The Crow Talker

by Jacob Grey

  “And how will you do that?” said Pip.

  “You have to teach me everything you can,” Caw said to Crumb. “Fast. Please, you have to help me. Somebody has to help me.” Caw glanced over at Quaker, but the cat feral wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Please, Crumb,” Caw repeated. “Lydia’s life depends on it.”

  Crumb seemed to be deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the ground. Caw held his breath. Finally the pigeon feral met his gaze again. “Very well, crow talker,” he said. “But I warn you – it’s going to hurt.”

  n the hour before dawn, Blackstone stirred to life like a creature shaking off slumber. Buses rumbled through the streets, carrying huddled passengers home from their night shifts or off to early starts. Litter blew through the alleys, and the homeless cowered in flimsy cardboard shelters beneath the bridges and in doorways, snatching their last few hours of undisturbed sleep. Shopkeepers pulled up shutters with loud bangs.

  Caw ached from head to foot as they descended Herrick Hill and entered the financial district, no longer last night’s ghost town of steel and glass, but thronging with men and women in suits, streaming like insects into the giant anthills of their offices. They all seemed far too busy to even notice the strange trio walking in their midst – the scruffy man and the two boys – or the odd collection of birds circling overhead.

  Caw’s bones seemed loose and rattling, and the tendons between his muscles screamed with each step. He had scratches over every bit of exposed skin. But he could hardly complain. He had asked Crumb to teach him and the lessons had been just as painful as promised. They’d practised in Felix Quaker’s huge back garden – the cat feral had at least agreed to help in that small way. So for several hours it had been Caw against Crumb; crow versus pigeon; the ferals and their creatures doing battle under the stars.

  Some things had come quickly – he could summon hundreds of crows with just a thought now – but Crumb was always one step ahead. It was like a dance to which Caw didn’t know the steps, and he was so busy listening for the rhythm that his feet tripped over each other. The pigeon talker had been merciless in his assaults, swatting the crows aside, sending his birds to rake Caw with claws and beaks. At one point the pigeons had even lifted Caw from the ground and hurled him into a bush. He had a palm-sized bruise under his ribs to remind him of that.

  Quaker and Pip had watched from the sidelines with a mixture of wry amusement and the occasional sympathetic grimace. The sight of their cats and mice sitting beside each other had looked distinctly odd, but both ferals kept their creatures in check. Caw knew what Quaker was thinking – that Caw was useless, a pale shadow of his mother and her abilities.

  The cat feral had slowly, very slowly warmed to their invasion of his privacy, and eventually was regaling them with stories of Black Corvus, the greatest crow talker. Apparently he had been so powerful he could control thousands of crows at once, and even, according to some early sources, become a crow himself. Crumb had said he had heard such stories too, but didn’t believe them any more, and then he and Quaker had argued about what was a legend and what was historical fact for a good ten minutes. At least it had given Caw a break from the fighting.

  “Chin up,” said the pigeon talker as they reached a deserted road running between old wharves by the river.

  “It hurts to keep my chin up,” grumbled Caw. “You dropped me on my head, remember?”

  Pip giggled. “That was a bit mean.”

  “You definitely improved,” said Crumb. “By the time we finished you weren’t crying out half as loudly as at the start.” He looked up at a brick bridge that ran across the street. “We’re here.”

  “What’s here?” said Caw.

  Crumb shared a look with Pip. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  He summoned a couple of pigeons to his arm. “Watch the ends of the street. Any police, you raise the alarm.”

  The pigeons cooed in reply and flew in opposite directions.

  “Follow me,” said Crumb.

  They climbed a set of steps into an abandoned monorail station up on the bridge, half enclosed by a fixed metal awning covering the tracks. Old rail cars squatted here and there, rusted and covered in graffiti, their windows smashed. Caw’s three crows settled on the top of a dented ticket booth. Though the risen sun was invisible behind buildings, its morning light suffused the air with a delicate, almost opalescent light.

  I could do with a rest! said Screech. I swear my feathers ache.

  Mine too, said Glum. Those pigeons are tougher than they look.

