The Bitching Tree

by Scott Hungerford

  The hundreds of crows lining the roofs and the street were strangely quiet. They observed him, marked his features, measured his gait, took his worth, but didn’t immediately start dive-bombing him. Feigning an exaggerated limp, hoping his strange disguise would hold, Cobb hobbled his way down the stone steps and turned away from the shops and stores of his home street. Instead of going toward the safety of the city and crowds, he headed toward the park district on the north end of the hill, to the tangle of streets that would eventually lead down, where he needed to go.

  Wondering about him, dozens of crows followed Cobb like so many feathers blown by the wind. The curiosity noises started to increase as the brave ones circled him, flying close enough that he could have struck them out of the air with a swung fist. But he kept going, faking his limp, stepping around the crows that stopped in front of him to block his passage. While other passersby commented on the strange feathered phenomenon, Cobb said nothing as he walked. He chewed his lip and hoped the crows would just leave him alone.

  When he turned the corner at the end of his building, a small part of the flock stayed on to observe him, while most of the others circled back to continue their watch on the building’s doors and windows. Cobb knew it would just take one crow, just one watcher to discern true from false and it would be all over. If that happened, he would never get a second chance.

  One brave crow landed beside him and chipped at the toe of his tennis shoe with its beak. He kicked out at it, missed, and narrowly avoided having his shoelaces attacked by another. He kicked at that one too, then at a third that came down to the concrete with a hop, getting ready to call the alarm. Desperate, not allowing himself time to think, Cobb ran across the street—narrowly avoiding being struck by an oncoming car, causing the vehicle to honk as it shrieked its brakes. Even as he ran down the alley on the far side of the street, the flock of crows that had been investigating him were startled into flight by the terrible honking noise, tawing to one another with irritation at the threat of the angry car.

  By the time he had run another block, Cobb suspected his watchers hadn’t taken up his trail. Two blocks of running later, dodging from street to street, he stopped to shed the outer hat and the outer layer of gloves. He dropped them with his winter coat behind a trash can. Now in his second layer of disguise, Cobb sprinted, zigzagging down one block and over to the next. He kept away from houses with wide lawns. He chose streets that were narrow and winding and covered by trees, keeping his breathing steady, doing his best to keep his panic under control.

  After what seemed like forever, at the bottom of the hill he peeled off the second coat and ditched it behind a tree in someone’s yard, along with the second hat and the remaining pair of gloves. With any luck he would be able to find them when he came back this way later tonight. For now he would be cold, but he should be able to don his disguise and reenter his apartment if things went the way he wanted.

  As he broke into a jog once again, heading for the long drawbridge that led to the University District, he noted that he’d seen no other birds at all. No crows of any flock he knew. No seagulls or robins, sparrows or starlings or herons. It was like they had all left, sensing the danger, sensing the evil that the Red Crow brought to the city. Cobb had been prepared to fight alone, but not seeing any other birds during his journey disturbed him. It was like the city was abandoned, as if the others had all given up even before the fight was started.

  After walking through a pretty residential district built near a boat-filled marina, he crossed a wide waterway on a four-lane bridge rumbling with passing traffic. Out here in the open, on the bridge walkway under the cloudy sky, he knew he would be most vulnerable. But he didn’t see a crow anywhere in sight, friend or foe.

  Within another ten minutes he finally reached home territory, an area near the edge of the University. Filled with students and shops, parking lots and blind corners; he knew that many crows had met their end here beneath car tires. He instinctively wanted to avoid the boneyard, to avoid University Avenue. But he knew that he had to cross the busy street in order to reach the college, in order to have any chance of finding Old Thom and the rest of his flock.

  Cutting across streets without waiting for the lights to change, Cobb soon reached the University campus. Making his way up a set of stairs, he hustled through a stand of trees along a wide concrete path, even more wary now of winged spies. But like elsewhere in the city, there wasn’t a bird to be seen. He still felt vulnerable out in the open, but had the feeling now that the Red Crow’s army was guarding his apartment, which meant the rest of the city was his.

