‘Eh?’ said the raven. ‘What for? I saw a ladder on the ground, if you’d like that. It’s fallen over, but I’m sure if you waited long enough someone will come by and prop it up for you. Then you can climb down. More convenient, don’t you think? Not so dramatic. Unless that’s what you were going for.’
‘I’m not trying to be dramatic,’ the man said. ‘I’m just going to jump. And I know the ladder’s down there. I pushed it over myself.’
‘Not your smartest move, if you ask me,’ said the raven. ‘You must have known if you were going to climb up the tree that sooner or later you’d have to come down.’
‘I know I have to come down,’ the man scowled. ‘That’s why I’m going to jump. It’s the only way.’
The raven feigned nonchalance and looked around for more jewel beetles. ‘A little heavy-handed,’ he said. ‘Have you considered your other options?’
‘There are none,’ said the man. ‘I want to jump out of this tree and I don’t care what happens after that.’
The raven began to pick the last of the leaves from his feathers. Sure, he was hungry. Yes, he was talking to humans. But that didn’t mean he could let himself go and look like some hobo. Or worse, a pigeon.
‘It might not work, you know,’ he said. ‘You might just make an awful mess of yourself. And there’re some crows around here that don’t miss a beat when it comes to an easy dinner.’
‘Then I’ll just try again,’ said the man. His voice wobbled and trembled as though it might disappear into the rest of his body at any moment. The redness of the man’s face had now travelled down to his neck, and the raven watched, fascinated, as it spread lower and lower.
The man cast him a skittish glance and shifted his weight on the branch. ‘What are you looking at?’ he said. ‘Stop it. I’m sick of people looking at me. I’m sick of people shouting things in my face and pulling on my arm and saying go here and do this and fetch that. I’m sick of sitting behind that stupid desk and being told that this isn’t good enough, or that isn’t quite right. I’m not having any more of it. I want it all to go away.’
‘That your argument, is it?’
‘Pardon?’ said the man.
‘Is that your reason for jumping?’ said the raven, slowly this time. Maybe the man’s extreme redness was interfering with his ability to hear properly.
‘Yes it is.’
‘All right,’ the raven said. He peeled away some bark from the branch and had a good look under it. Nothing edible there. Meanwhile, the man tried to catch the raven’s eye. The raven pretended there was something fascinating happening everywhere but around the man.
‘Well,’ the man finally said, ‘what’s wrong with it, then?’
‘It’s okay, I guess,’ said the raven. ‘But I’ve heard better. You could have at least made something up. Maybe you made a pact with the devil and now you can’t uphold it. Maybe someone got into your sock drawer and mixed up all the colours, and you just don’t think you can cope. You could even say that you accidentally trod on a snail and it’s driven you to the very depths of despair. Something with a bit of dramatic impact. I’m a bird of great intellect, you know. The dead come to me with story after story. Is it too much to ask for a bit of innovation?’
‘Oh,’ said the man, and he pulled down his cufflinks. ‘Sorry. It’s nothing like that. I’ve just been chained to a desk for most of my life, doing everything for other people who don’t even know I’m there.’
The raven was on a roll now, and his beak seemed to open and close of its own accord. He went to reply that there were better ways to seek attention, but a breeze shifted through the oak and the upper branches of the tree clashed together.
The man and the raven were not at the very top, but they still sat quite high up. They both had to scramble and grab hold of twigs and leaves, fingers and claws scrabbling at strips of bark. The man’s eyes rolled nervously, the redness kindled inside his ear, and he wound his arms around the branch.
The gust of wind soon died down, snaking away to upset some other tree. The raven set about rearranging the swathe of feathers around his throat. His beak moved rapidly – he had it down to an art. Why, out of all creatures, had he chosen to be a bird? Flying and wind tantrums were not exactly conducive to an elegant appearance.
‘You know,’ said the raven, once he was back to looking his best, ‘you really missed a great opportunity there. That breeze could’ve knocked you right off the branch. You only had to relax. No worrying about taking a deep breath and gathering all your thoughts together. You wouldn’t even have to work up the courage to release your grip.’
‘That’s morbid!’ said the man.
‘More trouble than it’s worth, really,’ the raven continued. ‘You could have just let the wind do the job. Simple.’
‘Well,’ said the man, ‘that would be cheating, wouldn’t it? I want to be in control; take my destiny into my own hands. It has to be all me. Least I can do is be in control, at the end of it.’ He squared his shoulders, shaking out his arms a little to release the tension. His head swivelled to look at the raven, as if he’d only just realised the bird was there. ‘Why are you wearing an eyepatch? Birds don’t wear eyepatches.’