  “Right,” said Crumb. “Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

  “Again?” said Caw.

  Crumb walked to the far end of the track. “Focus, crow talker,” he said seriously.

  Pip had placed himself out of the way on the edge of the tracks overlooking the street, a mouse perched on each shoulder. “At least make a fight of it,” he called. “I’m bored with watching you get hurt.”

  Caw glared at him and the mouse talker gave him a wink.

  I’ll show them, thought Caw. He closed his eyes and sent out his summons. Within seconds the air filled with crows. They alighted across his arms and on the ground around him. With a hand signal, he separated them into two lines – one to attack, the other to stay beside him and defend – just as Crumb had taught him.

  “Good!” said Crumb. Then without warning, he opened a hand and his pigeons descended in a wave.

  Caw threw his first volley of crows to meet them. They clashed mid-air in a blurred mass of grey and black feathers, screeching and squawking madly. Hidden from view, Caw ran sideways, taking shelter behind a leaning kiosk. He sent his remaining crows in a roundabout swarm, hoping to attack Crumb from the side. But Crumb was ready. A wall of his pigeons lifted from the ground, talons outstretched. The older feral rolled beneath the mass of birds and stood on the other side. “Not bad, Caw!” he said. “Caw?”

  Caw grinned with satisfaction as he peered out. Crumb hadn’t seen him.

  A soft warble made him look up. A pigeon perched on top of the kiosk, staring down at him.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Crumb. “Thanks, Bobbin.”

  Quickly, Caw summoned more crows. A few detached from their battles with the pigeons. But at the same time he saw an army of new pigeons descending from a rooftop nearby.

  They swooped low, right towards him.

  He thinks he’s got me, but he’s wrong.

  Caw lifted his right hand, and the reserves he had under the bridge rose in a black cloud. He left them to intercept the pigeon wave. At the same time, he marshalled Screech, Glum and Milky to come from behind Crumb. He saw them land on the pigeon talker’s back, flapping their wings in his face and knocking him off balance. Yes! He punched the air.

  Crumb cried out in shock as his knees hit the platform and his pigeon flocks scattered into disarray. A dozen swept past Caw’s head, flying low. Caw ducked and then saw it – the pigeons were heading straight for Pip. The small boy swivelled and cried out as the birds surged past him, flipping him round and making him stagger. Caw felt a spike of panic as he saw one leg slip from the trackside. Pip’s arms flailed for balance, then he toppled over the edge, letting out a thin scream.

  “Pip!” bellowed Crumb.

  “Help him!” Caw yelled, thrusting out an arm for any crow that was listening. They spilled over the railway track like a wave of midnight. He held his breath, waiting for a thud.

  A second passed. Then another.

  On the third, the crows rose with Pip squirming in their talons. They set him down carefully on the platform. The boy’s face was white as he straightened his clothes.

  Crumb rushed to the mouse feral, pigeons fluttering away on all sides. He grabbed Pip and pulled him close, then shot a glance at Caw and nodded, his eyes full of relief. “I think the duel’s over,” he said. “You’ve proved yourself, crow talker.”

  Go, Caw! called Screech.

  You done good, said Glum.

  Caw flushed with
pride, his heart thumping from the fight. Pip detached himself from Crumb. “I thought I was dead for sure,” he said, blowing out his cheeks. “Thank you, Caw.”

  Caw smiled. “Thank the crows,” he said.

  “No, it was you,” said Pip. He dropped his gaze, looking bashful. “I’m sorry I doubted you before.”

  Caw shrugged, feeling awkward. But after the rush of the moment had passed, the seriousness of what lay ahead hit him full force. “Now,” he said, “How do we find Jawbone and the others?”

  Crumb looked up and down the platform. The two pigeons he’d left at the ends of the street flew to him, calling softly.

  “Not yet,” he said. “We didn’t come all this way just to practise.”

  A pigeon hopped up and down impatiently in front of him and warbled.

  “As long as it takes, Bobbin,” said Crumb.

  Just then, two brown mice came scurrying along the platform. As Pip bent down to scoop them up, another hurried beneath Caw’s feet. Pip placed them all on his shoulders. One of the tiny rodents lifted its snout to his ear.