  As he made his way up the path, green grass and tall trees all around him, he could hear a metal bell tolling somewhere in the University. Students of all ages and sizes walked past him, most lost in reverie with their phones. It felt good to be back, he decided, even though he was as tall as a giant now. Here, everything was familiar, as he knew every drinking fountain, every branch, the location of every secret lawn sprinkler. This place made sense to him, more as a crow than as a man. But it felt good just being here.

  Turning the corner, Cobb headed toward the Bitching Tree, ready to—

  Cut down.

  Gone.

  Missing.

  The severed stump at the base, where the tree used to be.

  Yellow caution tape trembled in the breeze.

  The tree’s canopy of beautiful branches, hundreds of them, all lay in piles atop one other like so many corpses, their fall leaves scattered across the green grass like blood. He could smell the raw, syrupy odor of cut wood, could sense that the power that had once filled the glade was gone.

  The place where human Cobb had leaned back against the tree to receive Old Thom’s feathered passenger, that place was now just a muddy hole in the ground. Tire tracks, heavy ones that left deep ruts, marked the trampled grass in crisscross patterns all around the clearing. The impact point where the huge tree had fallen, just parallel to the concrete path, was now a deep depression in the soil, filled from end to end with standing rainwater.

  Cobb stood there blinking, trying to figure out what he was looking at, trying to figure out what he was going to do. He tried to make himself think like Torvo, tried to imagine what Torvo would see when he looked at the murder of one of the most important trees in the world.

  There was chainsaw dust, lots of it. Each of the branches on the ground had been neatly sheared off. Some of the tire tracks indicated vehicles far bigger than anything he’d ever seen before. There were tracks from regular trucks, too, like Hawna’s. He figured that the tree had been scaled from the bottom up, the canopy removed limb by limb. Then it had been felled, quickly and without fuss, leaving behind only a ragged stump. Then the core trunk of tree was dragged along the path, loaded into a truck, and driven away.

  Cobb looked up, scanned the trees around him for any sign of Old Thom or any of the other crows he knew. But he wasn’t surprised to find that he was alone. He felt his hope starting to fade. The Red Crow hadn’t just conquered the tree; he’d stolen it.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it,” said a man from behind him. Cobb spun around, ready for a fight, but saw only a fat man in a blue security-guard’s uniform. He had a mustache and jaunty hat, and Cobb realized that he recognized him. He was the nice man who sometimes fed him bits of donut behind the library loading dock. He sometimes sang when nobody was around; Cobb thought he had a very nice voice for a human.

  “What happened?” Cobb asked. “How did this happen?”

  “I was hoping you might know. Campus police are looking for anyone who might have information.”

  Cobb turned back to the tree, very glad he hadn’t already bought the chainsaw, because if he had it with him now, it would have been very difficult to explain. “No. I don’t know anything. I wasn’t even in the city over the last month. This is the first time I’ve seen the tree … like this.”

  “The assholes came a few days ago, early Sunday morning—and they were pre
pared. SPD thinks it was a crew of experienced tree-cutters, at least six to eight of them. Nobody questioned the sound of chainsaws, and the few witnesses that came to look were badgered away by guys wearing fake police uniforms before they could get too close. The whole thing took maybe an hour at the most. It’s in all the papers.”

  “Where’s the tree now?” Cobb asked him. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Nobody knows. They found the logging truck abandoned down in Tacoma’s warehouse district, about thirty miles from here. There was no sign of the tree or the men who did the deed.”

  “But why would someone do this?” Cobb asked, hoping to get more information out of the man. Some lead, some way that he could track the Red Crow.

  The security guard shrugged in response. “I don’t know. Maybe somebody wanted some old growth furniture really bad?”

