The Crow Talker

by Jacob Grey

  “Lydia!” said Mrs Strickham. Her coat was torn and she looked exhausted.

  “Mum!” said Lydia.

  Scuttle’s eyes fell on the Crow’s Beak and then flicked to Caw’s face. “Where is he? Where’s the Spinning Man?”

  “The Spinning Man is gone,” said Caw. “Destroyed.”

  The blood drained from Scuttle’s face, but Mamba’s features hardened.

  “You’re lying!” she hissed.

  Caw dug in his pocket and pulled out the golden ring.

  “He’s telling the truth,” said Lydia, “so you might as well give up.”

  Scuttle stared at the ring, his eyes burning with fury. “Or we could kill you all,” he said. He twitched his head and suddenly a cockroach raced up Caw’s leg, down his arm and on to his hand, and bit deep into his flesh. Caw cried out in pain, the ring dropping and skittering across the floor into the shadows. He shook off the cockroach, only to see an army of its brethren emerging from the corners of the room.

  Mamba hissed, and Lydia’s mother and Crumb cried out as the snakes around their necks tightened their coils. Then Caw saw something strange. Two mice were scurrying under the door. And mice meant only one thing …

  Pip burst into the room, wild-eyed and panting. “Let them go!” he cried.

  Scuttle sniggered and shot a glance at Mamba. “Oh, now I am scared.”

  “You should be,” said Pip.

  An electrical hum sounded from somewhere in the walls.

  “What’s that?” said Mamba, taking a step backwards.

  Across the ceiling, from the suspended air conditioning vents, came a series of thumps. Something was running inside. The hum became a loud resonating buzz. And suddenly Caw realised what was creating it.

  “Get down!” he hissed.

  He flattened himself to the floor, pulling Lydia down with him, as a dark cloud of bees swept through the door behind Pip and fell upon Mamba and Scuttle. They writhed and jerked, letting out panicked screams and shrieks as the insects coated their skin.

  “Help me!” wailed Mamba. With their mistress distracted, the snakes fell from the necks of Crumb and Velma Strickham.

  Scuttle fell to the ground and rolled over, managing to shake a few bees off. He reached for a fire extinguisher leaning against a wall and directed it at Mamba, blasting the bees off her with white foam. A wave of cockroaches shot across the floor in all directions, but grey shapes dropped from the ceiling, landing nimbly on the floor. Squirrels! They set about the cockroaches with claw and tooth, crunching their brittle shells. Caw scrambled away from the battle, leading Lydia by the hand.

  Coated in white foam, Mamba was waving her arms desperately. But as her snakes surged at Caw and his friends, more squirming shapes met them on the ground. Giant centipedes tangled with the slithering army, driving them back.

  “Go, ferals!” cried Pip.

  At the door, three figures had joined him. Madeleine in her wheelchair, her dark eyes gleaming; Ali the bee talker standing tall, his hand resting on the shoulder of the old woman, Emily, who commanded the centipedes. “Run!” yelled Scuttle, his face and lips swollen from bee stings. He scurried towards a door Caw hadn’t seen before, on the opposite side of the room. Mamba strode past him at speed, thrust the door open and vanished. Caw’s fist tightened on the Crow’s Beak. He was about to give chase, when he heard Mamba scream. She re-entered the room, staggering backwards.

  “Please! Don’t hurt me. Make it go away!”

  Scuttle stopped dead in his tracks and Caw’s heart lurched as he saw the huge grey wolf padding slowly into the room from the open doorway. Drool spilled from its white teeth as its lips curled. Racklen followed.

  “Long time no see, Scuttle,” he said. “I seem to remember we’ve some unfinished business.”

  The cockroach talker trembled, pressing his hands together as if in prayer. “Don’t know what you mean!” he said.

  The wolf growled.

  “You said you’d skin Cressida here and wear her as a coat,” said Racklen. “She says she’d prefer it the other way round.”

  Caw saw Scuttle’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure. Perhaps we could talk about it.”

  Emily the centipede feral hobbled slowly into the room. “The time for talking is over,” she said coldly. “It’s time for blood.”