  Pip’s eyes lit up. “They’re coming,” he said.

  “Who’s com—” Caw began. But as he spoke, he felt a presence at his back and spun around.

  A bent old woman with a stick was walking in their direction, dragging one foot a little. She wore rubber Wellington boots and several layers of clothes. A gingham shawl covered her head, but a few white hairs had sprung free. Something was wrong with her eyes – they swivelled in their sockets, pointing in different directions like she couldn’t decide which way to look. Caw relaxed. She might be crazy, but she probably wasn’t much of a threat.

  But as he turned back to Crumb, his heart jolted. Three more figures had emerged at the other end of the platform. One was a young, slightly-built black man in a sharp business suit and dark sunglasses carrying a briefcase. He clutched a newspaper under his arm and Caw saw his own face folded on the front cover. Caw backed away, behind Crumb.

  “Don’t run,” said the pigeon talker firmly. “You don’t want to spook them.”

  Beside the suited man came a young woman, maybe early twenties, in a wheelchair. Rich brown curls fell either side of a delicate, striking face with eyes that rose upwards in the corners. She was being pushed by a muscular, square-jawed man wearing overalls, like he’d just come from a building site. His brown hair was going grey at the edges and his hands, Caw noticed, were huge and powerful. The four newcomers converged silently on Caw, Pip and Crumb.

  “Is this all?” said the pigeon talker. “I’d hoped for more.”

  Pip shrugged. “I sent loads of mice,” he said. “Quaker said he’d had enough after what happened at his house. I guess he was afraid – maybe the others were too.”

  The girl in the wheelchair raised a hand in greeting and from the open neck of her coat two squirrels emerged tentatively, one red, one grey. One went around her back and sat on her shoulder, while the other took a perch on the arm of her chair. They glared at Caw.

  “She’s a feral!” Caw gasped.

  “They all are,” muttered Crumb.

  Caw turned to the old lady just as three giant centipedes, each a metre long and as thick as Caw’s finger, scurried over her coat. Two disappeared back down her sleeves and the third shot into her Wellington boot.

  Hmm, tasty, said Screech, clicking his beak.

  Caw couldn’t see any animals on either of the two men. Then the suited one stooped, laid down his briefcase and popped open the lid. A swarm of bees rose in a spiral into the air. Caw felt a grin spreading over his lips.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Crumb.

  “Why have you brought us here?” said the man pushing the wheelchair, in a gruff voice. He sounded irritated, maybe even angry. Caw’s eyes swept over his body, wondering if any creatures were lurking in his clothes.

  “You know why, Racklen,” said Crumb. “You must have sensed it.”

  “We both did,” said the man, turning his head slightly. Caw followed his gaze, and his heart gave a sudden jolt. Along the platform, lurking in the shadows, a large grey form crouched. He’d never seen a wolf in the city before. Its yellow eyes examined them, then it padded out of sight.

  “The Spinning Man,” said the girl in the wheelchair, snapping his attention back to the others.

  “That’s right, Madeleine,” said Crumb. “How are you, by the way?”

  The girl’s squirrels cocked their heads, their noses twitching. Caw wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw something in the look Crumb shared with her – a fondness. They must be about the same age, he guessed.

  “I was doing fine,” she said. “Until this morning.”

  The bee feral waved a hand and his swarm zipped around him like a mini hurricane. “We’ve all seen his signs, Crumb. But the Spinning Man is dead and gone.”

  Crumb nodded. “Even so, his followers are loose in the city,” he said. “And … now they have the Crow’s Beak.”

  The assembled ferals all shifted and glanced at each other nervously. It was the centipede feral who spoke first. The old woman’s voice was cracked and weak, but her eyes were full of fire. “The Crow’s Beak is a useless artefact,” she said. “There’s no crow talker to wield it now that poor Lizzie is dead.”

  Lizzie, thought Caw, his heart lurching. My mother.

  Crumb laid a hand on Caw’s shoulder.

  “A crow talker lives, Emily,” said Crumb. “Her son.”