  Cobb shook his head, not sure what else to say. The idea of cutting up the sacred tree to make a coffee table was a very disturbing thought. “I should … I should get going.”

  “Well, if you hear anything be sure to contact the University police.” Cobb nodded and headed away from the remains of the Bitching Tree, to where, he didn’t know. After stumbling down a flight of concrete steps leading off campus toward the boneyard, he just walked from block to block, passing shop fronts, confused and numb. Why would the Red Crow want to steal it? Why would he destroy such a powerful throne? The top crow always took the top branches when the flock settled before roost, held court over all those below. Without the tree to hold court in, how could the Red Crow rule?

  Cobb had to find where his enemy laired. Every crow eventually had to sleep, and Cobb had to assume his enemy was no exception. But now he had no direction. Crows didn’t wield chainsaws; people did. Which meant his enemy was already using the power of the Bitching Tree to bring crows into the world, to make two-in-ones do his bidding. But how was he training them so quickly?

  Those questions would be answered later. Cobb knew now that he would have to follow the Red Crow’s army back to where they roosted. He would have to be patient and track the invaders through the open sky this evening. Only then would he find his enemy’s lair—and, hopefully, the stolen tree.

  As he started the long walk back to his apartment, he pondered the ramifications of what he’d seen. He knew that the Red Crow would be formidable. Now he knew the Red Crow had a group of crows who were experienced in the ways of human customs and machines. Was it possible that they had all been two-in-ones before they came to Seattle? Did the Red Crow’s knowledge of the sacred trees gave him a way to carry them forward from conquest to conquest as his private bodyguards and tool-wielders? The evil shaman had appeared in the cave dream in human flesh—but attacked Torvo in red feathers. Cobb just didn’t know what to think.

  After stopping at a restaurant to eat soup and a hamburger, he also bought a newspaper and read it, slowly mouthing the words as he searched the pages for anything related to the crime, turning each page slowly so as not to tear the delicate paper. A couple of hours later, when he was the only patron left in the restaurant, he still hadn’t found anything useful, even though he’d read the entire thing. As he sipped his Coke, measuring the sun’s afternoon descent, Cobb knew that he would have be very careful, and very lucky, to find the Red Crow’s lair.

  Cobb walked across the drawbridge to the south side of the long arm of water, marveling for a moment as a small blue sailboat bobbed its way toward the ocean, right beneath the bridge, right beneath his feet.

  The late fall sun would start to set soon and Cobb knew that he would need to be ready. He would call Hawna tonight and tell her that the Bitching Tree was gone. Cobb didn’t expect she would be able to help, but it would be good to hear her voice, and to learn how Torvo was doing.

  The long climb back up the hill took Cobb longer than he thought it would, but he reclaimed his inner disguise, and then his outer one. All of the clothes were slightly damp inside and out, but it was no worse than anything he’d experienced on the river. Taking refuge at a covered bus stop a few blocks from his apartment, he sat on the cold metal bench and patiently waited for the flock to head for home to roost for the night. For an hour he listened to the distant, frenzied pattern of cawing and tawing from the army watching over his building. Bus after bus came, stopped and moved on when he didn’t get up from his seat.

  Another hour later, the first outriders started to make their way to the distant roost, winging off the wires and the tops of buildings in erratic groups. They were inky spots against the gray sky, drifting like downy feathers off the hill, and he let the front-runners go on ahead, knowing that the longer he waited, the less chance there would be of him being spotted. Finally, when the bulk of them were in flight, only then did he start to move, following them south and east, away from the Bitching Tree, out toward the vast lake that marked the eastern edge of the city.

  Were they roosting at the park at the bottom of the hill? Cobb wondered. It had a walled garden, with fish ponds surrounded by a bunch of trees that should be able to support a flock that size. Jogging to keep up as best he could, he followed their flight from street to street, all the way down through a neighborhood of expensive houses. But by then he’d lost the flock, the last of the stragglers winging their way out of sight. Disappointed, knowing that it would take a few afternoons to track them to their roost, Cobb labored his way back up the hill again, now very tired after a long day of walking and running around the city.

