What the Raven Saw Read online

  But Father Cadman smiled until his teeth just about shone out of his mouth and he held his arms wide, palms turned up. He said to the raven:

  ‘I can scarcely believe it! A sign, a miracle in my own church!’

  ‘Er, pardon?’ said the raven, out of sheer shock.

  ‘What a wonder this is! My own God, speaking to me through the mouth of one of his creatures.’

  ‘I am perfectly in control of my own mouth,’ said the raven. Although he did do a quick check at the back of his throat to make sure.

  ‘And again! You are in everything and the proof is here with me today,’ said the priest. ‘Will you sing? Will you celebrate with me, a miracle in my own church?’

  Back then, the raven didn’t know much about God or what God’s business was. To be honest, he still didn’t. He didn’t much care, either. But he liked very much being heaped with praise and called a miracle. It was nice to finally get some recognition. So he let Father Cadman sit next to him on the piano stool and smooth his fingers over the keys.

  And the raven, despite himself, continued with the song.

  It happened then that after every Sunday mass they would sing together; the priest with his fine baritone and the raven with an earthy, angsty croon (his choice of words).

  The raven liked Father Cadman, and the more time they spent together, the more his appreciation grew. The priest was sensible, and stoic, and honourable. He was dignified. He was, in all aspects, the raven’s equal. Further, he trusted that Father Cadman would never sell him out to the inferiors of his species. The raven’s secret was in safe hands.

  But most of all, Father Cadman had taught him to sing. To open up his heart and let the words and the music find its way in.

  And as they found their way in, so did other things – things the raven wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Things that made him think twice about eating dead animals and ignoring dead boys who only wanted to help their little sister.

  But the raven tried very hard to keep his heart sealed away. He would not be waylaid by silly emotions. It would do nothing for the reputation he’d worked so hard to build.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The raven was still marvelling at how far his voice had come since those early days, when he was startled by Father Cadman re-entering the church, swishing his robes at the bottom to get some air under them. He saw the raven and his face broke out into one of his radiant smiles.

  ‘Heavenly friend,’ he proclaimed, ‘once again I am blessed with your presence.’

  The raven nodded his head. ‘And I, yours. Heavenly? You think so? Well, yes, I do look rather good today.’

  ‘And what did you think of today’s song?’ Father Cadman seated himself next to the raven and began to tap out a little melody.

  ‘I must admit it was not a personal favourite,’ the raven said. ‘I don’t think people should talk about climbing ladders when they don’t really know where they’re going. Ultimately, they’re just going to have to come back down again. A waste of time and terribly dangerous, at that.’

  ‘We do not all have wings to fly,’ said Father Cadman. ‘Instead, we must climb and have faith that someone will be waiting at the top to help us the rest of the way up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want people hanging off my claws,’ said the raven. ‘They could do some horrific damage to my tendons.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said the priest, ‘but to wait at the bottom, always looking up, always wondering? To ask for help and receive none?’

  ‘Well,’ said the raven, fussing about, ‘I wouldn’t look up all the time. All that would give me is a crick in the neck.’

  Father Cadman chuckled. ‘Sometimes even I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.’ He started humming ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ again, and the raven eagerly joined in.

  The raven’s traitor voice broke, again, on the fourth line. He blustered about in a flurry of wings, frustrated at his inadequacy, even after all that practice.

  Father Cadman held out a hand for the raven to settle on. The raven tried to calm himself as Father Cadman raised him so he could look into his friend’s eyes. Or at least one of them, being as they were on different sides of his head.

  ‘You are still getting used to this form, that’s all. When you are ready, your voice will soar like a storm on the loose.’

  The raven bowed his head in acknowledgment and Father Cadman set him down on the organ’s lid.

  ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘I’d suggest the old cherry tree down near the east side of the mausoleums. A favourite of the local bees. You should find some honey there. Good for the voice, or so I’m told.’

