‘Kraaaa!’ said the raven. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
The only answer was another sharp little jab, underneath his hackles. Startled, the raven backed out of the hollow, ran into a particularly springy branch of cherry blossom and was thrust forward again, half-falling, half-sprawling back into the droning gap.
This time the noise of the bees was more insistent, heavier. A small cloud of them swarmed up around the raven.
Now, the raven was no coward by any means, but he knew when a battle was lost. Not only his reputation but his appearance was at stake here, and that was definitely worth preserving. A few bees buzzed around his head as he once again retreated, fighting for space to expand his wings. He snapped at them, his wickedly curved beak making short work of those who intended to do the same to him.
One bee tried to launch an attack on his bill. He nipped it away, almost missing because now his eye was swelling up where the bee had stung it and his sense of direction was all confused.
He fanned his wings, scattering pink and white flowers like confetti. Sharp little tweaks on the underside of his wings let the raven know a few bees had found an easy target. But they couldn’t find their way past his dense, carefully groomed feathers or the shaggy thickness of his throat hackles – which just went to show how right he was about meticulous grooming methods. If he had just been some raggeldy-taggeldy crow with his feathers sticking up everywhere, or worse, falling out from lack of hygiene, then he certainly wouldn’t be flying away now with so little damage.
‘Prruk-prruk-prruk,’ defied the raven as he flew away from the cherry tree. He must not let the bees think they had gotten the best of him. He must not let them think a few pesky stings could tarnish his general splendour.
Except they did hurt, a little, and were rather annoying. His wing was itching already and he could feel his eye swelling at a rather alarming rate, so much so that the raven couldn’t get his bearings and only hoped he was headed in the right direction.
He wasn’t. He almost flew straight into the pigeon.
‘Oh, there you are!’ the pigeon said. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, but I thought you’d given me the slip!’
‘I did,’ said the raven, through strained beak. A lone bee buzzed around his head and he lashed out at it.
‘What’s that?’ said the pigeon. He looked at the raven, inching in far too close for comfort.
Oh, the stench of him.
But the pigeon only peered closer. ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. ‘Or should I say, “eye”.’ He sniggered at his own supposed cleverness. ‘Someone really nipped you in the bud.’
‘Get-out-of-my-face,’ said the raven.
‘By all means I would, but someone’s got to it first.’
The raven caught sight of the belltower with his one good eye and directed his course towards it.
‘Your future prospects don’t look good,’ called the pigeon after him. ‘That is, if you could look. But you can’t.’
The raven had never felt so embarrassed in all his life. To be made the butt of a pigeon’s joke; it was absolutely ruinous. He might never live it down. The weatherhen would be at him for weeks with her snide titters.
He managed to catch the end of a tailwind, which was just enough to make a seamless getaway. The pigeon, with his piddly little paddle-wings, had no hope of keeping up.
‘Well,’ the pigeon shouted, ‘I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Eyes, get it? Oh, you probably don’t. Because you’ve only got one!’ And he almost fell out of the sky laughing.
The raven’s wing was really itching now. He circled round the far end of the church and flew in through an open window, hopping his way up through the interior of the belltower ruins until he’d reached his den. It wasn’t the easiest route, but it was far better than having to fly past the weatherhen in this state.
Once he was home safe the raven brought out the stolen pocket mirror. He’d certainly looked better – feathers askew, right wing clumsy where the stings prevented it from settling into its usual place at his side. And his eye! What a mess. A puffy mound with only the very bottom rim of his clear, blue-grey eye being visible.
And all because Father Cadman had encouraged him right into a honey-trap.
The raven couldn’t help thinking unkind thoughts about the priest. Surely Father Cadman must have known the bees were there. Perhaps he was getting worried by the raven’s singing and was trying to jeopardise his career.
No. He must not think like that. Not about Father Cadman. The priest was his familiar, was his ally in a world full of imbeciles. He wouldn’t do that. It must have been an honest mistake.
But the resentment lingered. The raven could taste it, a stubborn little bubble lodged firmly in his throat.
The raven used his clever, nimble claws to pinch the sting from his eye. That took care of the itch, but it did nothing to abate his wretched appearance. Sighing, he nestled his head under his wing and fished around until he drew out the stings there, and then he got the last one just to the right of his chest.
He felt better, once he was rid of all those nasty remnants from those little pests. But his swollen eye was a bother. The raven had church in fifteen minutes and he could not go looking like this.
He rummaged about in his treasure pile until he found what he was looking for – a scrap of leather he’d once ripped from some lady’s purse when she’d been having a nap on the lawn. It was studded with tiny diamantes and it had been, at the time, the raven’s score of the week.
He fiddled about with it now until, care of his claws and beak and some expert navigating of his neck, the scrap of leather hung over his right eye at an angle most becoming. He secured it with the leather strap of the purse, around the top and bottom of his beak, and fixed it into place with a dab of gum residue.
Pleased with himself, the raven considered his reflection once more in the mirror. He tried out a few poses, and each angle was better than the last. A quick smoothing of his feathers and he was almost back to his old self. Actually, it was very nearly an improvement.
The scrap of leather, now his eyepatch, was a deep chestnut colour, with navy blue stitching that set off the indigo sheen of his plumage. Two diamantes dazzled at the very top corners; the raven tilted his head so they caught the light. There had never been a more daring and debonair raven. He looked like a classy pirate. In fact, he could just about put parrots out of business.
‘Shove that, you stupid bees,’ he said. And then, with some difficulty, he turned from his reflection and headed off to church.