The Crow Talker

by Jacob Grey

  “Lydia …” said Mrs Strickham, her voice urgent.

  Before Caw realised what was happening, Lydia had snatched the Crow’s Beak from him and leapt into the portal, the snake still wrapped around her neck.

  “No!” Mamba screamed. In a split-second, the portal zipped closed, the candles flickered out and all the spiders at Caw’s feet scuttled away, disappearing into the shadows.

  Lydia was gone.

  aw slumped to the ground in shock. The air was suddenly cold and through the noise in his head he could hear Velma Strickham sobbing. When he looked up, Mamba was on her knees moaning, hands clasped to her scalp. Scuttle was staring at the place where the portal had been, shaking his head and muttering, “No, no, no …”

  “Why?” said Mamba. “Why would she do that?”

  To stop the Spinning Man returning, thought Caw. Without the Crow’s Beak, no one can come back. Not even Lydia. It felt like someone had scooped out his heart and replaced it with lead. She sacrificed herself to save us.

  “Why didn’t you stop her?” Mamba screeched at the roach talker.

  “Why didn’t you?” Scuttle snapped. “Wretched brat took the Crow’s Beak with her!”

  “You’re the one who was blabbing on about the Land of the Dead in front of the girl all this time,” Mamba shot back at the hunchbacked man. “If it wasn’t for you, she never would have got it in her head to do this!”

  “What difference does it make?” said Crumb. “It’s over.”

  Mamba’s eyes flashed on to him. “Not so fast, pigeon talker,” she said. Her long fingers twitched and several snakes slithered from the crates at the edge of the room, making straight for Crumb and Mrs Strickham. Another headed for Pip.

  Crumb threw out his hand, and two pigeons appeared from the dark corners of the room. They swooped down at the snake nearest Pip. But the snake flailed, catching one pigeon in its jaws and rolling its coils over the second.

  “Run, Pip!” said Crumb. Writhing snakes were backing him into a corner. The mouse feral made for the door, pausing only to let a clutch of mice scurry from his trouser legs. But the next instant a tide of cockroaches went after him, smothering the mice easily.

  Caw saw Mrs Strickham kick one snake aside and stamp on another, before leaping up on to a stack of crates. Her tear-filled eyes scanned the room. She pushed over one of the crates, crushing more snakes, then leapt off on to the floor, running for the same exit as Pip. The crate of foxes shook as the animals inside growled and snarled, powerless to help their mistress.

  Caw scrambled to his feet and ran too, only to feel a sharp blow to the back of his neck that sent him tumbling and seeing stars. Through the pain he willed his crows to leave.

  We won’t leave you, said Screech, flapping above the commotion.

  “Go!” Caw shouted. “Do as I say!”

  Screeching with distress, the three crows flew out of the room.

  As he lay on the ground trying to shake his head clear, Caw saw cockroaches approaching, just centimetres from his nose. Their jaws twitched hungrily.

  “No sudden moves,” said Scuttle, standing over him.

  Caw placed his hands carefully by his waist and pushed himself upright, staggering a little. Crumb was pressed against a wall, utterly trapped by Mamba’s hissing snakes and hundreds of Scuttle’s creatures.

  The two pigeons that had tackled the snake were both on their backs, surrounded by broken feathers. One was dead already, while the other’s legs twitched in its death throes.

  “Shall we kill them now?” said Scuttle.

  Mamba glared at Caw, her face dark with anger. After a couple of seconds, she shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Maybe there’s another way … The crow talker might still be able to help us, whether he likes it or not. Take them to the repair room while I think this through.”

  Scuttle clicked his fingers and the creatures at Caw’s feet moved as one, forcing him towards the doors. Crumb followed, surrounded by the snakes. If either of them made a move, the other would die for certain. There was no escape. At least Pip and Mrs Strickham seemed to have got away.

  The cockroach feral led them to a door off the main corridor. Inside was a small windowless room, lit only by a dim, naked bulb, and filled with broken sewing machines piled on top of each other.

  “Sit tight,” said Scuttle with a grin. “We’re off to catch your friends.” The snakes and the cockroaches left the room, and the door slammed closed. Caw heard a key turn in the lock.

