by Jacob Grey
Lydia gave him a smile, then crossed the road. Caw followed her.
It was strangely quiet now they’d left the bustle of the city centre. Even the air smelled different – cleaner, fresher. There were no streetlights and soon there were no pavements either, as Caw and Lydia followed the edge of the winding road up the hill. The crows were almost invisible as they flew between the branches of the pines. Caw stared into the trees, but he couldn’t see further than a few metres before the darkness swallowed the trunks. Occasionally they passed a driveway and the dim shape of a house set well back from the road.
Caw’s nerves tingled and he threw frequent glances over his shoulder. Going anywhere new made him anxious and the more distance they put between themselves and Blackstone Park, the more he worried.
“You’re sure this is the way?” he asked. His voice sounded thin and hollow.
Lydia nodded. “You can’t miss Gort House,” she said. “It’s one of the oldest in the city. My dad and I sometimes come this way at the weekend – we take Benjy for long walks out in the country.” Her face froze. “I mean, we took Benjy for walks.”
Caw glanced at her, expecting to see her fighting back tears. Instead, she just looked more determined.
Lydia was right – Gort House was unmistakable. The first they saw of it was a high wall topped with razor wire, with a double spiked gate. The place looked like it had once been as impenetrable as a fortress – maybe this was what kept Quaker safe from the Spinning Man’s followers during the Dark Summer. But it appeared the cat feral had let the place go since then. Some of the spikes on the gate had broken off, leaving harmless stumps behind.
As they got closer, they saw a long drive beyond the gate, offering a view up to the house. It stood on the top of the hill, silhouetted against the skyline. There was a moss-covered fountain in the middle of the front courtyard and the babbling water glistened like silver in the moonlight. The house was three storeys high with a tower at each corner and battlements running across the top. Once it might have been painted bright blue, but time had faded and chipped that away until all that remained was a dull grey. Arched windows sat at irregular heights across the front and sides, and ivy crept over the walls like it was trying to smother them. A single window on the first floor was dimly illuminated.
“Shall we?” said Lydia, placing a hand on one of the railings.
Caw nodded. He boosted Lydia to the top, then scrambled up after her.
“You’re stronger than you look,” said Lydia, carefully climbing over the section of the gate where the spikes had fallen away.
Caw blushed as Lydia lowered herself over the other side. He followed, dropping and landing in a silent crouch.
Not all of the grounds of Gort House had been left to moulder. Well tended gardens lined the driveway up to the front of the house, the hedges all elaborately shaped into cats. Caw noticed that the fountain was a sculpture of cats playing, the water spouting from their mouths. His footsteps crunched on the gravel path. He couldn’t help feeling like they were being watched from one of the many windows. His pulse raced as he lifted the heavy knocker – a paw shaped in cold iron.
Thunk! Thunk! The sound was deafening.
Caw took a step back and waited. His crows were perched high on one of the turrets, out of sight. Weird, he thought. Yesterday they’d have been dead against a trip like this. But they’re barely saying a word.
It was almost as if, now the truth was out, they were willing to go along with his wishes. Whether or not that was because their respect for him had grown, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was just that he was being more stubborn.
The sound of footsteps came from within, then the squeal of a key turning. The door opened with a creak, just a few centimetres, and a green-eyed cat slunk out, winding itself around Caw’s legs.
Caw’s gaze travelled up a pair of baggy purple trousers to a substantial gut hemmed in by a matching purple waistcoat with quartz buttons. Over the top, the man wore a woollen jacket the colour of a tangerine. His face was broad and ruddy-cheeked, with a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache twisted at the ends to look like whiskers. His small eyes glinted suspiciously, one slightly magnified by a silver-chained monocle.
The cat at Caw’s ankle slipped back inside. A moment later it hopped up and rested on the man’s shoulder.
“Felix Quaker?” said Caw.
“And who might you be?”
Caw hesitated, wishing he’d thought this through more. Everything depended on what he said next.
“What, cat got your tongue?” snapped the man. He smiled creepily and Caw caught a glimpse of small, spiky teeth behind his lips.