  Her centipedes uncoiled themselves from Mamba’s dead snakes, and began to inch towards the evil ferals. Ali clicked his fingers, summoning a fresh column of bees from the air conditioning vents. Madeleine’s squirrels hopped on to crates, all directing their eyes towards Scuttle and Mamba. Caw had never known the little furry creatures could look so menacing.

  “Wait,” said Velma Strickham. She had stepped forward and put her arms around Lydia. “This isn’t the way we do things.”

  “This is war,” said Racklen. “This is revenge for what they did to us.” He placed a hand in the thick hackles of his wolf, looking at Scuttle with pure hatred. “Tear them apart, my girl,” he said softly.

  “No!” shouted Caw, leaping between the wolf and the Spinning Man’s cowering disciples. The beast stopped a foot from him, their faces almost level. Even if his crows had been here, he knew they could do nothing for him now. “We’ve seen enough bloodshed,” he said, trying to fight the fear that threatened to break his voice. “These ferals are at our mercy.”

  The wolf’s yellow eyes watched him, and Caw hoped that Racklen had firm control of its instincts. With one bite it could crush his skull.

  “Listen to him, wolf talker,” said Crumb. “The war is over and we fought for good, remember? They were the ones who killed without pity.”

  Finally, the wolf backed away.

  “You did the right thing,” said Velma. “Your wife would have been proud of you, Racklen.”

  A sudden pounding of footsteps made everyone spin around. Light was coming from down the corridor.

  “Freeze!” shouted a voice. “Police!”

  “Go!” said Velma. “Get out of here!”

  Ali grabbed the handles of Madeleine’s wheelchair and pushed her across the room as Racklen turned, his wolf slinking past him. The wolf talker waited by the door until Emily had passed through as well. Crumb and Pip were the last to leave.

  Caw was blinded by torches, seeing only silhouettes of figures, some running, some crouching.

  “Police! On your knees!”

  Caw saw the glint of metal gun barrels.

  “Drop the weapon!”

  He realised they were talking to him and let the Crow’s Beak fall. He got to his knees, raising his hands. Lydia had already done the same.

  “It’s the boy from the library!” said an officer. A moment later Caw felt his hands yanked behind his back and the chill metal of cuffs being locked into place.

  “Out of the way!” Caw recognised Mr Strickham’s gruff voice. “Get off them – that’s my wife and daughter!”

  “Dad!”

  Caw felt himself dragged upright. He looked at the Crow’s Beak desperately, but there was no way he could reach it.

  “Lydia! Velma!” said Mr Strickham. “I thought you were both … I thought … Thank God!”

  Two policemen bundled Caw out of the room and up the stairs. He heard Lydia’s voice from behind. “Dad, they’ve got Caw!” she was saying. There were more officers lining the corridor ahead. He heard someone shouting, “… dozens of damned foxes – in here! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Dad!” shouted Lydia again. “Where are they taking him? He saved me!”

  Caw was half dragged, half pushed through the room full of sewing machines, then through the door and into the daylight. Four police cars and two armoured vans sat at the roadside. Caw felt his cuffs being loosened on one wrist. “Stay put!” said one of the police officers, fastening the other cuff to a steel railing. His radio crackled. “Did you say bees?” he muttered. Caw almost smiled. The other ferals had been hiding for years – they wouldn’t let thems
elves be caught now.

  A moment later, Scuttle and Mamba came through the door, both cuffed and surrounded by officers in riot gear. The ferals were silent and pale as they were escorted to a van and pushed inside.

  “Hold still and don’t turn around,” whispered a voice behind him.

  “Pip?” said Caw.

  “Shh! I’m going to try and pick the lock.”

  A few seconds later, the pressure vanished from Caw’s wrist. He drew his hands round slowly, then turned. Pip had gone, and the cuffs dangled loose on the railing.

  Mr and Mrs Strickham emerged from the factory doors with Lydia between them, hugging one another tightly. It made Caw’s heart swell to see it.

  “Officer Franco?” said Mr Strickham. “We need to talk about the boy.”