  “What now?” he said.

  Crumb leant back against the wall, and slumped down until he was sitting with his knees bent. He looked weary. “I’m sorry, Caw,” he said. “But we’re done for.”

  Caw’s blood was still pumping from the fight. He wasn’t going to give up. Not while Lydia was trapped in the Land of the Dead. Plus, Mrs Strickham and Pip had escaped – they might be able to figure something out together. He scanned the room. “Maybe we can pick the lock.”

  “Mamba’s not stupid,” said Crumb. “There’ll be thirty deadly snakes outside that door.”

  Caw felt a surge of anger, but before he could reply there was a soft tickle on his hand. He looked down and saw a small, delicate spider crawling up his wrist. He brushed it away and it dangled for a moment on a slender thread from the ceiling. Caw followed the silk upwards. There – a loose ventilation grille, high up in the wall and opposite the door.

  When he looked down again, the spider was gone.

  Heart thumping, he threw aside the carcass of a sewing machine and climbed up on to the workbench. Even at full stretch, his hand was still an arm’s length from the grille. He bent his knees and jumped, but fell a fraction short. He tried again with the same result.

  “Get up and give me a boost,” he said.

  Crumb grunted. “Why?”

  Caw’s anger swelled. “We can’t just sit here!” he said.

  “Velma and Pip are our only hope,” said Crumb. He looked crumpled – defeated. “And that’s a long shot. Save your energy for when Scuttle comes back. At least we can die fighting.”

  “But Lydia’s in danger!”

  Crumb fixed his gaze on Caw, and for a moment, a fire returned to his eyes. “She’s not in danger,” he said. “She’s dead.” His words rocked Caw back on his heels, and Crumb added more softly, “Or as good as. The Spinning Man has her. She took the Crow’s Beak with her, so there’s no way back. Only the crow talker can wield it. Besides … open your eyes, Caw.” He pointed upwards. “That vent is less than half a metre across and half as high. You won’t fit.”

  Caw looked up at the vent. Crumb was right – it was too small for him.

  “But not for a crow,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” said Crumb.

  “A crow could fit through that vent,” he said.

  “I can’t see a crow,” said Crumb, his voice a little shrill. “And even if you somehow managed to summon one through the other side, you’re still locked in here.” His eyes softened. “Caw, I’m sorry.”

  Caw jumped down from the workbench, feeling oddly light-headed. “What if I was a crow?”

  Crumb waved a hand dismissively. “I told you, kid – even with a lifetime of practice, you wouldn’t be able to do it. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  “But I haven’t,” said Caw. Crumb rolled his eyes, and the gesture only made Caw more determined.

  “Knock yourself out,” said the pigeon talker.

  Caw turned away from Crumb, and sat in the middle of the floor, cross-legged. A couple of days ago, he’d never have thought it possible to summon crows to him, let alone get them to carry him. He closed his eyes and concentrated, remembering the strange feeling of lightness he’d felt at Felix Quaker’s house, when he stared into Milky’s eyes and drifted into the bird’s consciousness.

  He focused on that feeling, let Crumb’s breathing fade into the background and imagined Milky’s eye – the way he had let himself sink into its bottomless—

  “Any
luck?” asked Crumb.

  “Quiet!” said Caw.

  He concentrated again, and after a few seconds felt the pull once more. A tingle of energy crept slowly along the lengths of his arms, as if the blood in his veins was suddenly a degree or two warmer. It was the same feeling he’d had back at the nest when he’d summoned the crows from all corners of the park – a latent power, just waiting to be unleashed. But this time, Caw didn’t want to unleash it. He wanted to use it on himself. To turn it inwards. He took a deep breath and, as he did, focused on drawing the energy back along his arms and into his chest. The temperature of his blood rose again, becoming uncomfortable.

  “It can’t be …” muttered Crumb, his voice distant.

