About the Book
The raven doesn’t want you to read this story.
What if you find out the location of his treasure? Or worse, what if you learn his secret – that ravens can talk?
But you should read it, even though the raven wants to be left alone. A pesky pigeon, a beady-eyed weatherhen, a ghost boy and a lovestruck scarecrow will make sure this story isn’t just about one grumpy raven.
With their help, the raven will uncover a thief, sing his own song, and discover there’s more to life than being magnificent.
Just promise that you won’t steal his treasure.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title
Dedication
Chapter One: I’ll Fly Away
Chapter Two: Let it Be
Chapter Three: Count Your Blessings
Chapter Four: God Is Trying to Tell You Something
Chapter Five: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
Chapter Six: Rock of Ages
Chapter Seven: People Get Ready
Chapter Eight: We Rise Again
Chapter Nine: Do No Sinful Action
Chapter Ten: Ave Maria
Chapter Eleven: Somebody’s Calling My Name
Chapter Twelve: This Little Light of Mine
Chapter Thirteen: On the Wings of a Dove
Chapter Fourteen: Over the Rainbow
Chapter Fifteen: Go Tell It On the Mountain
Chapter Sixteen: When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder
Chapter Seventeen: Revive Us Again
Chapter Eighteen: Because He Lives
Chapter Nineteen: Oh Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go
Chapter Twenty: Amazing Grace
Chapter Twenty-One: I Saw the Light
Chapter Twenty-Two: Here I Am
Chapter Twenty-Three: Let There Be Peace On Earth
Chapter Twenty-Four: How Great Thou Art
Chapter Twenty-Five: Heaven Came Down
Chapter Twenty-Six: My Worship Is for Real
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Morning Has Broken
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Joyful, Joyful
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Battle Hymn of the Republic
Chapter Thirty: Oh Happy Day
Chapter Thirty-One: Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen
Chapter Thirty-Two: When I Survey the Wondrous Cross
Chapter Thirty-Three: Lead Me Home
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Loved the book?
For Dad – ‘that’s what you get’
CHAPTER ONE
He sat perched on the bottom gable of the church’s roof, a smudge of glossy blue-black with a tiny, alabaster eye.
The raven was trying to watch the funeral below, but he had to keep looking back to check the weatherhen wasn’t giving him the eye.
Oh, the shame of it.
She had the act down pat – pretend to be all nice and silent and still. The perfect little weathervane, pointing north from south. No problems here. But as soon as the raven let his guard down, there she was with her beady eyes.
She was after something of his. He knew it. But no amount of razzle dazzle would get her anywhere near his treasure.
In fact, she was trying it on now, puffing out her chest, idling back and forth in long lazy arcs. The raven gave his head a shake and glared at her.
‘Don’t try it,’ he warned. ‘There’s a funeral on.’
She kept on swinging.
‘Have some respect. This isn’t the time.’
The weatherhen laughed, in that squeaky way she had, and the raven grumbled in response and turned his attention to the funeral.
He liked watching the bodies shuffling about, the black shapes spilling down the steps of the church. The raven noted Father Cadman, who was down there at the head of the human swarm. His pace was slow and appropriate, the very picture of decorum.
Father Cadman got the raven’s tick of approval. Now here was a man of dignity – unlike all the other humans, he was never prone to excess. Father Cadman kept things simple, and that was just what the world needed – more simplicity. Or just for all the stupid people to go away.
There was a cool breeze today, a wetness to it, and it kept ruffling the swathe of feathers at the raven’s throat. That was rather unpleasant, and the raven scowled and hunched his wings up around his neck. It was the kind of damp that settled in the old mausoleums, turning the corners mouldy and the walls breathing slime.
Any other day and the raven would have taken shelter inside the church. Sometimes, when it rained and there was no one else around, the raven would sit up near the tabernacle. Much dryer, up near there. It felt safer, and the candle Father Cadman lit to drive away the shadows gave the raven’s feathers a lovely sheen. The church became far too old and echoing in storms. Even the great wooden cross sagged a bit further under the gloom.
It was nothing like Sunday morning, when the pews were filled with satin dresses and fancy hats. Then the candles would burn brightly as Father Cadman, in his wonderfully refined voice, boomed out the word of the Lord.
The raven was not religious, but he did enjoy the weekly Sunday mass. Such magnificent hymns. He hid himself among the crossbeams and bobbed his head to the songs that drifted up. They had a way of filling his body, of falling away from his feathers like the slightest tickle of sun.
His favourite was ‘I’ll Fly Away’, and he would join in on the chorus:
I’ll fly away, O glory,
I’ll fly away, in the morning
When I die, Hallelujah by and by,
I’ll fly away.
Then the song would finish and the raven would hate all humans again. It was absurd that creatures with arms instead of wings liked to sing songs about flying away.
Father Cadman was the exception; he looked as if he could fly away, if he wanted to. Especially now, down below. He didn’t fuss, even as he walked towards the empty plot and the wind buffeted his long white hair and caught in his heavy robes. His face remained serene and resolute.
