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.
Vigilance was everything with his treasure. The raven had his own alarms and devices rigged for when business took him elsewhere, but even at home he was always on guard, especially with the weatherhen.
That was another of her bad qualities. She was a vexatious flirt, and sneaky, but she was also very greedy. The raven knew she was just waiting for the right moment to break her pretence and scurry down to his hoard of treasure. And she wouldn’t creak and screech, like the show she was putting on now. She’d be as silent as rain running from the graves.
The raven flew up, hovering over the gables, and fixed her with a fierce eye. ‘It reeks of rust and metal down here,’ he said, hoping to trip her up.
‘Squeeeeeak-haw, squeeeeeak-haw,’ laughed the weatherhen.
Typical. She never owned up to anything, only laughed away her guilt.
‘If I find you down here again, I’ll fix you so you don’t know north from west.’
The weatherhen just spun herself around in a dizzying flash of circles. The raven felt sick, and dropped his wings a little so he could lower himself back to his nest. As per usual, he got stuck trying to get in through the loosened shutter.
‘A witch as well,’ he said, sucking in his stomach. ‘Sorcery, slyness, shame. I won’t have it in my home.’
He snapped up one of the jewel beetles; it had a satisfying flavour of dead mouse. Then he went over to his treasure and lay down at the bottom of it, feeling its security, its comforting bulk. He relaxed his wings, closed his eyes, and conjured up his precious hymns, the sound of Father Cadman’s voice filling the church.
He woke, a few hours later. It had just gone dark. Someone was crying into the gathering gloom.