  Caw gritted his teeth. Whatever was flowing beneath his skin, flooding his veins, it felt more like fire than blood. Every nerve ending screamed for him to stop, and every second that he didn’t the pain grew worse. A rolling ball of agony built in his chest, and each breath made it more molten. All that existed was the pain, rolling tighter and tighter, leaving the rest of his body insubstantial. At any point he could release it, but if he did, it would all be for nothing. Lydia needed him. He pressed the pain down by force of will, kept it from escaping.

  From a faraway place, Crumb’s voice called. “Don’t stop! You’re doing it!”

  Caw’s face felt as if it was floating away.

  He couldn’t feel his legs and his bones seemed almost hollow. His arms felt impossibly powerful, as if he could lift whole buildings.

  It was time. He exhaled and the power rushed through him, leaving his fingertips, then his hands, then sweeping back along his arms until they were weightless.

  He moved them up and down …

  … and felt his body rise.

  When Caw opened his eyes, he was in the air, looking down at Crumb. The world seemed curved, and Caw realised he could see behind himself as well. The pigeon talker’s mouth was hanging open. “Caw?” he said.

  Caw laughed, and heard his own voice as a crow’s raucous cry.

  I’ve done it!

  With a couple of flaps he rose to the air vent and attacked it with his beak, tearing the loose grille away and sending it clattering to the ground. Cool air rushed in, ruffling his feathers. Casting a last glance at Crumb, who was slack-jawed with wonder, Caw swept out of the room and into the sky.

  It was effortless. Just a thought and his wings carried him upwards. Caw soared above the factory and Blackstone swept into view through a haze of falling rain. He climbed and climbed until he could see the hills to the west and the Blackwater vanishing into the fields of the east. He cocked his head and saw the sprawling buildings and the square patch of the park beside the prison. The world – his old life – seemed so small.

  With a twitch of his wings, he veered and dived, gliding, buffeted by the rain. He tilted over the corrugated roofs of the industrial quarter, then looped between the steel cabling of a bridge over the river. Cars followed their rigid straight tracks, splashing through puddles beneath him.

  Caw put on a burst of speed, amazed at how quickly he flew. His body was powerful and light at the same time, and the air gave way to his wishes as if they were one.

  The next moment there were three more crows flying with him, two black and one white.

  Caw? said Screech. Is that you?

  It’s me! Caw told him. I’m one of you now.

  I don’t believe it! said Glum.

  I always knew he could do it, said Screech. Always said he was special, didn’t I?

  Milky blinked slowly, as if he wasn’t surprised at all, then flapped forward, flying out in front. Without saying anything, the white crow led them north through the rain-swept sky. For a while Caw thought they were flying back towards the nest. He increased his wing speed and overtook Glum and Screech.

  Show off! said Glum.

  Caw drew up alongside Milky. Please, he said. I need you to tell me how to cross into the Land of the Dead. There has to be another way.

  Milky cocked his head slightly.

  I mean it! said Caw. You’ve been there – you know!

  Milky tipped his wings and flew north-east.

  Where are we going? called Screech.

  I have no idea, said Glum.

  Is that a yes? asked Caw, tracking Milky.

  But the white crow simply flew.

  It wasn’t long before Milky began to descend. They were right on the edge of Blackstone, then over fields, flying low towards a clutch of unlit houses around a cemetery beyond. Caw stared in wonder at the landscape unfolding beneath his wings.

  Milky flew along a lane leading up to a wrought-iron gate. The green, rolling hills of the cemetery within were crowded with headstones of all shapes and sizes. Milky circled once, then came to rest on one – a wet, grey slab of marble, leaning slightly and surrounded by puddles and weeds.

  Caw landed, hopping on springy crow legs, and wondered how he was supposed to return to his human form. He concentrated hard, as he had done before, and focused on releasing that power he had worked so hard to build. It was surprisingly easy compared to his first transformation, like exhaling a deep, deep breath. Within moments, he was himself again. His body felt leaden and unwieldy, all gangly, unbalanced limbs. His coat was sodden. He staggered and put his hand on a gravestone. After a couple of breaths, normality returned.

  “What is this place?” he asked, as he scraped damp hair from his eyes. An idea already lurked at the edges of his consciousness, but he shied away from it.

