“What is your question, little crow?”
“How long will I live? In the human world?”
She paused at this, as if she were thinking about it, even though she really wasn’t. “That is entirely up to you,” she told him. “Just like everybody else.”
With that, a sharp pain ripped through Cobb’s chest, lightning coursing through the length of his body. Fluttering his eyes, Cobb flailed his wings only to find they were arms, kicked his talons only to find they were feet with socks and shoes and laces. The ceiling of the penthouse suite’s master bedroom flashed above him, dizzying and disorienting, the heavy metal cage above somehow spinning on its chain. But the paramedics over him were dressed in blue uniforms and had kind faces, even though they were about to electrocute him again with their terrible, awful machine.
“It’s me!” Cobb yelled, in his own voice, in his own tongue. “I’m alive!”
When they saw that he was alive they celebrated, even as they worked to seal up the wounds, to tape the flesh down, to keep the blood from sneaking out anymore. As they worked, he laughed and cried, then laughed some more until they gave him a shot. Then they lifted Cobb onto a board without any feet, and he felt like he was floating upward, forever upward, the euphoria of being alive lifting him into a sky without end.
Two Years Later
Hawna stood inside the waiting room at Cordova Airport, pacing and anxious. She had watched the giant airliner land, then taxi up close to the terminal. With great anticipation she watched the workers push the rolling staircase into position by the upper door.
As she watched, waiting for Cobb to come out and down the metal steps, Torvo sat across the waiting room from her in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his hand-carved cane propped up next to him. He was pretending to read a magazine he’d picked up from the table, as if he were somehow disinterested in what was going on. But Hawna knew better. For over a year they both thought that Cobb had died, as there had been no call, no letter, no sign. But when he finally did call last fall, she learned that he’d been in the hospital for a very long time, and then had to spend a lot more time locked up in a funny little house, answering an endless list of questions for federal agents. After they let him go, he had called her every night for the past year, as he built a new life for himself in Seattle, found a job, and helped the remainder of his flock survive an icy winter that drowned the city in white for weeks.
“Stop fussing,” Torvo told her as Hawna got ready for another bout of pacing. “He’ll be here when he gets here. You’re just wearing out good shoe leather.”
“Shut up, Dad,” she told him, then paced because she wanted to, because her body wouldn’t let her do anything else. She’d missed him all this time, and from what he told her, he’d missed her too.
People started to exit the aircraft, coming down the flight of steps with bags or briefcases in hand. Two by two, they moved like a line of ants between the plane and the terminal. But after a few minutes all of the passengers had filed past her toward baggage claim.
She looked back at Torvo. Torvo looked up at her, trying to mask the disappointment on his face.
“He said he would be here, on the 4:30 flight,” she told him. “I talked to him this morning. He was on his way.”
“Maybe he got cold feet,” Torvo said, then got up out of his chair with the help of his cane. Still strong enough to teach and bitch, the damage caused by the Red Crow had taken away much of his vitality—but none of his spirit.
“Maybe he missed his flight,” Hawna offered back, even as Torvo came up beside her, hugging her with his free arm. He held her tight, smelling like clove cigarettes and the engine oil staining his old leather jacket.
They watched as the few Cordova passengers waiting in the terminal got permission to head outside and board the waiting plane. After they were aboard, Hawna watched as the staircase was pulled away and the hatch was closed up tight. As the engines started, she put her head down on Torvo’s shoulder, sad, not knowing what to think. Moving forward now, the giant plane started to circle its wheels, to start moving back toward the waiting runway.
That’s when she saw it. A small private plane touching down on the runway with a hop and a skid. As its props slowed, the plane came in toward the terminal with grace, giving the larger, lumbering plane wide berth.
On the tail fin was a beautiful piece of art, of a crow in flight against the rising sun.
Hawna didn’t even realize she was jumping up and down until she nearly clubbed her father with her elbow. But Torvo didn’t seem to mind, as he was watching the little plane come right up close to the terminal, close enough now that even his old eyes could recognize his student behind the stick.