  One of the cops who’d escorted Caw from the building came running over to the Warden. “We’ve got him, sir,” he said. “Secured to that railing over …”

  But Caw had already hopped over the railing, and melted into the shadows between two buildings.

  He couldn’t go back to the nest, he knew that. It was the first place they’d look for him.

  Which left only one possibility.

  He woke to the smell of bacon under the eaves of the church. Crumb leant over his brazier, moving a battered frying pan around. Pale morning light filtered through the windows and the hole in the roof.

  “Morning, sleepy,” he said.

  Caw sat up quickly and immediately wished he hadn’t. His body ached all over, from the tips of his toes to his scalp. He groaned.

  “Turning into a crow will do that,” said Crumb, chuckling. He handed Caw a plate with a greasy bacon sandwich and a steaming Styrofoam cup. Then he sagged to the floor opposite and sank his teeth into a sandwich of his own. “Is it true, then? Is he gone?”

  Caw took an enormous bite and nodded, remembering the mad swimming eyes of the Spinning Man in his final moments.

  “Long may he remain so,” said Crumb. He chewed thoughtfully. “You know, Caw, you can stay here for good, if you like?”

  Caw smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “but you don’t have to say that.”

  Crumb shrugged. “Yes, I do,” he said. He delved into one of his many pockets and took out a folded square of newspaper. He held it out to Caw.

  The paper felt delicate and Caw opened it carefully. It was a black and white photograph of a man and a woman. Caw recognised their faces – his mother and father. On the man’s shoulders sat a boy of three or four, his legs dangling. Caw swallowed thickly, staring at the younger version of himself before returning his gaze to his parents. They were both grinning happily.

  “I thought you should have this,” said Crumb.

  Caw managed to speak at last. “Where’s it from?”

  “Quaker,” he said. “He gave it to me last night. It’s from a story printed after they died. I know what it’s like to lose your parents, Caw. So putting you up – it’s the least I can do.”

  Caw folded the paper again and slipped it into his coat. “Thank you,” he said.

  He sat up straighter at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but Crumb just kept munching on his sandwich. “Hello, Pip!” the pigeon talker called.

  The young mouse talker edged into the room. “Found a couple of friends of yours, Caw,” he said, nodding to the broken stained-glass window at the far end of the nave. Glum and Screech flew in, tilting back their wings as they landed beside Caw.

  Where’d you go? asked Glum. We waited at the graveyard for hours!

  “It’s a long story,” said Caw.

  First things first – is that bacon? asked Screech.

  Caw tore off a bit and threw it to the crow, who tossed it up and flung back his head to snatch it.

  “And guess what?” said Pip. “I’ve got something else of yours.” He lifted a filthy blanket from beside the brazier and carefully unwrapped it. Lying inside was a long, gleaming black blade – the Crow’s Beak.

  “Nicked it from a snoozing cop,” said Pip. “So Caw …” he added shyly. “Are you going to stay here with us?”

  Caw sipped his drink and tasted hot chocolate. Miss Wallace’s face sprung up in his mind and he felt a wave of sorrow. He looked at Pip’s expectant face.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think … I think I need to be on my own for a while.”

  “Of course,” said Crumb. “Is there anything you need?”

  Caw was about to say no, but then a thought occurred to him.

  “There is one thing,” he said.

  That afternoon, Caw took a bus for the first time in his life, dressed in clothes borrowed from Crumb. He’d wound a scarf up around his face and pulled a baseball cap as low as he could. For once, his crows agreed to stay behind. They knew this was something Caw needed to do alone.

  The wheezing bus took him out of Blackstone to a small village beyond called Falston. There he disembarked and walked through the gate of the churchyard and up the path between the graves. He took a single battered white rose from his pocket and placed it beside his parents’ headstone, then ran his fingers round the loops and lines of their names. One day, perhaps, he would be able to read them.

  Caw drew the photograph from his jacket and smoothed it out against the marble.

  Could Crumb ever replace them? Of course he couldn’t. But he would be a companion, sort of like an older brother, and Caw didn’t doubt that the pigeon feral could teach him a thing or two about survival in Blackstone. He wasn’t sure how Screech and Glum would take to living alongside the pigeons, but he guessed they’d learn to cope. Crows were survivors, as Glum often said.