It was not so for the raven. He hated discomfort of any sort, and he swiped his beak through his feathers: an irritable, jarring movement. When his plumage was smooth he unfolded his wings, shook them out and drew them back into his body, settling once more to study the procession below.
He tilted his head to one side so he could further favour his good eye. But something came barrelling towards him, splitting the air apart and carrying with it an ungodly scent.
The raven cawed in indignation, his meticulously preened chest feathers once again chuffed open.
‘All right, then. What’s got your goat?’
The raven swivelled his head towards the sound of the voice.
It was a pigeon.
CHAPTER TWO
Or, more precisely, the pigeon – the one who had lately taken to hanging around the old utility shed down the back of the churchyard. Settled right in as well, the raven had noted on his rounds. The side of the shed below the gutter was a disgrace.
‘I am currently not in possession of a goat,’ the raven said. ‘Impossible to keep, living as I do on a roof.’
The pigeon didn’t answer, only nodded his head enthusiastically as Father Cadman began to intone that ashes were ashes and dust was dust.
‘Well,’ said the pigeon, ‘that’s really put the nail in the coffin.’ His head shrank back into his dirty, mottled grey chest and he laughed loudly.
The sound of it rang far out over the churchyard, the pigeon’s throat vibrating with pride and pleasure. When he finally stopped his face fell into suitable poignancy. ‘Life is fleeting,’ he said, ‘and do we not all live on borrowed time?’
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‘Yes,’ said the raven, and thought about pushing him off the roof.
‘You must live your own life, for you’ll die your own death,’ continued the pigeon, with a knowing clack of his beak.
‘I wouldn’t like to die anyone else’s,’ the raven said. He still had not recovered from the pigeon’s first injustice. It was shameful to laugh at your own jokes like that. And at a funeral, no less.
‘Whose is it, then?’ The pigeon nodded at the scene below.
‘Mind your own business,’ said the raven, although truth be told he was also mildly curious. It must be someone important.
These days, only important humans were buried in his churchyard. Most of them were buried near Reyley’s Head, at the cemetery with the tall fancy gate and the garish, lime-coloured turf. The raven had naturally come to the conclusion that you had to be pretty special to be buried in his graveyard.
Not that it was really his graveyard. Or his church. But he liked to pretend he had some say on what went on. He was, after all, the only permanent resident. That gave him some superior claim.
It was a boy being buried today, in the little sub-plot they had dug up years ago, with the carmine-red brick wall round the back of it. The humans called it The Garden of Remembrance for Our Children Taken Too Soon. A long and fussy title. The old ladies liked to talk about it as they walked about after Sunday mass.
Now those ladies could truly wake the dead, with their loud voices and tramping feet. Although the dead were full of nonsense too. The raven often heard them talking underground, among themselves, about the meaning of life and their unfulfilled dreams, and how no amount of shampooing can save their hair now.
The meaning of life, the raven wanted to say, was to shut up when you were talking rubbish. The only time the raven opened his mouth willingly was to eat, or to warn other birds away from his church. That was all, and it was perfectly sufficient.
Not that it always worked. The pigeon was proof of that.
‘Nice day for it,’ the pigeon said now, looking up at the sky with one eye and then at the raven and then back to the ground below, all in the space of one second. It gave the raven neck cramps just thinking about it.
‘Lots of kids around,’ the pigeon said.
The raven looked away in disgust.
‘You know,’ said the pigeon, ‘I saw a dead possum over by the south road. Thought it might interest you, knowing, well, the kind of things you like to eat.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my eating habits.’
‘It isn’t exactly four-star, is it? The old hit-and-run served up fresh on the side of the road.’
‘It’s better than eating your own excre–’
‘It looked very enticing,’ the pigeon said. ‘Or, at least, it would if I ate such things. Which I don’t. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just not for me. But for you, I’m sure it comes highly recommended.’
‘I’m on a diet,’ the raven said.
‘Well,’ said the pigeon, ‘I didn’t want to say anything . . .’ He closed his beak obediently when the raven swung to face him. The weatherhen tittered from her perch.
‘Maybe just a taste,’ amended the pigeon. ‘Life is too short to deny yourself pleasure.’
‘Where did you read that?’
‘Oh, that one’s my own. I came up with it yesterday.’
The raven refrained from telling him humans had been saying it for years. ‘I’m not hungry.’
That, at least, was truth. The raven had lost his appetite. There were two dead mice in his food pile at the moment; he’d found them three days ago by Sir Alberic’s mausoleum. But, strangely, they lacked appeal. It was a shame to let them go to waste, but the raven couldn’t bring himself to eat them. He wondered if old age was setting in. His diet had never been a source of guilt before.
‘Looks like the funeral’s over,’ said the pigeon, picking at something stuck to his claws.
‘Good,’ said the raven. ‘Maybe now I’ll get some peace and quiet.’
Or maybe not.
They watched as the figure of a little girl came huffing and puffing towards them. She walked as if she was trying to squash ants under her feet – stamp, stomp stomp, stamp.
‘Mackenzie, come back here, please! Sweetheart!’
