Now his words were having an effect, it only confirmed the raven’s belief that his talents were wasted being the keeper of a churchyard – clearly he had it in him to be a leader among birds. A brain like his could change the world. For now it was enough, that he’d helped this funny little man. But soon, if he only tried, the world could be his. And the first thing he would do was get rid of all pigeons.
That was the second human he’d helped in as many days. The raven peered out from under the branches to make sure the skies weren’t raining down sunshine and rainbows and smiley faces. His chest felt full of awful, sappy things, and he had to recall the sight of the pigeon to make them go away.
The raven needed to go home and feel the cold, hard comfort of his treasure. He needed to stop dealing out life lessons in the branches of a tree. It was detrimental to his health, and to the principles he’d so stoically followed all his life.
‘Well,’ he said to the man, ‘something to think about. I’ll leave you with it. Best of luck and all that.’ He battered his way out of the tree, shooting a last look down.
The man sat as the raven had first seen him: sweaty armpits, gangly limbs, rosy-faced. The only difference was now his head tilted up instead of down and he talked to himself in feverish whispers.
‘Thank you!’ the man called, and his teeth shone out so brightly the raven almost had a mind to steal them for his treasure.
He didn’t look back at the man after that. Instead he cruised about, settled on the edge of an old tomb and scratched at his chest. He hopped from stone to stone. He nosed about the grass and tried teasing out worms.
‘Oooh, me poor old head,’ said a voice directly below. It was Jeremiah Hickelsby. ‘What’s all that racket, then? Can’t a fellow even get some rest when he’s dead?’
The raven scuttled away, half a worm in his beak. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘Not half as sorry as me,’ squeaked the worm.
‘Not even when I’m dead,’ grumbled the voice. ‘Shut me eyes for one second and off it starts again. What a wretched way to be. Oh mercy me, me poor old head. It’s enough to drive me mad. Makes me turn over in me grave, it does, only over I turn and –’
‘Don’t go on about it,’ said the raven. He flew up to the roof eaves. What had the world come to when he could be told off by both his lunch and a decades-old ghost? He was so put off that he almost crashed straight into the weatherhen.
‘Watch it,’ he snapped.
‘Kreeeeach?’ she said.
‘None of your business,’ said the raven. ‘Seen any earwigs around here?’
‘Haw haw,’ she said.
‘Helpful.’
‘Haw haw hreee.’
‘In Bird-Speak, if you don’t mind.’
The weatherhen laughed and spun round in circles. Still the raven stayed. He was not quite ready for the four walls of his belltower, so he settled in on some roof thatch. At a respectable distance, of course.
‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘If that’s what talking does to a bird, no wonder I don’t do it often.’
The weatherhen slowed and came squeaking to a halt. She studied him with her dull copper eyes. There was no flirting, speaking, spinning or bewitching. There was only her silence, and as it passed something grew in the space between them.
‘Rough day,’ the raven said. ‘You too?’
‘Hah-reeee,’ she said.
‘You know,’ said the raven, ‘every time you speak, you give away something of yourself. You help someone, and they snatch it away – your goodness, your care. Every happiness you give to someone is at the expense of yourself. Do you understand?’
‘Screeee,’ whispered the weatherhen.
‘That’s probably because you never have anything worthwhile to contribute.’
The weatherhen giggled, and it was not without a certain charm.
‘Other people’s happiness infects you,’ the raven said. ‘It makes you feel as though you need it, when you don’t. It makes you reliant on others to feel good yourself. Words infect you. You have to choose them wisely, or otherwise they’ll expose you. Am I making sense? Every word must be measured, because whether you like it or not, people will listen. Probably because they’re sick of listening to themselves.’
‘Hee-hee-haw!’ said the weatherhen.
‘Yes,’ said the raven, ‘it would be better if everyone just sang. Every note counts, that way. Every word is an expression of the heart. Father Cadman told me that.’
The weatherhen’s eyes loomed at him, lava pools of copper-gold.