“My name is Caw,” he said. “I’m a feral, just like you, and—”
The door slammed shut.
Lydia banged the knocker again. “We need to talk to you,” she called through the door.
“That’s too bad, my dear,” said the man from inside. “Because I don’t want anything to do with you!”
“Please!” said Caw. “We know you’re a feral.”
“I don’t know what you’re blathering about. I’m calling the police. You’d best get away from here before they arrive.”
Caw shot a glance at Lydia. “He won’t call them,” she whispered. “Let’s find another way in.”
They trod as quietly as possible around the side of the house. Halfway around, Glum squawked from a narrow ledge above.
Window on the first floor. It’s not closed properly.
“Perfect!” Caw whispered.
Luckily, the ivy was thick enough to get a firm grip, and placing his hands carefully among the tangle of branches, Caw managed to pick his way up. Lydia followed, looking uncertain. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “It’ll hold your weight.” He’d climbed much weaker patches of ivy back in the park.
He found the window slightly ajar. The leaded glass was so old it had distorted out of shape. Caw prised it open. He couldn’t make out much in the room beyond, apart from what looked like glass cases on tables.
Caw hopped on to the ledge and reached down to pull Lydia up. She wobbled slightly, but he kept a firm grip on her arm and she managed to climb through first. The three crows landed beside Caw in a gust of beating black and white wings. They jostled on the window ledge.
“You’d better stay outside,” said Caw.
If we must, said Glum, settling on to his belly feathers. But be careful.
“I will,” he said.
Screech shuffled alongside him. Move over, chubby.
“Hey, check this out!” whispered Lydia.
Caw climbed into the room and saw her standing beside one of the glass cases. There was nothing else in the room but the tables and the cases. Caw followed Lydia’s pointing finger and gasped. Inside the case was a small wizened hand, wrinkled and brown. “You think it’s real?” he said.
Lydia shrugged, moving to the next case, which contained a curved shield made of glass or crystal, maybe even diamonds, with hairs embedded inside. Caw had never seen anything like it. The third case held a mask made of a thin sheet of metal and shaped into the face of a lion.
“I think that’s gold,” said Lydia. “What on earth is this place?”
“Crumb said Quaker collects stuff to do with ferals,” said Caw. “But this doesn’t look like just some old junk. These things seem valuable. I wonder what else he’s hiding here?”
He went to the door and eased the handle down. It opened smoothly on to a carpeted hall above a sweeping stairway with a banister ornately carved from dark wood. Huge portraits lined the walls, men and women in different historical dress. Were they all ferals? There were black statues of cats, positioned on plinths where the stairway turned. Suddenly one moved, and Caw realised it was alive. It leapt off the plinth and descended the steps like a shadow.
The carpet cushioned Caw’s footsteps as he crept along the hallway. He turned across a landing towards another set of stairs, this time leading up. More glass cases lined the walls of
the landing, and several doors led off it, all closed. Caw was sure he’d never been here before, yet there was something weirdly familiar about the house. He put his foot on the first step leading upwards.
Somewhere below a piano tinkled discordantly, then paused.
“Where are you going?” whispered Lydia. “Sounds like Quaker’s downstairs.”
Caw rested a hand on the banister. His feet moved on, drawing him towards the top of the house – but he didn’t know why.
“Hey,” hissed Lydia. “Don’t you want to look at these?” She was standing by one of the cases, nose pressed to the side. “This one’s a spider necklace!”
A wordless summons seemed to beckon Caw, calling him towards the top of the stairs.
“I just thought – y’know – spiders and all,” said Lydia behind him, her voice dim and distant.
Caw climbed the steps. At the top there was nothing – just a small square landing of bare floorboards and no windows.
“Caw, come back!” called Lydia in an urgent whisper. “Why are you acting so weird?”
He walked to the wall and ran his hands over its uneven surface. He expected it to be cold, but it wasn’t. Lydia hurried up the stairs behind him.