  The raven nodded again, although he didn’t say anything. He knew the pigeons hung about in that direction. And he most certainly did not want to stray into their territory. Even the mere thought of how smelly it would be was enough to churn his stomach.

  Father Cadman and the raven did some more scales; Father Cadman going a, e, i, o, uuuuu, and one, one two one, one two three two one, all the way up to ten, and the raven struggling to copy his perfect rhythm and lyrical undertones and the richness that flowed out of his mouth on every bass note.

  They had a break, and Father Cadman poured some of his water into one of the larger candle holders so the raven could have a drink. The raven sipped daintily, paused, darted a quick look at the priest and then quickly lowered his head to the water again. He repeated the process, and again. Each time he looked at the priest his beak was on the verge of opening, but then the raven lost his nerve and retreated to the safety of his water bowl. Finally the priest gave a chuckle and placed his own empty glass on the floor beside him.

  ‘What is on your mind?’ he said.

  The raven gulped his last mouthful of water and looked up – at the roof beams; at the stained-glass windows, rosy and beautiful now, with the last of the afternoon sun; at the ornate chair where Father Cadman sat during mass. He looked at everything except Father Cadman, and when the raven finally spoke his voice came out barely a squeak.

  ‘Father,’ he said, ‘do you think less of me because I am a bird? To be, er, specific – because I am a raven?’

  The raven could feel Father Cadman looking at him, and he hopped onto the rim of the candle holder and began to shuffle in a circle around the edge.

  ‘Well,’ Father Cadman finally said, ‘all creatures are God’s children. Your grace is no less prominent because you chose the form of a bird.’

  The raven was a bit confused by all that, so he asked his next question, still shuffling round and round the edge. ‘Do you think my superior status prevents me from, er, connecting with other beasts?’

  ‘Your spirit is in all their hearts,’ Father Cadman replied. ‘You cannot be closer than that.’

  Too right, thought the raven, taking it to mean that all the other beasts admired him and their hearts were preoccupied with nothing but awe. ‘I just . . . I feel . . . well, it’s rather silly, really . . .’ the raven trailed off. He hopped from one foot to the other, misjudged the distance, and fell from the candle holder onto the organ and then down among the keys. The sound almost split his ears open and the raven squawked and fluttered up, disorientated, tipping over the water container and then watching in shame as it trickled across the wood.

  Father Cadman reached out and staunched it with the heavy material of his robe.

  ‘Kraaa,’ said the raven, once he had regained his feet. He could feel his feathers sticking out all over the place and knew he must have looked a right mess. ‘Please allow me to pardon myself. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Father Cadman said. ‘The piano needed a good dusting anyway. You were saying?’

  ‘Well,’ garbled the raven, ‘I just, er, I haven’t been feeling myself lately. I find I am questioning my beliefs, which I have never done before, because I know the solid foundations they are built upon. I just wonder if I’m not a bit, only sometimes, but still, I wonder if I’m –’ the raven looked away
‘– selfish. I feel selfish. Sometimes I feel . . .’

  ‘Lonely,’ finished Father Cadman, and began to coax another melody out of the keys. ‘But that has always been the path you walk. No one truly knows the weight you carry. You are lonely.’

  The raven cocked his head to one side and watched the ivory pegs collapsing away from Father Cadman’s hands. Something swelled up in the raven’s breast and he had to swallow several times before he lost his composure and embarrassed himself.

  ‘Er,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m not really sure . . .’

  ‘It is okay to feel lonely,’ Father Cadman said. ‘But you have many friends. Your presence is huge and you cast a large shadow. Perhaps from time to time they just get a little lost.’

  After he’d thought about that, just to make sure Father Cadman was not making a jibe about his weight, the raven nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose you are right. I am a bird of many burdens. Perhaps I am a little bit lonely.’