  Or perhaps he could build himself a new nest, somewhere safer than the park. With a hundred crows working for him, it would take only a fraction of the time. Something told him he wouldn’t though. He’d lived alone for so long already. Maybe it was time for some human company.

  “I thought you might be here,” said Lydia.

  Caw almost dropped the photo and stood quickly. She was standing a few metres away, wrapped up warmly in a thick green coat, with a green hat and scarf, and her hands tucked in her pockets.

  “How did you find me?” he said.

  Lydia smiled, withdrew a gloved hand, and pointed across the churchyard. Caw saw Mrs Strickham sitting in the driver’s seat of their car. She waved.

  “My mum knew where your parents were buried,” she said. “Her foxes have sharp eyes, apparently.” She looked at the grave. “Carmichael – it’s a nice name.”

  Caw held out the picture to her. “That’s them – my parents,” he said proudly.

  “They look kind,” Lydia said. She frowned. “Is that you? You were cute!”

  Caw blushed.

  Lydia laughed, then looked suddenly serious. “I’m glad you got away last night. But we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Caw. “Is that why you came here – to say goodbye?”

  Lydia threw a quick glance at her mother. “No,” she said. “I came to ask if you wanted to live with us – for a while at least.”

  “But …”

  “Hear me out,” she said. “We’ve got a spare room. My dad says it’s OK. We won’t tell him about you being a feral, of course. He doesn’t even know about mum! Your table manners need a bit of work, sure, and a couple of days in the bathroom wouldn’t hurt. Then there’s your wardrobe, which frankly …”

  “OK, OK,” said Caw, holding up a hand. “I get the idea.”

  “So you’ll come?” said Lydia, her face lighting up.

  Caw hesitated. A real home, with a real bed and a real family and real meals eaten around a table … “I’ll have to talk to the crows, but …” He paused as he spotted something in her hair – a piece of fluff – and reached out to brush it away.

  His hand jerked back as the piece of fluff dropped to the ground and scrambled away on eight legs. His blood ran cold.

  “What is it?” said Lydia, snapping her head around.


  “Nothing,” Caw said quickly. “Just a moth.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. It was a spider. A spider white as bone.

  “So you were saying you’ll clear it with the crows, right? I’m sure they’ll love having a bit more nest space. Or they could build a new nest in the garden!”

  The spider. It might mean nothing. The Spinning Man was dead, wasn’t he? But if he wasn’t …

  “I can’t,” he said suddenly. “I’m sorry. I think my place is with Crumb for now. And you’re right, my table manners …”

  “I was joking!” said Lydia.

  “I know,” said Caw, “but I’m serious. I don’t think I’m ready yet. Not for that sort of life.”

  Lydia’s face fell. “If that’s how you feel,” she said. “But the offer’s always open.”

  “And I’m grateful,” said Caw. “Honestly.”

  A car horn sounded down the hill, and Lydia looked towards her mother. “I’ve got to go,” she said. She leant forward and hugged Caw tight. He felt another rush of blood to his face as Lydia backed away slowly down the path. “Goodbye, Jack Carmichael,” she said. “For now at least. Remember I promised to teach you to read. You’re not getting out of it!”

  Caw grinned and glanced at his parents’ grave, waiting for the blush to subside.

  Elizabeth and Richard Carmichael. Two names that didn’t tell half the story.

  Jack Carmichael – that was his name. But he hadn’t been called that since he was five years old, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  He called down the graveyard to Lydia as she opened the car door. “My name isn’t Jack,” he said. “It’s Caw.”

  Lydia smiled. “Bye then, Caw!” she called back, waving.

  Caw, the crow talker. Caw, last descendant of a long line of ferals stretching back through the generations. What would the future bring?

  He took a deep breath of the frigid air, and felt it cleanse him. Somehow he knew the threat wasn’t gone for good. There were other ferals out there – evil as well as good. One enemy was defeated, but more would come.

  And Caw would be ready.

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