The Crow Talker

by Jacob Grey

  Jawbone grinned, his tattooed face transforming into a hideous mask. He folded his open palm into a fist and lifted it high above Quaker’s head like a wrecking ball. Caw could barely watch. Was the convict going to crush the old man’s skull right in front of him?

  Then Jawbone turned on his heel and brought his hand down on to the glass case. It splintered with a crash, throwing shards across the room. “Looks like I don’t need it,” he said.

  As Jawbone reached in and seized the hilt of the Crow’s Beak, Caw felt a stab of anger mixed with something else – envy. He had to stop himself leaping out and attacking the dog feral on the spot.

  Jawbone turned the blade in the meagre light from the bulb above, examining it closely. A shimmer passed along the metal, illuminating the strange letters. “Doesn’t look like much to me,” he said. “A child’s toy.”

  “It’s priceless,” hissed Felix Quaker. “In the wrong hands—”

  “Spare me,” said Jawbone. “I know what it is.” He shoved the sword down through his belt. Caw gritted his teeth.

  “You have what you came for,” said Quaker, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Now leave.”

  Jawbone nodded thoughtfully, then his head jerked downwards. He stooped towards the floor. “What’s this?” he said.

  As he stood again, Quaker’s eyes shot for a split-second towards the wardrobe. Jawbone was holding a black feather.

  A scream of fear lodged in Caw’s throat.

  “The crow talker is here,” said Jawbone. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

  Quaker shook his head.

  “You’re a bad liar,” said Jawbone. “My colleagues will find her soon enough.”

  Quaker frowned and Caw realised he was confused as well.

  Her?

  “You won’t find her!” said Quaker, suddenly. Jawbone shoved him out of his way and strode towards the door. Then he paused and spoke without turning around.

  “They say you cat ferals have nine lives. Let’s see, shall we?”

  “What?” said Quaker, darting back. There was a crunch as he trod on his own monocle.

  Jawbone laid a hand on each of the dogs’ heads in turn. As he did so, their ears went back and they lifted their tails. “Finish him off,” he said, and left the room.

  “No!” Quaker cried.

  The dogs entered, fanning out. Caw saw Felix Quaker snatch up the chair and brandish it in front of him. It only made the dogs growl with more menace.

  “Orion!” said Quaker, swishing the chair back and forth. “Vespa! Monty! Claws out!”

  One of the dogs leapt up towards his face and Quaker sidestepped it deftly. An instant later, a second dog’s teeth fastened over his sleeve and tore a section away.

  Caw pushed open the wardrobe doors, letting out a yell to distract the dogs. At the same time he willed his crows to attack. They flew out, raking their talons at the dogs’ eyes and stabbing with their beaks. Caw grabbed Quaker and pulled him out of the room. The crows swooped after them and the moment they were through Quaker slammed the door closed.

  On the other side they heard the dogs snarling and throwing themselves against the wood, shaking the door in its frame. Three cats finally darted up the stairs, hissing, but they stopped as Quaker wearily waved a hand.

  “Some use you three were!” he said.

  The cats responded with a series of indignant purrs.

  “Well you would say that,” said Quaker. “Lucky for me, the crows were here.” He turned to Caw. “What I can’t understand is why Jawbone called the crow talker her … I was only too happy to assist in misleading him, but—”

  “Lydia!” interrupted Caw. “They must think Lydia is the crow feral! We need to find her.”

  “Now hold on,” said Quaker, but Caw was already starting down the stairs.

  Lydia’s shouts cut through the house, making Caw’s heart jolt. He took the stairs two at a time, leaving his crows behind and vaulting over the turn in the banister, light as air. It felt as though a wind was carrying him along, giving him a speed he wasn’t used to.

  On the landing, he saw a cat lying dead in a pool of blood.

  Wait! called Glum.

  Caw took the next flight to the ground floor in two bounds and hit the ground running. He sped through the front door, which hung askew on its hinges. Screech shot ahead of him, flapping hard.