‘I am no mere bird,’ said the raven. ‘You’ve got sweat patches.’
The man glanced down at his armpits, then tried to inconspicuously check if the left one smelled by wiping his nose on his shoulder.
‘A little oniony,’ the raven said. ‘I can smell it from here.’
‘This is a big step,’ said the man, ‘I’m nervous.’
‘Yeah,’ said the raven, ‘but is that how you want to be found? Sprawled out on the ground with sweat patches and onion armpits? That’s all anyone will remember, you know.’
The man fell silent. Some of the redness drained from his cheeks. He began to inhale and exhale in long, wafty breaths.
The raven waddled along the tree branch to ease his stiff claws. ‘It’s your turn to speak,’ he said.
‘I don’t care,’ came the answer.
The raven shrugged. ‘Try saying that like you mean it.’
There was an even longer silence, and the raven made the sort of noises he thought might encourage conversation. How long had the man been sitting there? He could just leave him and fly away. What did he care for this strange little man with his patchy face and sweaty armpits? The raven’s area of expertise was dead people. Not ones that hadn’t quite made up their mind.
‘If I may,’ the raven said, ‘can I ask why you chose a tree? It’s a bit unusual.’
‘No one can see me up here, in the branches,’ the man said. ‘I told you, I’m sick of people looking at me. I don’t want to be in some place where a crowd can gather and laugh over what a failure I turned out to be.’
‘Regardless of where you are, people will look at you even if you’re lying in a smelly heap on the ground. And I can guarantee, there are pigeons around here that have no tact when it comes to sensitive situations.’
This time it was the man’s turn to shrug. His neck was back to its pale pink colour and his shoulders were hunched up round his ears. ‘Why are you wearing an eyepatch?’ he asked again.
‘Hmm?’ said the raven. ‘Why not?’
‘Why are you talking to me? Birds can’t talk.’
‘They can,’ said the raven.
‘Maybe I’m already dead.’
‘Don’t spread it around, though. Most of the time what they say isn’t even worth hearing. Especially pigeons.’
‘Are you an apparition?’ asked the man. ‘Did I concoct you out of my dreams? Perhaps you are my guardian angel?’
‘What kind of guardian angel would have a beak and an eyepatch?’
‘Are you my conscience, then?’
‘Yawn,’ said the raven. ‘Next.’
‘Are you God?’
‘Funny you should say that . . .’ began the raven, but the man wasn’t finished.
‘Are you God? I’ve seen this in movies, when God stages an intervention. Are you going to tell me I’m worth it after all?’
The man looked so hopeful that the raven stared at him and tried to rack his brain for a wise quotation or even just a snippet from Father Cadman’s bible.
‘Are you some higher power?’ the man continued. ‘An angel, perhaps? Speaking to me through the lowly form of an animal?’
‘First of all, I am not lowly,’ snapped the raven. ‘And second, I’ve already had this conversation elsewhere. No one speaks through me but me. I am my own God.’
‘So you’re not God, then?’
‘No,’ said the raven, ‘I am a raven. Clearly.’ And he gave a little swagger of his wings for reassurance. They whammed against the foliage behind him and the right one got wedged between the branches. The raven found himself dangling upside down from his wing. He quickly righted himself and straightened his eyepatch. ‘My impression of a bat,’ he said. ‘No applause necessary, but food donations welcome.’
The man plucked a russet-coloured leaf and watched it crumble away between his fingers. ‘I didn’t really think so, anyway. God’s given up on me. I guess that’s why I’m sitting up a tree.’
The raven drew in a deep breath and affected an intellectual pose. ‘I do, however, have some very profound philosophies,’ he said.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said the man, ‘I think I’m going to jump.’
The raven sank back into his normal posture. ‘No, I guess I don’t. You did climb all this way up. But will you allow me a minute, let me impart a little of my current hypothesis? It could prove to be of great benefit.’
‘Okay,’ sighed the man. ‘Why not?’ He inched forward, half-listening. The end of the branch began to quiver and dip.
‘Well,’ began the raven, and cleared his throat. He shook out his feet and wings. He adjusted his eyepatch with one claw. He imagined that every single organism on the tree was holding its breath and waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘Well, when you jump, you fall down, yes? That is the point, that’s why you do it. But what I’m interested in is this: you’re on the end of the branch, you’re about to leap and you think, “No, I don’t think I’ll go down today. Instead, I think I would like to go up.” ’