“Son of a bitch,” Torvo swore, his eyes bright with tears and laughter. A minute later Cobb was walking across the tarmac toward them wearing a heavy leather flight jacket. Smashing her way through the waiting room door, Hawna ran right up to him. In response, Cobb caught her and swung her around and around, her feet flying through the air.
“You flew!” she told him when she finally got her feet back beneath her.
“I most certainly did,” Cobb said, with a knowing nod. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It most certainly is!” Hawna said, even as her father hobbled up, looking with amazement at the plane.
Cobb, embarrassed, let Hawna go and stepped up to his teacher with proper respect, ready to be reviewed. As she watched, her father nodded to Cobb, slowly, and Cobb nodded back to him in just the same way. Cobb seemed older now to Hawna, taller somehow, as if he had finally grown into his skin.
The two-in-ones just stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up.
“You look good,” Torvo finally said.
“So do you,” Cobb told him back. “I like your cane.”
“It’s for hitting suitors trying to court my daughter,” Torvo told him.
“Ah,” Cobb replied, trying not to laugh. “I see.”
“So, you fly now.”
“It’s my job,” Cobb said with a laugh. “It’s my profession, now. Flying people from place to place.”
“That’s quite the fancy plane you have there.”
“It’s not mine yet. It belongs to the man I’m working for—and I only have three hundred and forty-nine payments left to go.” Cobb smiled, turned and gestured to the little four-seater with a dramatic flair. “But apparently, I’m a natural pilot, which doesn’t surprise me.”
“It doesn’t surprise me much, either,” Torvo replied.
“I don’t suppose that the two of you would like to come fly with me?”
Hawna smiled widely as her father looked up toward the sun and sky, the first true smile on his face that she’d seen in two years. “I would like that very much, Mr. Cobb. Very much, indeed!”
Hey, there! Thanks for reading ‘The Bitching Tree’ today!
Now that you’ve read my story, if you would take a moment today to leave me a review, I would really appreciate it! Reviews are an author’s lifeblood, and one of the main reasons I’ve been able to sell books like this is because of reviews I receive from readers like yourself!
If you liked the Bitching Tree, know that I have a whole series called ‘The Corax Chronicles’ that details the adventures of the Trickster god Raven in a modern-day world. While Raven and Cobb have yet to meet, there is a host of characters I would love to introduce you to in the other books in my flagship urban fantasy series.
While the first three books in the Corax Chronicles can be found on Amazon…
Crossroads, Book One of the Corax Chronicles : https://amzn.to/2JbU03w
The Valhalla, Book Two of the Corax Chronicles : https://amzn.to/2JcUEO6
The Agate Heart, Book Three of the Corax Chronicles : https://amzn.to/2S7Q8EC
…know that you can also pick up a free prequel novella called ‘Eclipse, Book Zero of the Corax Chronicles’ from my website at scotthungerford.com just by signing up for my monthly informative
newsletter. The prequel details adventure that Raven had back in around 2004, and is a perfect introduction to the overall series if you would like a free taste of what’s to come!
Beyond this, my current plan is to launch a Corax Chronicles bridge novel on Amazon called ‘Nevermore’ in April 2019. This prequel story will carry you over from the first trilogy to the second trilogy that I’m planning to launch in the early fall of 2019, which will feature books four, five, and six in Raven’s ongoing story. Each novel stands as its own complete work, so you can read one, a few, or all of them at your own pace, each with storytelling just as good as what you’ve just read here today!
Again, thank you for reading ‘The Bitching Tree’, and remember to leave me a review! I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading this story just as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it!