‘You’re right,’ said the raven, ‘I should go back and check.’
The weatherhen waited.
‘Yes,’ said the raven. ‘I will go back. It’s my duty, really. I put the idea in his head.’
The weatherhen clucked and turned away, so slowly it was almost imperceptible to the eye. The raven wondered why she always stayed in the same spot. Apart from the times when she must have snuck away to spy on his treasure, he’d never seen her anywhere but on the top of the church.
‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Well. Thank you. For listening. Sorry to unload on you like that.’
She turned back, just enough so that her eyes snared the sun and shone out brightly – so brightly that they seemed to catch the diamantes in the raven’s eyepatch. Something like a jolt of lightning sizzled through the leather and caused little starbursts to explode all around his brain. He reeled back, utterly bamboozled.
‘Teeheehee,’ said the weatherhen, and her copper eye winked.
The raven tottered away then, because sitting on his tongue were the type of foolish words he’d just scorned for doing their very best to expose him.
He returned to the huge oak and flew about in loops, barely daring to look down. He came to rest on one of the leafy boughs, and his eyes roamed here and there before finally darting down to the branch where the man had been sitting.
He wasn’t there.
Next the raven descended through the leaves, down and down until he had a clear view of the ground. The ladder was there. The man’s body wasn’t. No people were gathered, no one cried or shouted in horror. There was just the rustle of wind weaving through the leaves and the faint smell of onions weeping up into the air.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Go tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere . . .
I’ll tell it, all right.
The raven, perched on his usual crossbeam, watched as Barnabas Brittle once again tucked away money into the sleeve of his cardigan. Even if he didn’t disapprove of the man already, the cardigan would have been enough to tip him over the edge. Clothes weren’t his forte, but even the raven knew pigeon-vomit yellow should not be seen in public.
Up on the altar, Father Cadman sat in his chair. His eyes were closed and one side of his mouth was pulled up into the gentlest of smiles. Every now and then his eyebrows rose as the hymn hit a particularly uplifting note. The sun shone through from the east, falling into the church in fragments of swarming watercolour. It washed the side of his face so his hair puffed out like a midsummer cloud. The raven felt a rush of affection for the old priest. How Barnabas Brittle could deceive someone so harmless was a true reflection of his unpleasant character.
But he would get his comeuppance. The raven would see to that.
The ghost-boy Todd was having a grand old time today. He ducked in and out of the rectangles of sunlight, watching in fascination as his body changed colour to fit with the panes of stained glass.
No one else could see him, so it didn’t bother them, but the raven was starting to get a niggling headache. Especially now he had the use of both eyes again. The eyepatch had been hung in prime position at the top of the raven’s treasure pile. He didn’t want to overwork it – brilliance in moderation had far more impact.
He quietly made his way down to the ground and hissed at the boy from under a pew. ‘Hey, Toddy, what do you think you’re doing?’
T
he boy spun round. ‘Enjoying myself,’ he said. ‘Ever tried it, crankypants? Bet you’ve never been blue and yellow and red all at once.’
‘No,’ said the raven, ‘and nor do I want to. I need you to stop. You’re giving me head spins.’
‘I think that’s the least of your problems,’ said Todd.
The raven looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you making a jibe about my weight?’
‘Course not,’ said the boy, hopping from foot to foot, green to yellow and back again. ‘Bit sensitive, are we? How was that croissant?’
‘Insolence,’ said the raven. ‘I figure being a ghost and weighing nothing makes you think you can pass judgements like that.’
The boy stopped. ‘I don’t want to be dead,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’ve never wanted to eat a croissant more in my life.’
‘Too bad,’ said the raven, and before he flew back to his crossbeam he added, ‘it was delicious.’
They were doing the Prayers of the Faithful now. The raven fidgeted about and waited for the next song. He filed his claws on the beam, because hangnails were purely the territory of crows. His eye swivelled from Barnabas Brittle to Todd to the girl reading at the lectern. She had a nasty habit of speaking through her nose.