  At the bottom of the driveway, Jawbone was striding towards a van. Mamba sat in the driver’s seat, while Scuttle bundled Lydia in through a sliding side door. She kicked madly, screaming, “Let me go! Get your hands off me!”

  Jawbone slid the door closed behind them.

  Caw ran as fast as he could, but Jawbone was already climbing into the front seat. They hadn’t even seen him.

  “Stop!” Caw yelled.

  But the van’s tyres spun, kicking up gravel and smoke. Then it sped through the busted open gates and away down the hill. Caw sprinted after them, his hopes vanishing as the van’s rear lights faded into the distance. With his chest on fire, he stumbled to a halt in the middle of the road.

  “No … please …” he said.

  Not Lydia too.

  Milky fluttered out of the sky and landed on his arm, then Glum and Screech descended too.

  “They think she’s the crow talker,” said Caw.

  And they’ll discover soon enough that she isn’t, said Glum.

  Caw picked himself up. “What will they do then?”

  Glum didn’t speak for a long time.

  We should go back to the house, he said finally. The cat talker must be able to help.

  Caw nodded, but he noticed that Glum hadn’t answered his question.

  Caw found Felix Quaker in the hallway, carrying the dead cat in his arms. He glanced up as Caw approached.

  “They took her,” Caw said in a hollow voice. “Please … she’s the only friend I’ve got. Help me get her back.”

  Quaker regarded Caw for a moment, and then looked back at the cat in his arms. He stroked her bloodied fur gently. “She was called Helena,” he said. “It’s fifteen years since I found her as a stray.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Caw. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

  “Yes … I suppose you must,” said Quaker.

  “Please don’t make me go through it again,” Caw pleaded. “Lydia is still alive. We can still save her.”

  Quaker’s eyes fell on the crows, perched on the banister. “She’ll keep, for now. First, we need to talk. Come with me, crow talker.”

  Caw clenched his fists as the cat feral walked from the room. He wanted to run out into the street, to start tracking the prisoners down straight away. But he knew that Quaker might be the only one who’d know how to find them. So – against all his instincts – Caw followed.

  The dogs’ barks still rang through the house as Felix Quaker led Caw to a cellar kitchen with a cobbled floor and a simple wooden table with two chairs. The crows flew in and landed on the edge of the sink. Quaker placed the dead cat softly on a sheet of newspaper in front of a huge hearth. A dozen other cats emerged and gathered around the corpse of their friend, mewing softly. The cat feral was unrecognisable from the immaculately dressed man who had answered the door less than an hour before. His wrist was bleeding from the dog bite, there was blood crusted under his nose and his crisply ironed clothes were wrinkled and torn.

  He turned his narrowed eyes on Caw, as they both settled down at the table. “So tell me, why do they think your friend is the crow feral?”

  “I suppose … every time they saw me with the crows, she was there too,” said Caw, realising it was true, as he said it. “In fact, that first time in the alleyway, they didn’t see me at all – just Lydia. When Jawbone attacked her dad, they must have thought it was her calling the crows to protect him.

  “And then at the Strickham’s house, Mamba didn’t see Lydia’s mother. And she didn’t see me either. She just saw my crows waiting outside … So of course she thought they were
Lydia’s.”

  He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. If only he had sent her back to Crumb’s hideout, none of this would have happened.

  “I see,” said Quaker. “And how did you find me?”

  “Miss Wallace,” Caw said quietly. “Before …”

  “The incident at the library,” said Quaker. He ran a cloth under the tap and dabbed his bloody nose. “I read about it. The police didn’t give any details, though. You knew her too?”

  Caw nodded. “Jawbone and his friends killed her,” he said.

  “Savages!” said Quaker, flashing his sharp teeth in a grimace. “The librarian was a capable woman. I use the library a lot for my research. Of course, she never knew who I really was.” He tossed the cloth back in the sink. “Two days ago, I was taking out some books when I saw a drawing on her desk.”

  “A spider?” said Caw.

  Quaker looked up sharply. “Yes! How do you—”

  “We drew it,” said Caw. “Me and Lydia.”