Crossroad Sneak Peek
Read on for a look at Crossroads, the first book in the Corax Chronicles
The smell of sea air and wood smoke. Seagulls crying in the wind, calling and answering one another in staccato bursts. Waist-high waves crashing onto the sloping shore in one noisy roaring rush after another. The thick taste of sun-dried kelp on the breeze. Tire tracks in the sand, fire pits on the beach, and children wading through salt-water ripples as the waves came to play. All in all, another perfect summer afternoon on the Oregon coast.
Raven hated it. Not that he really hated it. He actually liked the ocean quite a bit, especially on those fragile summer nights when the melancholy sun finally gave in and drowned itself in the sea. But the ocean was gull territory, and Raven really hated gulls. So endlessly predictable, in how they ate and shat, screamed and fought, always seeking the same stupid updraft to hang upon for the rest of their short, meaningless lives.
Even when he wasn’t in a bad mood, Raven hated predictable. Beauty wasn’t predictable. Nor were sunsets, purse snatchers, or tender, first kisses in movie theaters. These things he could understand, and even influence. But seagulls?
It was like waiting for a rock to do something interesting. Rocks never did anything interesting, not unless you did something to them. Then they were interesting. But never when Raven just left them alone.
Ever since he made his way out of the spirit world, Raven had motorcycled toward the coast on a bike borrowed from a Harleycrow in Vicksburg, Mississippi. The punk may have seemed big and tough on the outside, but a hard kick to the throat and a quick twist of the nuts had left him begging for mercy. Raven was originally just going to steal the Harley, drive off laughing and leave the biker gang to stoop their buddy. But the drunk little fledge had to go and flaunt his human shape in front of Grandfather Raven, and even went as far as threatening him with bodily harm.
That, in Raven’s opinion, had been very stupid. Apart from threatening a living god, any crow who spent his days hopping around on café tables getting drunk off coffee creamer didn’t deserve to have a bike that could roar the panties off a truck stop waitress with a single twist of the throttle.
Ravens, after all, have their standards. Crows, while a damn sight better than seagulls, did not.
So Raven had raced to the Oregon coast on the punk’s ride, from east to west, chasing the setting sun at more than a hundred miles an hour on the straights. Flying was better, but riding the bike was much faster, and much more dangerous, which suited Raven’s mood just fine.
Just as dusk was coming to call, Raven pulled off the two-lane highway that ran through the little coastal town of Freeport Bay, and purred the stolen Harley down a dirt road through an orchard gone wild. At the end of the rutted path lay the Cliffside Bed & Breakfast, perched on the edge of the ocean and forever, with its beautiful bay windows facing out toward the sea. Here, the food was good, the beds were soft, and Raven’s most important possession in the whole wide world lay hidden within.
Parking a bit up the road so he wouldn’t be seen, he left the bike in the weeds next to a rusting minivan with Louisiana plates. Then he sauntered toward the house through the overgrown orchard, the smell of summer apples and twining honeysuckle buzzing in his nose.
Going around to the side of the grand white house, Raven stopped and took a peek inside the first floor bathroom window, checking to see if any ladies were washing up without their shirts on. He was sadly disappointed. Sensing that the window wanted to be open, he managed to quietly lift it up without anyone being the wiser. With a few shakes of his tail feathers he was inside, then he locked the bathroom door tight so he could wash up in privacy. He used a lot of soap and almost all the clean, fluffy, white towels, dropping the dirty ones on the floor and kicking them under the sink with the toes of his muddy boots.
When he was ready, he unlocked and threw open the door with a magnificent flourish.
The kitchen beyond was a riot of white dishes, cast-iron pans, flower-print wall hangings, and driftwood towel racks. Featuring white linoleum, a silver refrigerator, and handmade cedar chairs and tables, it was a comfortable and airy space.
Grace, at the stove, was a sun-weathered California dreamer. In her apron and blue kitchen dress, with once-fair skin wrinkling from too many years in the sun, Raven thought she looked like she was starting to go from mother to crone. But even beyond the wonder of her long black hair, shot through and through with streaks of silver-gray, she still had a few curves going that would put most women half her age to shame.