  Milky tapped one foot on the marble slab.

  Caw couldn’t read the words, but as he crept closer, he recognised one thing clearly enough. Engraved in the stone was a picture of a crow. A lump formed in his throat. “This is my parents’ grave, isn’t it?”

  It is, said Milky, his ancient voice a whisper. Graveyards are special places, where the tissue between this Land and the other is at its thinnest.

  Someone’s feeling chatty! said Glum.

  Caw laid a hand on the cold stone. Who had buried his parents here, he wondered? Felix Quaker? Or another feral, some ally from the war of the Dark Summer?

  Caw felt tears prick in his eyes as he thought about his mother and father. But after a moment, he dashed them away. He didn’t have time for questions or for sadness. He had to save Lydia.

  “How do I cross?” Caw asked.

  You must harness the power of the crows, said Milky, and ask their permission.

  Caw’s heart quickened. Even without the Crow’s Beak, there was a way.

  He closed his eyes and called his crows to him. He imagined himself high above the tiny graveyard, above the village. He reached out across Blackstone, drawing crows into the channels of his energy, feeling his connection to each and every bird as if they were linked by an invisible thread.

  And they came. One by one, then in flocks of larger and larger sizes. The grey sky filled with black spots drifting steadily towards the graveyard. They alighted on the gravestones, along the iron gate, on the roofs of marble crypts guarded by statues of angels. They jostled for position on the grass, feathers rubbing against feathers, a carpet of black. Caw gaped in astonishment.

  But what now?

  Speak to them, said Milky, as if he could hear Caw’s thoughts.

  Caw shoved his hands into his pockets so no one would see that they were shaking, and he called out over the assembled crows.

  “Thank you for obeying my summons,” he said. The crows watched him with their beady eyes, and he felt his confidence falter under their critical gaze. “I am Caw, the crow talker, and this is the grave of my mother, the crow talker before me. Most of you don’t know who I am. But I have brought you here for a special reason.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I must travel to the Land of the Dead.”

  A thousand crow voices assaulted Caw’s ears, and though it was hard to make out all the words, the tone was clear. Never … Impossible … Danger … Mad … Fool.

  Caw glanced at Milky, who lif
ted his beak a fraction.

  “Are there any crows here who fought in the Dark Summer?” said Caw.

  A smattering of squawks.

  “You fought for my mother, alongside other ferals,” said Caw. “And why?”

  For our lives, said a huge crow near to Caw’s feet. Caw noticed he had only one leg, and his beak was broken off halfway, its edges blunted.

  “Just for your lives?” said Caw, “Or maybe for Blackstone – the city that has always harboured you and your families, your ferals. Maybe because it was the right thing to do.”

  The warrior crow was silent. Caw began to feel his confidence return.

  “Your bravery helped banish the Spinning Man to the Land of the Dead. But he is still not defeated. He has my friend.”

  Our job is to protect you, said Glum softly.

  “And I must protect Lydia,” said Caw. “We can’t always run and hide. The Spinning Man’s disciples will not stop until he returns, one way or another.”

  He is trapped there, said a wiry female crow. We are safe.

  I’m losing them, thought Caw, desperately.

  “Lydia is not just my friend,” he said. “She is the daughter of the fox talker.”

  A murmur of surprise spread among the crows, and several bobbed their heads and shot looks at their companions. Caw sensed the shift in mood. “That’s right!” he said. “Lydia is the daughter of the one who banished the Spinning Man to the other side. We owe it to Velma Strickham to rescue her daughter.”

  Is this true? asked the female crow, glancing at Caw’s crows.

  ’Fraid so, said Screech, with a nonchalant tip of his wing.

  “Will you help me?” asked Caw. “For my mother, who died by his hand, and for the fox talker, who saved you from him!”

  The crows fell silent, considering his words.

  The old warrior crow was the first to jump into the air, then the others followed, their wingtips brushing Caw’s shoulders. They each flew away from the graveyard, their bodies stretching away into a black ribbon through the sky.

  “No,” breathed Caw. He threw a desperate glance at Milky. “They can’t go!”