  Quaker’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Well, I must have given quite a start when I saw it, because the librarian asked what it meant to me. I didn’t want anything to do with it, of course. I told her as much, quite firmly. Then I left in a hurry.”

  “She must have guessed that you knew something about it. She wrote your name underneath that drawing,” said Caw. “She was holding it when they killed her.”

  Quaker looked away as though unable to meet Caw’s eyes. The dogs’ barking had become less frequent and Quaker glanced upwards. “They’ll calm down eventually,” he said. “I never liked dogs, but they’re mostly harmless away from their feral’s influence.”

  Caw had so many questions, he hardly knew where to start. And how were any of them going to help Lydia?

  “So you know Jawbone?” he said.

  “I’ve run into the likes of him in the past,” said Quaker. “That strand of dog talker has always been nasty.”

  “There are others?” said Caw.

  “You’ll find a kettle on the stove with hot water, and tea leaves in that jar on the shelf,” said Quaker, pointing. “I can’t talk about ferals without a decent cup of tea in my hand.”

  Begrudgingly, Caw fetched the jar and found two cups. He began to empty some of the dried leaves into them.

  “Hold on there!” said Quaker. “You’ve not done this before, I see. Please, be seated. Now, watch and learn!”

  Caw gladly sat back down and let the cat feral take over. Quaker scooped the leaves into a metal object with holes in the side, then put that into a small pot and filled it with steaming water. He brought the pot, a jug of milk and two cups over to the table.

  “I suppose I owe you my thanks,” said Quaker, sitting down again with a sigh. “Jawbone’s dogs would have killed me if it wasn’t for your crows.”

  “Well, I’d be dead too, if you’d told him I was in that wardrobe,” said Caw.

  Quaker leant closer to Caw, sniffed deeply, then nodded. “I didn’t recognise you at first, but I should have. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  Caw’s neck prickled. “You knew my parents?”

  Quaker poured the amber liquid and milk into two cups and pushed one across the table to Caw. “I did indeed, Jack.”

  “Jack?” said Caw, sitting up straighter.

  “I suppose you don’t use that name any more,” said Quaker. He sipped his tea and purred contentedly. “I remember you as a baby. Jack Carmichael, son of Elizabeth and Richard. They were clever people. Brave, too – perhaps a bit too much so, at the end.”

  Caw swallowed and fought back the threat of tears. He turned his attention to the cup of tea. Taking a sip, he let the strange flavour settle on his tongue and winced.

  “Not a fan, I see?” said Quaker, smiling. “Neither was your mother.”

  Caw sat up straighter.

  “Well, we shan’t waste it,” said Quaker, snatching the cup towards his own. He took another sip of tea. “You know, I thought the crow line had ended. After the events of the Dark Summer, I went to your house. You were all gone, but the signs were there. The webs, so thick I had to use an axe to get through the door.” Quaker shook his head at the memory. “What a waste of talent. If only your mother had kept herself barricaded inside, as I did, maybe she’d still be alive, but …”

  Quaker stopped midsentence, and seemed to notice the stricken look on Caw’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “As I said,” Quaker continued, “they were brave.” He took another sip of tea. But for an instant, Caw thought he almost looked ashamed.

  “Why did you go to my parents’ house?” asked Caw.

  “To recover the Crow’s Beak, of course,” said Quaker.

  “That sword.”

  The cat feral nodded. “Luckily for me, your mother had hidden it well.”

  “What is it?” asked Caw. “A weapon?”

  Quaker’s eyes widened a little, then narrowed again. “It’s tragic that you know so little about your heritage, Jack.”

  Caw felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “Then tell me.”

  “The Crow’s Beak might look like a weapon, but in fact it’s more of a tool – a key – passed down between crow ferals since ancient times, when Blackstone was just fields and a river. Since the greatest crow feral to be precise – Black Corvus. It can cut through the veil that separates this world and the other.”

  “The other?” said Caw.

  Milky gave a low squawk from the edge of the sink, and the two crows on either side glanced at him nervously.

  Quaker’s cup rattled on its saucer as he put it down. He stared hard at Caw, and the cats by the hearth turned their eyes to their master, their ears pricked up and alert. “The Land of the Dead,” he said.