‘Let us pray: For those recently passed on to a greater place, who have gone to walk in the valley in the shadow of death. May they always be in our hearts and minds – Jethro Cicily, Madeline Enrite, Todd Trebuchet, Josef –’
‘You shut your mouth!’
The raven startled, stubbing his nail against the woodwork so hard he had to twiddle his claw around just to get it back out.
‘You be quiet! Don’t you say his name! He’s not one of you!’
The raven watched as, pew by pew, everyone in the church turned to gaze towards the very back row. Even Todd paused, caught in a shaft of yellow sun that made his legs disappear completely. His scruffy blond hair became a miasma of sparkling dust motes. Frozen, he watched as his sister rose up from the back seat, all furious white face and tight little fists.
‘He’s not passed into some greater place!’ Mackenzie shouted at everyone. She held herself as tall as her tiny stature would allow. She actually looked a touch magnificent: defiant and daring in a desperate, bad-mouthed kind of way.
‘He’s not walking in no valley! He belongs right here with me. Not in some place where stupid God casts shadows! What do you know about it?!’ Her chin jutted out, and her chest rose and fell in strangled, shallow bursts.
The raven looked from her to her brother, who was still standing, mouth open as though he was trying to eat the light.
‘Nothing!’ Mackenzie insisted. ‘And he doesn’t wanna be in your hearts and minds; he doesn’t care nothing for you bunch. Stop trying to, stop trying –’
Mackenzie spluttered about, unable to finish whatever nasty thing she was about to say next. The raven realised she was determined not to cry, and it touched him, because he knew all about saving face at any cost. No beast could get to you that way.
He wanted Mackenzie to show them all. Not one tear, even with those faces staring back at her, and her brother lying dead in the ground not fifty metres away.
‘You lot don’t know nothing,’ she said. ‘I hate you all. I hate God. And I don’t care if I go to hell ’cause it’s gotta be better than this.’
And then, with outstanding execution, she turned with her chin still jutted, and marched out in quick, measured little strides. The sound of her overalls brushing together was the only noise in the entire church.
Five metres away from the double doors her whole body collapsed and she launched into a stumbling run. A stunned silence followed her exit. The smell of dried pine cuts and vanilla candle wax swathed the air. Someone coughed, and then the whole congregation broke out into hushed murmurs, exchanging glances and disapproving nods.
Father Cadman, however, conducted himself admirably. He did not look at anyone or whisper or start gesticulating like a harried ant. He simply gathered his robes and followed after the little girl, his mouth set and his stride burdened but resolute. The raven tipped him a silent salute.
Everyone seemed as entranced by Father Cadman’s exit as the raven. Necks craned and eyes boggled – every set of eyes but one.
Barnabas Brittle took the opportunity to grab a handful of notes from the baskets sitting nearby, slipping them into his trouser pockets. Spurred on by Father Cadman’s majestic exit, the raven’s breast swelled with righteousness. That really was the last straw.
The congregation settled as heads swivelled back round to the front. Father Cadman did not return, so ancient Father Hiskett stepped in.
The raven let his hackles settle and was about to go after Father Cadman when he noticed that Todd Trebuchet was still standing in exactly the same shaft of light. His mouth was closed now, but the rest of his body had barely moved. He caught the raven’s eye, his whole face melted away by misery. He seemed, if possible, even more transparent than before.
The raven looked away. But he could feel the boy’s eyes upon him, pleading. And let it be said that the raven did not go unmoved.
But first, he had bigger fish to fry.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mass was over. Inside, the altar boy snuffed out the candles. Outside, Father Cadman set about fixing up the trail of destruction Mackenzie had left in her wake. Parishioners gave him encouraging pats on the back as they stepped around scattered gravel and ripped plants. Some offered to help him with the clean-up, but he shushed them away with a mild smile.
‘She sure knows how to make an exit,’ one woman said in passing. ‘Most interesting mass I’ve been to in ages.’