  It was fully dark by the time he let himself into his building. After going to his apartment, he quickly changed out of his successful disguise back into regular clothes. But when he went to open his shades, he was surprised to see that there were a half dozen ragged-looking crows on the rooftop just across the alley from his windows, at the same place where he’d been picking for worms and bugs a lifetime ago. By this time, any crow should either be at the roost, or if they were a mated pair, at the nest with their family. But these, the way they squatted like gargoyles, they were clearly going to watch him for as long as it took, even as they shivered in the dark.

  Having had enough fear for one day, he waved to them, then stretched and yawned as if he had been asleep. Cobb knew that the Red Crow was too smart to fall for that—but he also knew that crows were simpler creatures. Any bit of confusion he could offer might give him that much more of an advantage.

  Keeping in mind that he was being observed, that they would ultimately report back to the Red Crow, Cobb heated up two cans of stew in a small pan on the stove, his mouth salivating at the rich smell of warm gravy and potatoes. After he ate he called Hawna’s number, but there was no answer, even after many rings. When Hawna’s voice asked him to leave a message, he said that he hoped that Torvo was comfortable and that Hawna was doing alright. He told her that she should call back, because the Bitching Tree had been taken and he needed her help to figure out what to do.

  With that done, Cobb checked the mailbox downstairs in the lobby to make sure there was no package for him, no gun waiting inside, but it hadn’t arrived yet. As he did so, a pair of enemy crows landed on the stoop, looking in through the glass door with curiosity about what he was up to.

  He made a pretense of looking through the envelopes, then closed his box before heading back upstairs. He added these to the stack on the desk. Then he sat down on his bed and sketched the enemy crows for a while, learning their faces, learning their features, so he could recognize them again even through his human eyes.

  When the phone on the wall rang, he was shocked by the loud electronic noise. But as soon as he knew what it was, he picked up the receiver right away.

  “Hello?” he asked, begged, prayed, hoping that it was Hawna.

  “Cobb?” Hawna said back, her voice hollow and tinny down so many miles of wire.

  “Finally!” Cobb said excitedly, leaning against the kitchen wall with relief. “Where have you been?”

  “They wouldn’t let me take Dad home. They moved him to a diffe
rent wing of the hospital instead. I’ve been living there most of the time since. When I called today you weren’t home.”

  “I’ve been out a lot,” Cobb replied, tuning in some big-band music on the radio just loud enough so the crows couldn’t hear his conversation.

  “What’s that in the background?”

  “It’s protection,” Cobb said, trying to keep himself from speaking any louder. “It’s to keep them from listening.”

  “Who?”

  “Spies.”

  “Spies?”

  He told her all about the Red Crow’s flock and how they had his apartment surrounded from dawn to dusk every day.

  “That’s … amazing. You’re not hallucinating, right?”

  “No, I’m not … dreaming. Not dreaming while awake. Is that what that word means?”

  “Yes, that’s what it means.” Hawna’s voice faltered. “Torvo … he isn’t doing well. He took a turn for the worse, got weaker. Last night I saw things in my dreams, Cobb. Things that scare me. Things that I can’t explain.”

  “Like what kind of things?” Cobb flashed on his own memories of confronting the Red Crow.

  “It was one of my old boyfriends in high school. He was visiting me in this cave, trying to get me to talk about you. When I refused, he threatened me, threatened my father.”

  “And you’re in this cave that goes on forever?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the Red Crow for sure. He can take whatever form he wants in there. But you can kick his ass.”

  She thought for a moment, and he wondered if she was smiling on the other side of the phone. “He’s picking on me to get to you. I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

  “No,” Cobb said. “I’m glad you did. Now we know that he’s … frightened. He can’t hurt me, so he’s going after you.”