by Minick, Jim;
Through the night, I’d peck and pass out. I could hardly breathe when I hung upside down, so I copped a hold of the maple with my good claw and rested, if you could call it that. I kept slipping off to hang like some pendulum on a clock. I kept pecking, too. If I could sever the busted foot, I would tumble the rest of the way. I might break my neck falling those last four feet, but better that than hanging there. At some point, the storm moved down the mountain, the rain slowed and stopped. I chopped at my leg when I could, but before sunrise, I must’ve passed out for good into the deep darkness of sleep.
When I woke to daylight, I couldn’t even bend to peck anymore, my body so weak. I tried to give our special rattle-call, my voice not more than a pip. I thought Loot might hear and come help. Then I saw a black feather. Then I remembered. I didn’t call anymore. I just bit down on that pebble of grief and waited to die.
10
Same Day
As a raven flies, Dry Run to Hopewell was about ten miles over three mountains. But no matter how much he wished, Will was no raven. He gunned his green Plymouth down the straight stretches of Route 75, slowed for the hard curve at the gravel pit before racing another three miles parallel to the pike. He wasn’t late, for work, anyway. Far from it. His shift didn’t start for another two hours.
At the gate, he lugged out his new key and slipped it in. The padlock opened with a click. If Aunt Amanda were along, she could close the gate for him, but she was off today, so he pulled through and ran back. Then he churned up the gravel as he pulled out in front of a trucker who sat on his horn. Will waved and left two strips of rubber on the pavement. He was glad Aunt Amanda wasn’t along.
The storm had woken him in the night. Lightning struck close by, and the thunderclap sat him straight up in bed. He couldn’t sleep the rest of the night, the rain pounding the roof. So he read the bird books he’d borrowed from Aunt Amanda, memorizing all he could. He hoped the raven nest would survive this storm.
At the end of the first tunnel, he slowed to the speed limit, and sure enough, a trooper perched at the Gunter Valley outlet, waiting for any fools. Will waved, held his breath, and entered the second tunnel. Once he exited from under Blue Mountain, he stepped on the gas and sped past the other traffic. Ahead of him, the rising sun cracked open the lid of the world.
Will checked the sky. He still had three miles to drive to the turnaround and another mile back to the station, all of it in the ravens’ territory. He saw nothing but the innocent blue that followed such a big storm. It was as if the storm had wrung the air of all water, and all ravens.
The hike up the mountain this time was more treacherous, the rocks slick with moisture. At least today he’d remembered to wear jeans and boots. If he split his pants, it wouldn’t matter; he had his uniform in the car. He plunged into the brush, following the same deer path, wet leaves soaking him. Soon the roiling stream muffled the sound of traffic. He bent to cup water, gulped it down, and kept moving, climbing fast.
At the bottom of the cliff, Will caught his breath before heading east. Glints of mica flecked his fingertips as he skirted the bluff. In the distance, something had changed. There was a slash of mud and a hole in the sky. He exhaled in a loud rush—no cherry tree, no maple, no nest, just a trail of mud down the cliff. The storm had uprooted the trees and sent them sliding.
Will climbed in, pulling at the branches, searching for the nest. Instead, he found a trunk splintered by lightning, the bark blown off. A few black feathers littered the ground, nothing more. Will cursed and let out a long sigh, the traffic droning far below. He picked up some pinfeathers just about to open. A soggy one clung to his fingers; another blew loose to float down the mountain. He scratched his nose, and a feather stuck to his cheek. The long loneliness he’d felt after they buried his father settled on him.
When he turned, Will saw the raven just ten feet away, an adult resting on a branch, half crouched in a peculiar pose. It didn’t move. Was it alive? He couldn’t tell.
“Hey, buddy,” Will said in a soft voice.
The raven opened one eye, stared at him for a moment before the lid closed.
Will climbed through the tangle. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The raven eye opened again. When it saw Will coming closer, the bird flapped and struggled, only to end up hanging from one foot.