“Hey, Grace,” he announced.
She looked up at him dully, shrugged, and gestured to the table in the corner.
It was set for one, with a glass of red wine already poured.
“You’re noisy,” Grace said. “My whole kitchen knew you were coming. Salt shakers dancing, wine uncorking. The eggs just about fertilized themselves.”
Raven looked down and saw that he had physically changed again. He was about as old as she was now, bearing his own set of wrinkled, suntanned hands. In the mirror a few moments ago he’d had a touch of rugged Gulf Coast oil rigger in him. But now, he looked Native American once again, older and far more pruney than he would have liked.
Raven shrugged. He was Raven, the Shapeshifter. He was used to it.
Sitting down, he unfolded his napkin, picked up his knife and fork, and waited for his dinner.
“Now, I don’t want you making a fuss,” Grace said. “I’ve got paying customers coming back at nine. I’ve already told Dora to stay clear.”
“Do you think she knows I’m here?” Raven asked. Even as he did so, he looked down at the hem of Grace’s dress, and wondered if anything was going to happen that might make it rise up and show off her legs, just for a moment.
Grace threw a pinch of salt at him, forcing him to preen his feathers.
“No, but I think she might suspect you’re coming to call. We both had the feeling last night that trouble was coming on.”
Grace carried over a plate of burgundy beef, green vegetables, crisped potatoes, and a piece of what looked like the softest bread on the planet. Raven reached for the plate, but Grace yanked it away before he could take it from her.
“Why?” she demanded, holding the plate up high. “Why are you here now?”
“Things are changing,” Raven said. “The hurricanes. The three Sisters. It’s nothing good. So it’s time for us to go again.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Grace insisted, even as she put the plate on the counter behind her, well out of Raven’s grasping reach. “Dora just finished online college. It took her six years of working small-town jobs to pay for every class. She just got her degree, and she’s all graduated and everything.”
Raven looked at the plate forlornly. “You made her do school?”
“She put herself through school. All the way through. It’s been almost eight years since you’ve stayed longer than a single night.”
“I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Well, Dora and I have to go. Now. Tonight.”
Grace shook her head, having none of it. “You’re can’t do that to her
anymore. Dora has a life here. She might even have a lover, not that she’ll admit to it. She’s been acting squirrelly these last few weeks, sneaking down to the beach at night when she thinks I’m asleep.”
“Is it a boy?” Raven said, his mood perking up a bit. He liked it when his daughters had boyfriends. It meant that he could make the suitors’ lives a living hell to make sure they were worthy. If they were, the young, impressionable male would play the role he required of them, then everybody was happy.
Grace rolled her eyes. “Who Dora is dating isn’t the point. You, being you, are allowed to run around all you want in the spirit world. But we mere mortals have to make do with what is right here in the real world. That means getting jobs. Making money. Buying food. Earning a degree. Dora’s worked hard to finish her schooling, to become respectable people rather than road people. Not like any of that means anything to you.”
“Grace, since when do you hear me talking about being afraid of change?”
His admission stopped her cold.
As she looked at him, Raven raised a bushy eyebrow, sighed exasperatedly, and looked forlornly at the out-of-reach plate.
Grace gave him a stare as cold as a double-barreled shotgun as she waited for him to explain.
Raven held his ground under her withering gaze. He resisted the self-conscious urge to preen.
“Fine,” Grace said as she put the plate down in front of him. “What’s going on? What’s the drama this time?”
“Legba’s fucked,” Raven said, tucking into his meal. “I saw the whole thing, and Danielle saw it plain as day. She told me right where to go. Some skirt talked him and the whole family into taking it right up the ass.”
“No swearing in this house.”
“Legba let himself get tricked, I think,” he said around a mouthful of beef. “He went to help somebody that got lost and got caught with his pants down. I got out of there before they could catch me, but not before they knew I was there.”
The Bitching Tree Page 28