There are so many different kinds of calls. There’s the noisy outcry of rival crows before a fight, and the continuous cawing of a murder of crows as they mob the source of their thrill and peril. There are the short bursts of caws followed by silence, which make up the companion calls; and the sub-song mixtures involving coos, rattles, and clicks. There is the car-car-cockle-cockle gargle, often from a young bird begging for food, as Bébé Noir is doing now. Tahlia scritches on her clipboard, and Weary watches, listens.
Of course, there is the liquid coi-ou of courtship. And the far, far quieter call: the hidden sound of passion called the whisper song.
But one should never forget the most intriguing Corvus call of all—the ones in which the birds pretend to be other birds. The crows are such good mimics, they can even pretend to be humans speaking human words.
“Professor!” Lotto appears. “Phone for you. A woman. She says it’s urgent.”
Weary rises quickly. He hurries out of the jungle, runs to the office.
A woman. Urgent.
It has to be her. It has to be Isabelle, making her own call from her own jungle. She’s done it! Oh, he hopes, hopes, hopes she has. He can’t wait to hear her voice. He can’t wait to say, Yes, I know. Finally! He can’t get there fast enough. He is huffing and puffing. His muscles flame from effort and speed. Right then, if he were a corvid, the call rising from his own chest would be one never heard from Corvus before—the pure joy of song.