“Caw?” she said. “Can you even hear me?”
He let his palm rest on the wall near its right angle.
“You’re scaring me,” said Lydia. “What’s going on?”
Caw pressed hard, and a section of the wall gave way, turning inwards. A narrow hidden door swung on noiseless hinges. The blood pumping through Caw’s temples subsided.
“How did you know that was there?” said Lydia.
“I didn’t,” said Caw, stepping through. Or perhaps, somehow, he did. The door closed softly behind him.
The room was gloomy, without any sort of light. It had to be in one of the towers, because it was perfectly round, with a single window high up on the wall. It was more like a cell than anything. There was a rickety chair and an old wardrobe, plus a stained sink. But all these details seemed to fade away when Caw’s eyes rested on the object in the centre of the room.
It was a glass case containing a red velvet cushion. And on top of the cushion lay a sword almost a metre long, its blade black and slightly curved – wide at its base, sharpening to a deadly point. It looked like some ancient artefact dug up from the earth and polished until its surfaces gleamed. The hilt was protected by several looping metal talons and covered in a thin layer of what looked like black leather. There was writing engraved along the length of the blade.
“What does it say?” he asked. His voice was little more than a croak.
Lydia peered closer. “It’s some strange language,” she said. “Weird symbols. Listen, there’s a huge double-headed axe downstairs. Come and see!”
But Caw wasn’t interested in any axe. He didn’t know how, but he knew this sword was important. And somehow he knew exactly the feel of it, the weight, without even holding it. He knew that the sword had been calling him to this room. It wanted to be found. He reached out towards the case.
“Are you sure you should be doing this?” asked Lydia.
“Yes,” said Caw. As his fingers touched the glass, blinding light filled his head, making him stagger back. Images from his dream flashed behind his eyes – his mother’s mouth stretched in fear; his father’s fingers clawing at his throat; the spider ring on the long finger of the Spinning Man.
“Caw! Someone’s coming!” gasped Lydia.
Caw blinked the visions away. Footsteps. Then there were cats streaming into the room, hissing and wailing. The narrow door burst wide open and Felix Quaker surged through. “I can explain …” Caw began.
Quaker grabbed him by the ear. “How dare you break in here!” he said. “Get out!”
He hauled Caw towards the door. Pain burned at the side of Caw’s head. He was dimly aware of Lydia following. “Don’t hurt him, please!” she was saying. “We only want to talk.”
Quaker dragged Caw out of the room and into the hallway. Caw stumbled to keep his balance, bent over almost double to stop his ear being torn off his head. The cats flooded after them, yowling all the time.
“You little rats!” Quaker snarled. “I’ve a good mind to … What on earth?”
Caw heard the whip crack of wings and Quaker stumbled back, as Milky, Glum and Screech shot into the room. “No! Don’t!” Caw said, as the crows descended on the cat feral. At the same time several cats leapt into the air. Caw flinched as they dragged the flailing crows to the ground, pinning them easily. Quaker straightened his waistcoat, licking his lips as he surveyed the crows.
“Please!” Caw said. “The crows are just trying to help me!”
The cats looked up to their master, eyes gleaming hungrily.
“Maybe it’s time to give my darlings a treat,” said Quaker, his voice cold. “After all, this is my house.”
Do your worst, cat talker, said Glum, squirming under a paw.
Caw, said Milky, calmly. Leave us. Go now.
The white crow’s voice took Caw by surprise. It gave him courage. He hadn’t come all this way just to desert his crows. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I came here to talk to Felix Quaker about my parents and the Spinning Man.”
Caw, you must flee this place! said Milky, his voice more urgent.
Quaker twisted the ends of his moustache and looked at Caw curiously. “I admire your tenacity, my boy, but as I told you – I have nothing to say. Now get out of my—”
The front door below crashed open with a bang. Between the wide columns of the balustrade, Caw saw three drooling dogs stalking through the entrance hall. A shadow fell on the carpet from outside, and then Jawbone’s huge bulk stepped over the threshold.
aw jerked back out of sight. “It’s Jawbone!” he said in a whisper.