  The centipede feral did a double-take. “This boy – the crow talker?” she said.

  “Impossible!” said the girl in the wheelchair.

  The bee feral laughed. “Crumb, the Carmichael kid died along with his parents. This boy’s fooling you and wasting our time. I need to get to court. See you around.”

  He sent his bees buzzing back into the briefcase and snapped it shut. Then he turned to go, as did the others. “Wait!” said Pip.

  The bee feral shook his head. “Stay out of trouble, mouse talker,” he said.

  Pip looked at Caw. “Show them!” he said.

  Caw drew his hands quickly to his chest. In seconds, three murders of crows swept up around them in spiralled black trails, each circling a feral. It took all of Caw’s concentration to hold them in shape, but it worked. The ferals stopped in their tracks and the wolf talker stared at Caw, frowning. “Jack Carmichael?” he said.

  “You can call me Caw,” said Caw. He dismissed the crows with a wave of his hand, and they scattered away from the station.

  The girl in the wheelchair – Madeleine – looked at Caw coldly. “It would be better if you were dead,” she said. Her words cut him to the bone. “You’re a liability.” She turned her attention to Crumb. “Send him away from Blackstone forever. As long as you keep the boy safe, the Spinning Man has no hope of returning.”

  Anger swelled in Caw’s chest. How dare they talk about him like he wasn’t there? “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

  Madeleine gripped the wheels and thrust herself forward, scooting right up to Caw’s feet. “You think I was always like this?” she spat. “No – the Spinning Man put me in this thing.”

  Caw tried to hold her stare. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

  “You know nothing,” she said, her voice softening a little.

  Caw looked at Crumb. We’re losing them, he thought. “Look, I might not have fought in the Dark Summer, but my parents did. We have to do something.”

  “That’s the old Carmichael stubbornness for you,” said Racklen, the wolf feral. “Your parents wouldn’t run either, and look where it got them.”

  His words threatened to puncture Caw’s resolve. “A few days ago, I didn’t even know there were other ferals,” he said. “But then I learnt about the Dark Summer. We won then, didn’t we?”

  The wolf talker shook his head. “There were only losers in that war,” he said.

  “Please, we have to fight,” said Caw. “The Spinning Man’s followers have my friend – they t
hink she’s the crow talker but she’s not. She’s just a girl.”

  “Then she is none of our concern,” said the squirrel feral. She turned her chair away and wheeled back towards the end of the platform.

  “Maddie’s right,” said the old woman. “Crumb, we defeated the Spinning Man, but you must know we can’t do it again. There were more of us back then. We were younger and more powerful.”

  “I’m more powerful now,” said Crumb. “I’ve been training.”

  The centipede talker gave him a pained look and reached for him with a wrinkled hand. “Crumb, you always were a brave boy,” she said, “but please, don’t ask this of me. You know well enough what I suffered.” She began to choke back tears. “I lost my … my children.” Her shoulders shook as Crumb embraced her, his chin resting on her head. After a few moments she gathered herself and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. “My line ends with me, Crumb.” Her gaze shifted to Caw. “If you’re sensible, crow talker, you will run away so you don’t suffer the same fate.” She let her hand trail across Crumb’s cheek. “Look after yourself, Samuel,” she said.

  Crumb nodded and watched her go.

  The bee feral still hadn’t moved by the time she reached the end of the platform.

  “And you, Ali?” said Crumb. “Will you help us?”

  The bee talker pursed his lips, then pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and picked up his briefcase once more. “Crumb, we had some tough times back then, but it was different. The stakes were high. My swarm gave their lives in that war.”

  “The stakes are high now,” said Crumb.

  “Not the same, brother,” said Ali. “The Crow’s Beak – it’s just a myth. The kind of thing that mad recluse, Quaker, goes in for. Who’s to say it even works?”

  He began to walk away as well.

  “What if you’re wrong?” asked Pip.

  “I’ll take that risk,” said the bee talker, without looking back.

  “Cowards!” shouted Pip. But the ferals drifted away as quietly as they had arrived.

  “Sorry, Caw,” said Crumb. “It looks like it’s just the three of us.”