyebrow. “Alright honey, but you better get up; your father and I need your help.” She says, smiling as he waves her off to get dressed.

For a while, he stands by his window, watching the sun rise slowly, sending the landscape into a golden haze. It isn’t until Greta barks from behind him that he remembers where he is and that he needs to get dressed.

He opens the door, waiting for Bob and Greta to saunter out, but he’s still too tired to get Chris up from where he still lays on the bed. Lazy bugger.

Darren’s parents don’t get going until 7am, all packed up for a well-deserved three-week holiday, having been promised by Albert, a friendly man who often helps them with the farm, that he’ll keep a close eye on the boys and make sure they do their chores.

He stands there the longest, surrounded by the dogs, watching the dust clouds still. It’s their first vacation since Darren’s birth, seventeen years ago.

Taking the dogs for a walk around the lands, all Darren thinks of his what he dreamt of last night.

He doesn’t really remember it that clearly, at least not the events of it, but he knows that it’s about the boy he saw yesterday. The man with the letter that…- that he never read, that still lays unopened on his desk.

Greta sniffs here and there, Bob following her every movement watchfully. Chris leaps back and forth between undecided marks along their path. And all Darren thinks of is those eyes. Those dark, brown eyes. He knows they belong to the guy with the scarf hanging loosely around his neck. He didn’t see them last night, but he’s absolutely certain that they’re his. And he’s got a funny nose. Kind of crooked, but still suiting him very well.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by Bob’s sharp bark. Alarmed, he looks around then feels the warmth around his foot. Looking down, he finds that he’s stepped in cow dung.

“Great,” he mutters sarcastically. “Just my luck.” Again, the small flock is taunting him, he just knows it. Without another word he starts walking again, trying to get rid of as much of it as possible by rubbing his foot through the, still damp, grass.

That night, Darren reads the letter. Snuggled up in bed with the three dogs – despite his mother telling him to have them sleep in the old barn – he hesitantly tears the envelope open. The paper is old, the text fading. But it’s there.

Darren immediately grasps that it’s from his grandfather. It’s mostly about the dogs. Remember the tales I told you, the Flock of Luka? he reads, frowning. They’re the dogs you have around you now. How his grandfather knew that they are, indeed, around him, he has no idea. But he hopes it’s just a coincidence. They are the Flock of Luka, Darren. They will tell you themselves one day, when they're ready. He eyes the dogs suspiciously before shaking his head dismissively, nope, can’t be true.

The dogs in his bed can not turn into humans; they can not do anything out of the ordinary.

Darren reads the last bit, going a little teary. I love you son. And I always will. You will find your spot on earth and become something big.

Putting the letter down, he sighs, taking an aching moment to miss his grandfather. Turning the bed light off, he’s almost sure that the ‘goodnight’ came from his own lips.