  ‘There is no shame in admitting it,’ Father Cadman said. His voice came out low and musical, and his eyes were transfixed on the keys. He began to sing another hymn, ‘Rock of Ages’, and the raven, feeling a little bit better, tried to join in. But his breath felt all caught up in his throat, and the words came out sounding something like a burp mixed with a hiccup.

  ‘The cherry tree,’ Father Cadman said, tipping him a wink. ‘You should go there tomorrow. It will help your voice, while you get used to this form.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the raven. ‘I will. And thank you for your words.’

  ‘You have taught me well,’ said Father Cadman.

  And the raven, satisfied, settled down onto the priest’s shoulder and listened to him play.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next day the raven woke up early. He gave his treasure pile a quick check – yes, no problems there. Then he did a few laps around his den and went outside for his daily flying exercises. In a place where nobody could see, of course. Especially the weatherhen.

  Up and down, a few somersaults, a couple of arcs. Staying limber was important. He had to cut an imposing figure flying about the churchyard, and it wasn’t getting any easier. The raven knew he was getting on. Every day he carefully checked his reflection in the pocket mirror he’d pinched from an old lady one morning after church. He gave himself the once-over – nothing too drastic yet. Not that he feared a few grey feathers. They could only add to his dignified appearance. It was the crow’s feet he was worried about.

  He finished his exercises and went for a lazy morning drift. The raven coasted down the road toward Farmer Reece’s farm, spotted a fat slug crawling out of a strawberry, and went in for the kill. Scrumptious. As he rose back into the air a nearby scarecrow lifted an arm in greeting, but the raven turned his beak away.

  ‘Tried to be a human and even failed at that,’ the raven sniffed. ‘Nice coat. Twenty years ago.’

  The scarecrow went to reply, but the raven flew a little faster and was rewarded for his efforts by the sight of Mackenzie Trebuchet stomping away from the churchyard. A girl – undoubtedly one of her minions – scampered after her.

  ‘Causing trouble, I bet,’ said the raven. ‘Not on my watch.’ He flew as close as he dared so as to see what mischief she was up to this time.

  ‘Go away, Lucie,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘My dog died once,’ this newest miscreant, Lucie, said. ‘I know how you feel.’

  ‘Toddy wasn’t an animal,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Don’t care about your dumb dog when my brother’s dead. Stupid thing to say.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucie. She paused, smoothed down her white dress (the raven gave the lace trim a once-over and decided it was too fussy for the likes of him), and then ran after Mackenzie again. ‘Do you want to come and play at my house? We can go past Farmer Reece’s garden. There’s this scarecrow –’

  ‘Go and play with all your boyfriends,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Like I care.’

  ‘Don’t you want to –’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ shouted Mackenzie, and she ran off in a way completely lacking any form of poise or distinction.

  ‘And stay out of my agapanthus!’ the raven cawed after her, and just for fun he swooped at the girl Lucie, who was so busy staring after Mackenzie she barely even noticed him.

  ‘Well, that was a wasted effort,’ said the raven. ‘Rude.’

  Coming back to the church he caught sight of the weatherhen. She swung round, slowly, and her glassy little eyes twinkled at him in the early sun. The effect was quite dazzling. If he was any creature but himself he might have been taken in by it. As it was he scowled and spat.

  ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Squeeeeak-haw,’ said the weatherhen, and trailed off into giggles.

  The raven rolled his eyes. Whoever told her the bird-of-few-words type was appealing had seriously got it wrong. She needed a much better vocabulary than that to impress him. He was worldly-wise and a wearied traveller. He’d seen much more impressive specimens than a brazen weatherhen.

  The stench of the rotting mice hit him full force when he came back into his den. They were really ripe for the eating now. And attracting hordes of delicious jewel beetles. But the thought of them lying there churned his stomach. He didn’t even want to look at them, much less guzzle them down his throat.

  He took firm hold of his filament scooper (which was really a piece of plastic with a serrated edge that he’d stolen one afternoon from two teenagers eating mangoes), and shovelled the two mice out of his den. The jewel beetles scattered everywhere and he kept pushing the mice around the side of the belltower and over onto the crumbling ruins. He looked away so he didn’t have to watch them splat against the ground.