The voice belonged to an older lady, hurrying along after the girl. The raven guessed it was her mother. He was good at picking up that sort of thing.
Mackenzie did not come back.
‘Mackenzie, please,’ her mother called again. ‘What’s wrong? Honey?’
‘Nothing at all,’ the girl muttered to herself.
By the raven’s calculations, she was about eight years old. Her hair was done up in two neat bows, her little face clenched into a mass of hard lines. The raven thought it most unbecoming.
‘Mackenzie,’ begged her mother, rapidly falling behind.
It must be those things she had on her feet. Heels, he thought they were called. Ugly things. They made her walk like a spider. The raven ate spiders. Not one of his favourites, though. Too many legs.
‘Don’t run away, please. Come on back, sweetie.’
Mackenzie’s answer was to kick out at a nearby gravestone. A puff of loose shale and dust rose into the air. The raven squawked in alarm and made to land. The girl lashed out at another grave.
So she thought she could attack his churchyard, did she? Shameful. What a complete lack of honour and respect.
‘Kenzie,’ pleaded her mother, stopping to massage her feet. ‘Your brother would want you to be back here with us. All together. He’d like that, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ the little girl spat, turning around. ‘He can’t like anything. He’s dead. And he didn’t even like Aunt Jane, so he wouldn’t want me to go back there, and I won’t.’
The raven admired her direct style. But it still didn’t excuse her trampling through his agapanthus beds.
The mother finally gave up, heels in hand, as she watched her daughter disappear around the side of the church.
‘Can’t be together,’ the girl said, ‘when he isn’t even here. Stupid.’
The raven followed her. He perched on the stone wall encircling the rose garden and studied her with a subtle tilt of his head. He liked that she wasn’t crying. Tears were ungracious, and messy to boot.
The raven never cried.
Mackenzie looked up from where she was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Her face was still scrunched up, but when she saw the raven she shot him a glare far more venomous than anything he had bestowed upon the pigeon.
‘Shoo, maggot,’ said the little girl. ‘Go eat a dead animal.’
The raven shot up from the wall. Maggot indeed, the very idea was outrageous! He was a bird of great distinction. He ate maggots for lunch.
‘Korr, korr, korr,’ he said.
‘You be quiet,’ she said. ‘And don’t go near my brother.’
Fat chance, thought the raven, flying back up to the roof. Anything closely related to her was sure to be full of poison.
Up on the roof the pigeon shook his head. ‘See that?’ he said to the raven. ‘Kids these days. Disrespectful. Absolutely disgraceful. Deficient and downright disgusting.’
‘Diabolical,’ the raven threw in for good measure.
‘De . . . di . . . detestable?’ said the pigeon, looking hopeful.
‘Dimwitted,’ said the raven, but he wasn’t talking about the children anymore. ‘Dull, diseased and deranged.’
‘Delinquent!’ cried the pigeon, as always, getting carried away. ‘Dire! Demonic! Dreadfully disliked!’
‘You’ve got that right,’ said the raven, and he took the opportunity to shuffle away.
CHAPTER THREE
Even if the pigeon’s head hadn’t been buried in dead leaves, it would have been easy. The raven had scoured every inch of the church; it was, after all, his home, and one should always know the ins and outs of their home. Or at least the best places to
hide should a certain pigeon come flying their way.
The raven’s greatest find had been the mottled lichen that grew up on the roof. This was home to the crunchiest, tastiest earwigs the raven had ever sampled. Perfection. He certainly didn’t want the pigeon sticking his beak into that.
The raven had made the roof his home a long time ago, and as such he considered it belonged to him. He didn’t like other birds dropping in uninvited, especially when they defiled his home or nosed about near his nest, down at the back of the belltower.
It was the best spot on the whole roof – dark and roomy and tucked away right next to the Scribblybark gum, where jewel beetles had a habit of making their way into the middle of his food pile. That suited the raven very well. He didn’t like too much physical exertion, especially having to work for his food.
Beetles formed the basis of his diet these days. He was starting to think eating dead creatures was beneath him; he didn’t care if it was some ancient raven code of conduct. He was, after all, a bird of great dignity. And birds of great dignity didn’t scavenge over anything that stunk or had maggots. They hunted, or had food brought to them.
The raven took the eastern route to his nest. He came out under the eaves and waddled along the stone ledge until he came to his front door.
Long ago, one side of the gabled roof had collapsed into the top part of the belltower. This had formed a nice space that, upon discovering, the raven had been quick to claim as his own. He’d loosened one of the old shutters to make his front door and proceeded to settle in.
He checked his food pile – three new jewel beetles, nosing about the rotting mice.
‘Well, that’s dinner taken care of,’ said the raven, with a look that said he had done it all himself.
Next the raven checked his treasure pile, which was pushed back into the farthest corner of the collapsed roof. He regarded it with suspicion; it was of great pride to him and he knew no other bird in the city could possibly have such a magnificent stash.
And it was magnificent.
The raven had worked many years to build it up. There were bottlecaps and silver-stippled stones, curls of flashy tin, glittery scraps of material and string, human jewels and the gleaming, slender bones of small animals.
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