‘Watch that pebble,’ said Father Cadman, but the woman had already slipped over it, her heel lying loose on the path. The raven scurried out and grabbed it for his treasure as she hobbled away.
‘Excuse me, Father Cadman,’ said Mackenzie’s friend, the little yellow-haired one they called Lucie. She stood, looking up at the priest, her best Sunday hat hanging from her hand. The raven almost swooned at the thick swathes of ribbon dangling off it. ‘Do you think Mackenzie will be all right? I keep trying to talk to her, but I don’t think she likes me very much.’
‘She does not like anyone much at the moment,’ said Father Cadman, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Don’t take it to heart.’
‘But why?’ Lucie fidgeted with her hat, passing it from hand to hand. The ribbon swung before the raven’s eyes like the most hypnotic of pendulums.
‘Because everyone else is alive when her brother is not. That is the way of grief.’
‘Oh,’ said Lucie. ‘But it’s not our fault. We didn’t kill her brother.’ She gazed at the stems and petals lying on the ground. ‘What do you think I should do? I’d like to help. Seeing other people sad makes me sad for them.’
‘Just keep trying,’ said Father Cadman. He took the hat from her hands and placed it on her head affectionately. ‘That is the best thing you can do. Soon enough, she will look around for someone and it will be good for her to find you there.’
‘Okay,’ said Lucie. ‘Thanks, Father.’ She flashed the priest one of her rosy-lipped smiles before dashing off with the last of the church stragglers.
The raven hung about in the door’s shadow, sneaking glances at the priest while he waited for the grounds to empty. Stillness seeped into the churchyard as people dispersed like scatterings on the wind. The only sound was the scratch of Father Cadman’s robes as he gathered up broken foliage, and far off, the slow, tinny screech of the weatherhen as she turned around and around.
The priest coughed and shook some stones caught up in his sleeve. He was surrounded by an array of orchid tubers and agapanthus petals and the rubbery green leaves of the summer roses. A layer of dirt peppered the sandstone and bugs struggled to right themselves, uncovered from their loamy homes by Mackenzie’s temper.
What a spread. The raven had never seen such a selection in the one place. He tried to keep his beak t
o himself but gave in and snapped up a fat centipede lolling about near the crevices of the bottom step.
‘Kraaaa,’ said the raven as he took in the last couple of legs. Centipedes were not far behind earwigs and slaters – there was something cool and earthy about them, as if you were introducing the essence of the earth into your gut.
Father Cadman turned around, and the raven pretended he was snapping a fly away from his beak. It was hard to maintain one’s dignity when you were caught eating bugs in the presence of a priest.
‘So you witnessed it?’ said Father Cadman, sweeping a pile of petals into the cradle of his hand. ‘It has got to be tough for that little girl. I fear her mind is very uneasy and her heart very upset. She loved her brother quite a lot, I believe. Always trailed behind him.’
‘I understand,’ said the raven, and then added, ‘blessed be.’ It seemed appropriate. He still hadn’t quite got his head around this God thing that Father Cadman insisted on maintaining.
The priest chuckled. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘Blessed be.’ He studied the rosebushes, which lay in disarray next to the raven. ‘I think she lost this battle. The thorns got the better of her hands, much more than her anger got the better of them. But it is as you have always taught: we learn through grief, and we grow.’
‘Oh yes,’ the raven said. ‘But it is me who learns from those I teach. Except pigeons. I have nothing to learn from them.’ He bent down as if to scratch his claw, but secretly nipped up an aphid. ‘Um, Father,’ he said, ‘there is something I have to tell you.’
‘I am always listening.’ Father Cadman smoothed the dirt back over the garden beds, his fingers shifting the grains into fine, patterned lines. The raven watched as his scrumptious bugs went squirming back into the darkness, and his stomach wailed at the injustice of it all.
‘There is someone stealing from your church.’
The priest paused, his hand cupping a mound of dirt. It shifted through his fingers, like a sun shower of grit.
‘I beg your pardon?’
What the Raven Saw Page 7