  Caw felt his stomach twist.

  The cat feral continued, glancing briefly at Milky. “Crows have always been special,” he said. “Some say that they are the only creatures that can cross back and forth between the Lands.”

  “But what is the Land of the Dead?” asked Caw.

  “What does it sound like?”

  The hairs on Caw’s neck rose. “The afterlife?”

  “You can call it that if you like.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You don’t believe me?” said Quaker. “Your white friend there knows I’m telling the truth.”

  Milky stared at them.

  “He doesn’t talk much, I see,” said Quaker. “Well, his feathers do the talking for him. He’s white like that because he’s one of the few to have visited the Land of the Dead and come back.”

  Caw looked at Milky with new eyes. Could it be true?

  “Say I believe you,” he said carefully. “What’s this place like?”

  “Better ask him,” said Quaker, pointing at Milky.

  Milky took flight and landed on the table between them, talons clicking on the wood.

  “Look into his eyes,” said Quaker. “Look hard.”

  Milky cocked his head. Caw felt strange with Quaker and the animals watching, but all the same he stared into the crow’s pale left eye. “What have you got to show me, Milky?” he said softly.

  At first he saw nothing. Then, in the depths of the pale orb, shapes began to swirl. He stared harder and the rest of the room faded as the eye seemed to suck him in. Caw felt like he was floating, then falling, falling, into the depths of a misty sky. He saw shapes through the fog – woodland, branches, the ground covered in layers of black leaves.

  “Do you see it?” said Quaker’s voice, from somewhere in the distance.

  Caw nodded, unable to break away from Milky’s gaze. Through the mists he saw faces among the trees, figures drifting between the trunks. Two turned towards him and he floated closer. They reached their arms out, and murmured his name softly. “Jack?”

  It was his mother. He glimpsed her face through the mist – her large, dark eyes, her kind smile. Then his father as well, his serious, clean-shaven features with a slight dimple in his chin. The
rest of their bodies were indistinct, but their faces called to him. “Jack, come to us,” they said together.

  Just as he was about to fall into their embrace, another face appeared behind them. Caw’s heart lurched in horror, for there stood the Spinning Man, his spider hands sinking into Caw’s parents’ shoulders, yanking them away. His eyes were black and glittering, and his gaze was fixed on Caw.

  Caw jolted backwards with a gasp and almost fell off his chair. He was in the kitchen again and Milky was watching him, head still cocked.

  “The Spinning Man,” said Caw. “I saw him!”

  “He is waiting for you,” said Quaker gravely.

  “Me? Why?”

  “Why do you think?” said Quaker. “Only the crow talker can wield the Crow’s Beak.”

  “And bring him back,” said Caw in a rush of understanding. “If I cut through the veil, he can return. That’s why his followers need the crow talker.”

  Felix Quaker nodded and took a last gulp of tea, setting the cup down with finality. “Their mistake with the girl has bought you a little time, but they will come back for you soon enough.”

  “That may be true,” Caw said, standing, “but I’m not planning on hiding away like you. Thanks for the tea, but I need to go now. I need to find Lydia.”

  Quaker reached down to stroke a ginger tomcat who was winding around his ankles. “My place is here,” he said. “I’ve helped you all I can.”

  A light knock at the doorway made them both look up. Crumb was waiting at the threshold of the kitchen, Pip standing beside him.

  “Yet more intruders, I see,” said Quaker.

  “The front door was wide open,” said Crumb. “Looks like you’ve had some unwelcome visitors. Although I guess all visitors are unwelcome here.” His glance passed over Caw and the crows and his expression hardened. “Where’s Lydia?”

  “They took her,” said Caw grimly. “They think she’s the crow feral.”

  Crumb’s face betrayed little emotion, other than a slight flaring of his nostrils, but Pip pushed past him, pointing angrily at Caw.

  “You should have stayed with us, stupid,” he said. “We said you weren’t ready!”

  “And you were right,” said Caw, cowed by the little boy’s stinging words. “But I’m going to make up for it.”