Will leaned in to see the raw wound on the mangled leg. The place where a claw should’ve been disappeared between two large branches. “Damn,” Will whispered. “You ain’t doing too good, are you?” Pockmarks dotted the wood. Half of the leg was flayed open. The raven’s body hung by one thin strand of skin.
The raven turned to look at him. One of its wings slanted at an odd angle. Will reached to touch the matted feathers, but the bird reared back and pecked his hand.
Will flinched. “You still got some life in you. That’s good to see.” He checked his hand. No cuts, just a red welt. He tried to lift the upper tree. It didn’t move.
“You’re not going to like this.” He moved closer. “But I’m only trying to help. Maybe you could cooperate and not strike me anymore, what do you think?”
The raven watched, its beak open, like it was panting.
Will pulled his T-shirt over his head. “I need to cover your head for a little while.” His hands moved swiftly as he wrapped the shirt around the raven, covering its beak and eyes. He swaddled the bird in the crook of his arm and flicked open his pocketknife. The bird didn’t struggle. “Here we go, now.” He kept talking in a low voice. He checked his grip on the T-shirt—the bird was heavier than he expected. Then Will raised the knife to the broken leg, and with a quick motion, he cut it free.
The raven screeched and thrashed, making Will drop his knife. With both hands, he hugged the bird close until it stilled. Again, the size of it surprised him—heavier than a rooster, larger, maybe, than a red-tailed hawk. And just as mean.
Blood seeped from the cut leg. Will wrapped a loose tail of the T-shirt around it, making sure to keep the beak and eyes covered. He gathered his knife and scrambled down the mountainside, holding the bird close.
11
Same Day
An hour into her shift, Ada heard the hiss of a coffeemaker. She stopped wiping tables and rushed to turn off the machine. Her hands moved quickly as she pulled out the filter, dumped the old grounds, and scooped in the new. She loved this smell, the pungency of the dark flecks. She slid the filter back in before filling the tank with water. But when she turned the switch on, nothing happened. She flicked it off and on, off, on, and still, no red light, no gurgle, no rich smell. “Oh, come on.” She tapped the side of the machine. “Wake up and work.” Nothing. The other coffeemaker had only a few more pots left. She looked over her shoulder—the dining room was full and every customer, it seemed, had an empty cup. Ada hustled into the kitchen to holler for her cousin James, who was taking a smoke break by the back door. He folded the paper, the headline about more fighting abroad, and for a moment, Ada wondered how he felt about not being drafted. When he’d turned eighteen last year, the military had given him a 4F because of his heart—it had a murmur that no one before had ever caught. He’d shrugged it off, but she guessed he wanted to go.
“You’re joking, right?” He took one long last drag and followed her.
Like Ada, James flicked the switch, and this time it hissed.
“That’s more than it did for me,” Ada said. She started changing the grounds in the other machine.
James tapped the metal side, and the hissing only intensified. He slapped it harder, but nothing changed except everyone stopped chewing to look. James swore under his breath and started unscrewing the side panel.
The noise brought Mabel out the swinging door.
“I refilled it,” Ada started, “and then it wouldn’t come back on.”
“Well, the thing’s been limping on its last leg for a month. See what you can do,” she said to James. To the other waitresses, “Start rationing the coffee. We won’t have a
fresh batch for another twenty minutes. Tell the customers and hope they drink tea.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Ada watched and waited. She wiped the counter and cleaned up plates. James took off the other side panel and climbed a stepladder to fiddle with the controls.
Mabel returned, bustling through the swinging door to stand with her hands on her hips. “Any luck, Alvin?” she asked.
“My name is James.”
Mabel called all of her employees by their first names, even if that wasn’t what anyone else called them. “Any idea what’s wrong with it?”
James shook his head. He pulled up his shirttail and wiped sweat from his eyes. “No, Dorothy, I have no idea.”
“Well, try to hurry up, Alvin.” Mabel walked to her office.
Ada heard James mimic her nasally voice, “Try to hurry up.”
“So, Alvin, where’s your name tag?” Ada asked. He’d been reprimanded about this a dozen times, even written up.