Quaker’s whole demeanour changed at once. He seemed to transform from an eccentric hermit to a creature of stealth, moving like liquid to press himself against a wall. He shot a glance down the stairway and made a clicking sound in his throat. Instantly, his cats sprung up to gather at his side, releasing the crows. Glum let out a pained squawk and the dogs below growled.
“Looks like you’ve grown lazy in your old age, Quaker,” said Jawbone. “You don’t want to let guys like me get into your hideout. Now come out, little kitty. I know you’re here. My pretties can smell you.”
Felix Quaker pulled Caw’s ear up to his lips. “You’ve done enough damage. Now get out while you still can!”
“But …” Caw began.
The sound of the snarling dogs grew closer.
“Come on!” said Lydia. She darted downstairs into the room with the glass cases and Caw followed with his crows.
“Don’t bother running from us, Quaker!” bellowed Jawbone. “You’ll only make them angry!”
At the door of the room, Caw stopped. Lydia was already on the window ledge. But something made him drag his feet. The blade – it was calling to him. He had to have it. “Go on without me!” he hissed to Lydia, turning back.
“Wait!” she called. “Where are …”
Her voice died as Caw dashed back, past Quaker and his cats and up the stairs. He bounded into the turret room. Caw, leave it! cried Glum, flapping around his head.
Caw frantically examined the locked case. Nothing to break it with … Quaker must have the key …
From below, he heard the screeching of the cats as they attacked, muffled by growling and snapping dogs. “You’ll pay if you hurt a single one of them!” shouted Quaker.
The growling stopped suddenly.
“Now, time for a little chat,” said Jawbone. “You thought you had us fooled, didn’t you? Acting like some doddery old madman. But we know what you’ve got locked away. Scuttle’s roaches crawled into this dump and found it.” His voice went dangerously quiet. “So no more games now. Take me to the Crow’s Beak.”
Caw heard a couple of heavy thumps. Quaker howled. “Get out of my house, you mangy brute,”
he spat, his voice twisted with pain.
Caw’s eyes fell on the sword. The Crow’s Beak. This weapon – this was what Quaker was hiding. The words spoke to something deep within him. It was his, this blade. The crow talker’s sword.
“Quit stalling, Quaker,” said Jawbone. “Or shall I call Scuttle in? His friends will burrow through your ears and eat your brain. You’ll be able to feel them long after you can even scream. Or Mamba? One bite from her snakes and you’ll be paralysed. I swear to you, Quaker, if I have to skin every cat in this house, one by one, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes to make you talk.”
There was a pause.
“Up there,” the cat feral replied, his voice suddenly flat.
Caw’s skin went cold. There was nowhere to run. He climbed on to the chair, then reached for the window. Too high. Even if he jumped he wouldn’t be able to reach it.
Screech flapped on to the wardrobe. He didn’t need to speak – Caw understood. He hurried across the room as Jawbone’s footsteps thumped up the stairs. Caw threw open the door to the wardrobe and leapt inside. The crows slipped in as well and Caw quickly pulled the door shut. He brought his eye to the crack.
Jawbone shoved Quaker into the room and the man’s monocle fell loose and landed on the floor with a brittle ping. The dogs stopped at the door, sniffing the air. The cat feral was bleeding from both nostrils, and an angry welt had risen under his eye.
If they smell me, it’s over, thought Caw.
But the dogs seemed cautious – almost fearful. Their tails hung between their legs and they didn’t cross the threshold. All three were staring at the Crow’s Beak.
Caw swallowed thickly as he saw that one of the dogs had blood around its sagging black lips. Clearly one of Quaker’s cats had been unlucky.
Jawbone walked around the room, the timber floorboards creaking with every step. He circled the glass case. “Where’s the key?” he snapped, holding out a shovel-like hand.
“It’s downstairs in my study,” said Quaker, wiping blood from his nose with a handkerchief. “If you want it, you can fetch it yourself.”
Behind the cat feral, the three dogs growled.