  Back in his den, the raven snapped up the jewel beetles and a lone earwig. He scattered some pine needles to filter out the smell of the mice and, satisfied, set his den-alarms and bowed out into the morning.

  It was a beautiful day. A day of gauzy marshmallow clouds, sweet honeysuckle, and peaceful, clear stillness. It was like falling into one of his gospel songs.

  Until he heard the weatherhen.

  ‘Creee-ach,’ she shrilled, which was her version of a wolf-whistle. The raven lifted his head a little higher and resolved to ignore her. Although he really couldn’t blame her. He did cut a fine figure.

  He headed for the cherry tree, dillying and dallying on the sub-breezes. He gave his churchyard a quick going-over as he did so. The boy was down there, the Todd-ghost, staring at his own burial plot as though he couldn’t comprehend how he’d come to be in the ground. Even for a ghoul he looked pale and transparent, like he was held to the world by only the thinnest of threads.

  ‘All right, then?’ the raven asked as he swept by.

  The boy gave his cheek a quick, inconspicuous wipe before he answered. ‘Guess so,’ he said. ‘Not much fun, though, is it? This being-dead business?’

  ‘Harden up,’ said the raven. ‘You should have thought about that before you got hit by a car. Bit stupid of you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well,’ said the Todd-ghost, ‘I’d change it if I could.’

  ‘Don’t loiter about,’ said the raven. ‘I have enough to worry about already, and I don’t want to deal with any more moaning and whining and crying ruining the aesthetic of my church. It only encourages the others.’

  ‘Haven’t seen any other dead people around here,’ said the Todd-ghost.

  ‘They’re called ghosts,’ said the raven, ‘and not very good ones at that.’

  ‘I’m not a ghost,’ said the boy, his chin set in a way very like his little sister’s. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the raven, ‘but that’s exactly what you are.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said the boy, looking away. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said the raven, ‘you won’t find many around here now, but there are a few idiots who don’t really understand the concept of being dead. Unfinished business they’ve got to se
e to and kraakraakraa. I don’t care for it. And I don’t care for you, either. So you can forget about crying on my shoulder. I don’t have one anyway. So it would be pointless.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the Todd-ghost. ‘I won’t bother you.’

  ‘Good,’ said the raven. ‘See you later then.’

  But it seemed it was just the day for unfortunate encounters. The raven could tell when he was near the cherry tree by the stench of dirty pigeon. And then, like his own personal nightmare, the pigeon appeared out of nowhere and started flying at his side.

  ‘Top of the morning to ye,’ he said. ‘Tobesuretobesuretobesure.’

  The raven couldn’t even bear to look. ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’ he said. ‘Go away.’

  ‘By virtue of the fact that you are never witnessed in this neck of the woods, can I summarise, er, surmise, er . . . would I be right in thinking that you have dropped by to pay us a visit?’

  ‘What?’ said the raven. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘My Uncle Pigeon and Aunt Pigeonette are gracing us with their presence this morning. Going to partake of our humble food and all that. You’re welcome to come along. It’s not much, but it keeps the fox from the door.’

  ‘The wolf,’ the raven said. ‘It’s the wolf. You got it wrong.’

  ‘Speak not, good sir, nay,’ said the pigeon. ‘To be or not to be: that is the answer.’

  ‘Do you even know what you’re saying?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ the pigeon said. ‘I don’t beat around the bush.’

  The raven tried to swerve away but the pigeon kept on his tail.

  ‘Let me approbate you with the breakfast on offer,’ said the pigeon. ‘Raw bread dough, acquired from the bottom of someone’s shoe, coated in a seasonal batter of dishwashing grease; pipe grout and flecks of feline faeces –’

  ‘I think I just threw up in my beak,’ said the raven.