Quite bizarre, but it was the same every week, and the raven – a creature of habit himself – appreciated the simple repetition of it. But now here was this penny-pincher, this Barnabas Brittle, reaching in with his long fingers and swiping a few coins almost every time the bowl got handed to him. He tucked them into the ends of his shirt cuffs, just like a magician, before passing it on with his kindly face giving away nothing of his treachery.
The raven watched aghast as Brittle stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, obviously depositing the coins while he waited for the bowl to come round again.
On behalf of Father Cadman, the raven was outraged. This collection was the priest’s treasure, just like the shining pile in the corner of the raven’s den. Treasure was to be collected and admired and put to good use; the raven knew this because he was a treasure hunter, an expert in the field. Nipping a stray bauble off some old lady’s hat when she wasn’t looking was perfectly acceptable – it was an important step in the gathering process. But nipping a coin from a treasure already collected – that was just plain cheeky.
No one else noticed, of course, because they weren’t privy to the raven’s view. So he took it upon himself, for the benefit of the congregation, to watch Barnabas Brittle like a hawk (excusing the expression, because a hawk’s eyesight really had nothing on a raven’s, and yet they still took all the glory).
When mass finished, the raven tailed the thief to the church office and watched through the keyhole as Brittle counted out the combined collection and smiled and remarked on everyone’s generosity. He shook Father Cadman’s hand and patted him on the back as though his hands were not those of a traitor. As people dawdled out of the church he fiddled about on the altar, pretending to clean and tidy up until he was sure everyone was gone. Then he strode, oh-so-casually, to the back of the church, glanced around, and slipped through the chewed-up front door and into the ruined belltower.
The raven wedged himself into the poor-box shelf. It was not quite large enough to fit his girth, and he had to tilt his head at a very ungainly angle to see what Barnabas Brittle did next.
Gloom had settled in the old belltower, but Brittle steered expertly through the shadows and bits of shale and junky furniture until he came to the organ. He lifted up one of the old pipes and slid out a glass jar. Hopping from foot to foot, he emptied the stolen money from his pockets into the jar, replaced the lid, hoisted the pipe again and slid the jar under. Then, dusting his hands, he tiptoed back towards the door and let himself out into the deserted church.
The raven exploded out of the cramped space, somersaulting across the floor in a tempest of dust. His eyepatch came off and got caught in his claws, sending him crashing against a cracked vase. The raven scowled and blew grit from his feathers. He could not believe he had just witnessed criminal activity in his very own church. A thief’s haven, and right under his own den – in his own home!
He waddled about, mulling over what he should do. This was a human affair. By rights it didn’t concern him. Yet what Barnabas Brittle had done was plainly unacceptable. Further, he had tarnished the reputation of the raven’s church.
Still, the raven could not help but think should some rapscallion steal from his own treasure pile, no one would give two hoots (another unfortunate expression – there was nothing that wonderful about owls. A lot of distinction for very little effort).
Eventually the rumble of organ chords roused him from his reverie, and he found his way back into the church. Father Cadman was there, in normal clothes now, playing ‘Ave Maria’, with his head thrown back and his fingers finding a beauty in the melody that the mass organist never could.
The raven considered him. He hopped silently down the centre aisle, in and out of the muted bars of sun, his claws catching at the carpet. He looked from Father Cadman to the belltower and back again. He thought of how grateful the priest would be to hear what the raven had discovered. He imagined being a hero, the praise that would be showered upon him. He opened his beak to speak and then –
He remembered Father Cadman sending him off to the cherry tree when he must have known about the bees. He thought about the stings, and how they had almost ruined his good looks. And then there was the trust he had placed in the priest, the joy he had allowed himself to feel in anticipation of the lovely voice he would soon have.
Father Cadman had let him down.
And so he turned and slunk away without even letting the priest know he was there. Father Cadman, oblivious, played on. The forlorn chords of ‘Ave Maria’ followed the raven out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The raven had trouble sleeping that night, now that he knew he was nesting above a thief’s haven. Maybe he should have stayed and told Father Cadman. But then he felt the itchiness under his wings, the puffiness of his eye, and he did not feel so troubled.
Morning dawned bright and serene, and the raven seated himself up on the roof and let the sun warm him from the inside out. He could see the weatherhen in his peripheral vision, but made a point of ignoring her. She seemed calm this morning, unfussed by his snub. Not even one little spin his way.
Which was fine, really. But she could have at least made an effort. It was just one extreme to the other with her.
