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?’
‘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.