The Story
Early autumn in the year of our lord 1904, the quaint hamlet of Silvåkra experiences the worst thunderstorm in living memory. People and wildlife take refuge in homes and burrows as lightning wracks the night sky overhead. It is as if some malevolent force is roaring down from the black heavens, intent on doing no good, only to punish.
If anyone would have dared to look outside, they might have seen a hunched, dark figure trudging the muddy path leading up to the old, abandoned mill. They might have shouted “For the love of god, get inside!”, but they would have gotten no response. For the figure has a calling that he can not resist. A voice that speaks to him through the storm.
Chapters
On a barren hill, by a crooked oak A windmill ancient and tall Staring down the sleeping town below It looks so tasty and small
Thunderstorms casting shadows on the window panes The wings on the mill furious Doors creaking open, forced by the wind Misshapen figure gazing in
Aching back flexed in pain Screeching wind, bending trees Dreams of murder wrecks his mind Brings the Grinder to his knees
The millstones churning from relentless wind Grain to flour, bones to dust Creaking stairs, stretching ropes, rusty cogs Plays the ballad of his lust
Face to the wind furrowed by time Cloaked silhouette, murderous mind Cries in the storm on the plain Endless spiral, endless pain
Aching back flexed in pain Screeching wind bending trees Dreams of murder wrecks his mind Brings the Grinder to his knees
None of these eyes will see again Noone will hear their fading screams Noone will ever find the dust from their bones
His wagon creeps along the road Parting the morning mist A mother waving to her son Blowing a goodbye kiss Picking herbs beneath the old oak tree His mother will be glad Boney fingers closes round his neck A laughter loud and mad
The body turning stiff and cold His mind a raging hell The grinder does as he’s been told He has to do it well
The windmill howling through the stones To sounds of carving meat A requiem of grinding bones A hymn of crumbling teeth
The searing fire is growing stronger No use resisting No life no longer
A tapping sound the mother wakes It is the midnight hour And on the porch in moonlit glow A bag of finest flour
The searing fire is growing stronger No use resisting No life no longer
Memories buried underneath Planks and old machinery Once again are given voice Rising up beneath the noise Wings are turning Millstones churning again
Small flies in your web Lead them to the hill Grind their wings to dust Deep inside the mill Little fly Time to die
Know the purpose of your life Dull your mind but sharpen knife Steady hand to cut the flesh Bone and marrow must be fresh Get to carving I am starving agaaaaaaaain
Hear my command Bring the children to the stones I do demand Pay your tribute with their bones Sate my hunger Fill the void with blood and tears
Hear my command Bring the children to the stones I do demand Pay your tribute with their bones Sate my hunger Fill the void with blood and tears Make me stronger Let me feed on their fears
Deep below Water muddy Cloudy eyes Hands are bloody
Reaching up Fingers scratching Surface thick Starts retracting
Foggy mind Slowly clears Screams of pain Endless tears Piercing cries Etched inside Must escape Where to hide?
Still I’m here Underneath Still I need Bones and teeth Let me go Leave me be Must I die To be free
Heads hung low at confession Mourners pass in procession Preachers gaze observing Grinders eyes unnerving
Past the brook and the meadow Preacher chasing a shadow Grips his bible so tight Windmill bathing in moonlight
Face to face with the madness Hunger, fury and sadness Wicked smile of delight Fades away in the night
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