The raven was sitting up in the church eaves, listening to the church choir being led by the wonderful Father Cadman. That was humankind’s single redeeming factor – they sure knew how to sing. Every time they opened their mouths, the raven found himself having horrible sentimental thoughts. Thoughts he believed he’d long since gotten over.
He felt like he did the first time, as a very young bird, he’d poked his head out of the nest and seen the day wake up and break through the branches and the foliage of the trees. Or when he’d seen an enormous sea eagle, far from home, resting on top of an old stone cross. When it had launched itself into space the sky had seemed to tear itself apart. It was exactly the same feeling as the first time the raven had caught his first rogue gust of wind and thought he could soar and soar and there would never be an end to it.
The choir sang many different songs, some without music and some with the big old organ haunting every rise and fall of their voices. They sang songs where they all clapped and hollered and stamped their feet, and the underside of the raven’s wings got all tingly and itchy. They sang songs that made the raven’s chest puff out in unnameable pride – songs made for singing in a big, wide-open church. And they sang simple, pretty songs: quiet songs, with the faintest whisper of music.
The whispering songs made the raven feel heavy and light at the same time. They carried a sadness in them that could haunt a bird for the rest of its life.
It was only a small choir, about thirty people, but when the whole congregation joined in it could have been the biggest and best choir in the entire world. Whoever this God was, the raven was pretty sure he’d be like that sea eagle for everybody to love him so much.
Sometimes the raven wondered what it would be like to be loved like that. But then he thought of his treasure, and his belltower, and his high-standing as an avian species of great renown. He didn’t need anything else. He wasn’t like a pigeon, all needy and dirty and common. Now that was attention-seeking of the worst sort.
There were kids down there today, and they really got up the raven’s beak. Father Cadman had his usual hymns, the ones he played almost every mass, but he always made sure there was a special one, the centre-piece, much like the necklace of glittering jewels that took prime position at the top of the raven’s treasure pile.
But the kids, two or three of them, were crawling around in the aisles and making obnoxious little noises as though the whole service was in their honour and everyone should be charmed by their happy babble. The raven tried to block them out, but they kept drawing his eye.
He didn’t want to be unfair, but they were ruining it. He bobbed and twitched about in irritation. One even had the cheek to whine, loudly, that he was bored. And afterwards, of course, they would shriek their way through the graveyard, trampling all over the best worm-picking spots. The worms would be so frightened they wouldn’t come up for days.
The choir was on about Jacob’s ladder today, singing over the top of each other in a way that made the whole church seem rich and warm.
We are (we are)
Climbing (climbing)
Jacob’s Ladder
Brothers, sisters, all.
Every (every)
Rung goes (rung goes)
Higher and higher
Brothers, sisters, all.
But he couldn’t enjoy it. All he could think about was that this Jacob’s ladder had better not be put anywhere near his belltower, because he wouldn’t have people coming up it to nose about his treasure. He didn’t care if they were brothers or sisters or how high the rungs went – if anyone so much as looked at his treasure, he’d rush at them with his beak snapping. Maybe he could teach the weatherhen a lesson in the process.
Eventually the song ended and so did the mass, and the raven watched as Father Cadman drifted down the centre aisle. His hands were clasped over his stomach and he looked like that Moses fellow he often talked about, parting the sea. People turned to smile at him and follow him out.
The raven swallowed the feeling that no one ever smiled at or followed him. What he needed was for people to fear him. With fear came respect, and that was more important than being liked. You got nowhere by being liked.
The raven hopped about up on his crossbeam, humming to himself while he waited for Father Cadman to return. The altar boy came and took away the shiny cups and blew out the candles. Waxy smoke wafted through the air.
It was the smell of long ago, when he was a very young bird, out in the mountains and all on his own. Perched in the trees at night he would watch sparks shoot up from faraway campfires, the idle blur of quiet conversation, the gentle crackle of leaves and twigs. And it would smell like safety, warmth. He used to fall asleep smelling that, snug in the security of it.
But it was silly to get all nostalgic over past things. Nothing was ever as good as you remembered it.
Father Cadman still wasn’t back. The raven took a cautious look around the church and then flew down to the old organ at the side of the altar, landing with his claws sunk into the worn leather seat. He struck a key with his beak and then looked around guiltily as it boomed out. But no one came rushing over, so the raven made himself comfortable
‘We are,’ he began to sing, ‘climbing . . . Jacob’s Ladder.’
His voice buckled on the A in ladder and he croaked in impatience. It was his own fault because he hadn’t done any warm-up scales.
It was a long time ago, but the raven remembered it clearly – how Father Cadman had once caught the raven practising hymns. That was what sparked their relationship. It wasn’t ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ or ‘I’ll Fly Away’, but ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’, and the raven was at the organ one Sunday after mass.
Somebody had left the hymn book open and the raven had been trying to tap at the ivory keys with his claws so he could practise the melody. He’d just got to six white horses standing side by side and was getting into a fluster because he had to sing the bass and the alto and the echo-refrain all at once. He also had a tendency to sound like a frog every time he got above middle C, and he was trying to rectify it when Father Cadman walked out from the confessional booth.
At first the raven almost defecated in fright, and that would have been even more embarrassing then getting caught singing human songs. Humans weren’t supposed to know that birds could speak, and the raven felt a little bit sick to his stomach.
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.