“Oh, I think Fido ate it.” He looked down and grinned.
“I might have seen someone drop it in the trash can yesterday.” She craned her neck and then moved down the counter.
“That so? Wonder who did that?”
James unscrewed the front and pressed the heavy sheet of steel to his chest. He carried it sideways down the ladder and leaned it against the counter. When he released his grip, the metal shifted and slid, and the edge sliced his fingers. He yelled and kicked the metal, sending it banging to the floor. All the customers and waitresses turned to see James holding up his arm, blood dripping from the cut.
Ada ran to him and turned on the sink to sluice water over the wounds. Across each finger on his left hand, a deep cut ran straight and clean. She wrapped it with a towel and pressed tight. Other waitresses gathered, and someone asked if they needed to call an ambulance.
“Do your chant,” James whispered. “Just do your chant.” The white towel splotched with red.
Ada closed her eyes, bent to his hand, and recited the chant in a low voice. Please Lord, make it work, she thought. A few of the waitresses turned and reassured customers that it’d be all right. Ada focused on the wound, holding it inches from her face. James’s breath was fast and panicked, and his blood kept flowing.
Three times, she recited the chant, and each time she ended as her uncle Mark had taught, saying, “In the name of the Father, I command you. In the name of the Son, I command you. And in the name of the Holy Spirit, blood, I command you to stop.” But Ada’s hands remained cold. Never the tingling. The prayer wasn’t working.
When she finished, Ada leaned away. She wrapped the towel around his hand. “It ain’t working,” she said, glancing away, then at his hand. “Get the first aid kit from Mabel, and then go to the hospital for stitches.” She turned to wash the blood from her hands. “I can’t help you.” His blood mixed with the water and slipped down the drain.
James stayed silent, surprised.
“I said I can’t help you.”
James turned then to find Mabel.
Ada headed to the restroom. From behind, she heard two waitresses whisper, one saying she never believed in that powwowing anyway. Ada didn’t hear the reply.
In the restroom, Ada locked herself in a stall. She wanted to cry, but her eyes stayed dry like her mouth. When she had healed in the past, she felt worn out afterward, but this time, it was different—a tiredness of misery, a forsakenness she had never felt before. She leaned against the wall, and the tears finally came.
12
Same Day
Will slid down the mountain, hugging his T-shirt and the body inside. He slipped a finger under to feel for a pulse and found the heart beating but faint. The feathers felt cool and wet, the breastbone fragile as a twig. The raven hardly moved.
In the parking lot, he laid the bird on the backseat of his car and examined the leg stub. The bleeding had slowed, but how much blood had the bird lost? Will unwound the rest of the shirt and retreated.
For a moment, the bird didn’t open its eyes, didn’t move. Then the whole car filled with flutter and squawk as the raven sought escape. It settled against the far door, half-standing, half-leaning. Exhausted, its head drooped and its eyes closed.
Will reached for his T-shirt. The eyelid retracted and that black pearl pierced Will. “I’m trying to help you, buddy, OK?”
Only the head moved as it turned to look with both eyes.
“No one’s going to hurt you, as long as I can help it.” His voice seemed to calm the raven. “I’m going to move the Plymouth closer to the pumps, to the back side of the garage, to get you some shade. Then I’m going to go call Aunt Amanda, get her to come help. We’ll fix you up, don’t you worry none.”
As he drove across the lot, he watched the raven in the rearview. The bird peered up at all the moving clouds. Will parked and left the car running with the heat blasting.
Inside the garage, he swiped a large box and two towels. Scoop heard him slamming lockers and came out of the office. “Don’t say anything,” Will told him, “just see what I found.”
“Boy, he don’t look too good.” Scoop peered in the car but kept his distance. “What is it, that raven you were talking to?”
Will nodded. “Its nest got struck by lightning last night. Only found feathers of the others, but this fellow was hanging in a tree.” The car felt like an oven, so he cranked the heater down. He didn’t want to cook the bird, but it needed to dry out and warm up.
“You think you can really save that thing?”
