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 see 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.
‘It appeals not?’ said the pigeon. ‘Might I recommend –’
‘Stop,’ said the raven. ‘You disgust me.’
‘Maybe I’ve just caught you on an auspicious occasion.’
‘No,’ said the raven, ‘you won’t catch me anywhere.’
‘It goes without saying,’ began the pigeon.
‘Then don’t say it.’
‘Silence is golden, but shouting is –’
‘Kraaa!’ snapped the raven, and his eyes flashed.
‘Woohoo,’ said the pigeon. ‘Who took Snappy Tom for his breakfast this morning?’
‘Snappy Tom is cat food,’ the raven hissed through gritted beak. ‘Clearly, I’m a bird.’
‘Undoubtedly, sir,’ agreed the pigeon.
‘Cats eat birds,’ said the raven.
‘Perhaps you just need a hug,’ said the pigeon, missing the point entirely. ‘A hug is a feast for the soul.’
‘And how would you know?’
‘Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I was quite the ladies’ bird in my time.’ The pigeon tipped his ridiculous bobbing head at what he mistakenly thought was a rakish angle. ‘I had the best coos in the entire park. Like this – coooo, coooo, coooo – and they would come flying, every Tom, Mick and Larry. Except the female versions – heheheheheh, if you know what I mean.’
‘I really am going to throw up,’ said the raven.
‘I would be eternally grateful if you could proceed in the act of projection over by the mausoleum,’ the pigeon said. ‘Uncle Pigeon is particularly inclined towards a smooth consistency, with about 25 per cent chunks.’
But the raven heard no more because a north-easterly breeze was pricking at the ends of his wings and he took advantage of it to make his getaway. He was revolted to the tips of his claws.
Before he’d even caught sight of the cherry tree he heard the buzzing of bees. It was a steady drone, not yet built to its full crescendo, as the day was still early and relatively cool.
The cherry tree was a thing of beauty. It had always appealed to the raven’s sense of aesthetic ideal. It was just now flowering, thousands of tiny pink and white blooms blossoming from the rich, lustrous branches of dark wood. They were heavy with the weight of the flowers and they draped, elegant and expansive, down to the soft green grass, which was already canopied with fallen petals.
If the raven was a tree he would be something a bit more grand and mythical – maybe an elm. But should he ever need his equivalent in the female form, she would surely be a cherry tree. Beautiful, but strong and refined. The blush to his cheek.
Now for the honey. The raven wanted so badly to be able to sing like Father Cadman – he was almost consumed by it. He wanted to have a singing voice worthy of the church and its hymns, a voice that would get him instant respect. In fact, his voice was the only thing about himself that really needed work, and he was determined to make it perfect. So if it was honey he needed, then honey he would get.
The raven sought for an opening among the snowy boughs. He traced the gentle hum of the buzzing to a well-disguised hollow at the back of the tree. Once he’d positioned himself on a nearby branch, he scoped it out with many curious arrangements of his head.
The whole world took on a pink glow underneath the weeping branches of the tree. The blossoms whispered over the raven’s back until he’d inched his way closer to the buzzing entrance. A few bees drifted out drowsily, settling nearby or floating away on other business. Mostly they ignored him.
Encouraged, the raven hopped a little closer. His head was full of honey and the beautiful voice that was one step closer to being his. He stuck his face into the hollow.
And then he felt a sharp, bitter little blow as one of the bees stung him on the eye.