Will shrugged. “Worth a try.” He placed the box in the backseat and spread the towels. The raven flapped, but only briefly. “I need some mushy food and a shallow dish for water. Does Dino still feed the cats?”
Scoop told him to look in the last locker. “There should be a can or two in there.” He held his arm up and pointed to his watch. “You got ten minutes before your shift starts,” he hollered as Will disappeared into the garage. Dickson was off today, and Will was glad Scoop was the shift manager. Dickson would’ve made him throw the raven into the incinerator.
He scrounged one can of cat food, a grimy spoon, and a cup for water. Back outside, Woody joined Scoop. They leaned against Will’s car looking in on the bird.
“The thing hasn’t moved,” Scoop said. “I think it’s already dead.”
“Dino’s going to be pissed if he can’t find his cat food,” Woody added.
“I’ll buy him more.” Will looked at the can, the spoon, and the bird. He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know how to feed the creature. Aunt Amanda’s bird book just said mushy pet food and raw burger, not how to get it in the gullet. He opened the door to a wave of heat.
“I swear you’re going to bake that bird,” Woody said. He turned and spat.
Will leaned in. “Hey, birdie birdie. I know you’re hungry.” He waved a spoonful in front of the raven, but it didn’t move.
“I don’t think Mr. Raven’s used to a spoon, son,” Scoop said. “Better use your fingers.”
Will pinched a little of the smelly mush and rested his hand in front of the raven, but still, no movement. He remembered yesterday, how the raven had comforted the nestlings after the owl flew away. Will imitated that voice, a little coo followed by a low murmur. This got an eye to open. He touched the raven’s beak with his fingers, and the black bill opened enough for him to slide in a chunk of food.
“Well, look at that,” Woody said.
Will did the coo-murmur a little louder, and this time the raven pecked from his palm. The bird ate five more pinches before it plopped its neck and fell asleep. Will gently lifted it into the box and placed the shallow dish of water beside it.
“You didn’t kill it, did you?” Scoop asked.
“No, he’s just fallen asleep.” He wiped his hand on a rag. “Mind if I call Aunt Amanda? I’d like to get her help. Maybe take it to a vet.”
“That’d be all right. Just don’t tell Dickson.”
“Take it to Ma
rk Hoover,” Woody said. “He’s the one who healed Kate Franklin’s hands. I bet he could help that thing.”
Will thanked them and started for the garage.
Scoop shouted, “Looks like you’re a new father. So now you got to go to work to provide for your child.” He held up his wristwatch. “You’re five minutes late, son. Go make that call, get changed, and give Teacup a break. He’s out there wondering what all we’ve been doing.”
13
Same Day
Ada washed her face but didn’t look at the mirror before returning to the dining room. The morning rush clamored along, the waitresses apologizing for the lack of coffee. They quieted whenever they came close to Ada, and she wished Ellie wasn’t off, or Aunt Amanda, someone who would at least smile at her.
The other waitresses asked for drinks and hurried on to place their orders while Ada had to step around the sheets of metal from the coffeemaker. They leaned against the counter, heavy and in the way. She wiped off James’s blood and wondered how he was doing.
After the breakfast crowd cleared, she moved into the kitchen to do James’s job. The dishes teetered in piles, mugs and silverware stacked high, and the cooks left all their pans and mixing bowls, too. Ada spent the rest of the morning working alone.
At lunchtime, she took her break in the lady’s room. Even without Aunt Amanda’s company, she liked this place, its quiet and bright expanse, the window at the far wall. She ate her sandwich and watched the crowd of people outside. One man wore a bowler like Mr. Stottimeir, and Ada was taken back to when she healed his daughter, Isabella.
It was last spring, a Sunday, and she had just finished washing dishes then, too, in their kitchen sink at home. Her parents had gone visiting, and she had hoped for an afternoon nap, but the sound of a car drew her to the window. She peeked out and saw a fancy new car, shiny in the sun. Strangers emerged, a well-dressed couple and a young girl. The man settled his hat and looked once around the farm before he led the three of them down the sidewalk.