When the sun got too hot and he’d excavated enough earwigs to whet his appetite, the raven flew down into the crumbled belltower and finished up with a few slaters. That was the thing with insects and bugs – they tasted good, but they weren’t really satisfying. He’d not had any carrion or anything remotely fleshy for a while now, and he was starting to feel it. And yet the south road was just waiting, flush with road kill, and the raven couldn’t bring himself to go near it. The crows must be having a banquet, without him to make first claim.
The raven peered out the belltower window and could see them, faraway black specks in the air, hovering over the west road and emitting their horrible raucous squawks. He sniffed and looked away. Once upon a time he’d seen some ravens in the mix as well. But he’d taken care of that. If they didn’t want him way back in the mountains, then he certainly didn’t want them now. Especially not eating his food. And the frightful tongue-lashing he’d given them had ensured they would not be coming back.
There were two ghosts moping about today. One of them was Clarinda Shuttleworth from the Shuttleworth crypt, her nose almost to the ground as she shuffled in and out of the tombstones looking for her lost locket.
‘Where is it? Where is it?’ she repeated to herself, which was exactly what she did every day, and what she had been doing for as long as the raven could remember. To be honest, if she hadn’t found the locket by now, the raven didn’t think she’d ever find it. But it seemed when humans died they lost at least two-thirds of the minimal brain cells they already had.
The other was Jeremiah Hickelsby, who had come up out of his grave and was following the groundskeeper, berating him for making so much noise as he went about his maintenance duties. ‘Ye can shut it with ye wheels, trundle trundle trundle; ye can shut it with your ho-humming, la la la; ye can shut it with ye shovels and ye teeth knocking in ye mouth, chatter chatter chatter, and ye can let me get some sleep.’
The groundskeeper, oblivious, kept on, which just sent Jeremiah Hickelsby into a rage of obscene language and flailing arms and legs. Just wait until the groundskeeper brought out the lawnmower. Then the old goat would really know the meaning of a headache.
Just looking at it all made the raven tired. He turned away and looked down instead. But that was no better. Because below was the corruption that dwelt in his belltower.
‘Pruuuuuuk,’ grumbled the raven.
Surrounded by idiots and swindlers. It was a good thing he was a bird of such assertion. Any creature of lesser status would have given up by now.
Assertive or not, the raven still had fitness levels to maintain. He hopped up and down the stairs and then strutted around, practising poses that would best show off the eyepatch. In a few days the swelling would go down an
d he probably wouldn’t need it, but he had grown rather attached. It made a fine accessory.
The copper of the fallen bell was very dull this morning. The raven sought out some eucalyptus leaves to clean it. He tore some scraps from the clothes dumped by the charity bin, and set to work polishing up the surface. He fell into a rhythm – pierce the leaves with his beak, swipe them over the copper and then use the cloth to rub the surface.
As he worked he started to hum, warming his voice up before breaking out into a few notes. It was nothing special, merely scales, but his voice had a splendid clarity to it today. Some of the gargle was gone, especially in the lower registers, and he found with his tenor work he could hit a few notes usually out of his range.
He tried out some vocal exercises, watching his reflection in the newly polished bell: toctoctoc and awhoo-ooo-oo and twee-eet, tawah; twee-eet tawah.
Not bad at all. And then he remembered – the eucalyptus! Of course. Father Cadman once told him some of the older men sucked on menthol and eucalyptus lozenges before doing their readings, to make sure their voices remained smooth even while they spoke. It seemed he was experiencing a similar effect.
The raven did a little half-circle hop, delighted by his own cleverness. Honey, indeed. He didn’t need honey. All he needed was his own smarts.
He began to reel out notes, attempting many he had never tried before. His range expanded and poetry flowed from his mouth. It could have been angels themselves singing.
‘Hello?’ said a voice, and the raven flinched and rammed his head against the bell.
‘Kraaaa!’ he said, wondering who could have the nerve to disrupt what was probably the breakthrough of his life.
Todd Trebuchet appeared on the top step of the collapsed stairwell, peering down at the raven.
‘What are you doing here?’ the raven asked, squinting. ‘Dead people belong in graveyards. This is a belltower. My belltower, to be exact.’
‘Sorry about that,’ said the boy, mooching down the steps. ‘Heard you singing and all. Thought I’d come check it out. You’re not bad, you know.’
‘Thank you,’ said the raven, trying not to preen. ‘But you’re still not welcome. I’m currently in the middle of something very –’
‘I’m lonely,’ said Todd, and slumped down near the bottom of the stairs, his chin in his hands. He wasn’t so hard on the eyes here, almost solid in the muted light. ‘Know you don’t want to be bothered, but I’m lonely out there. It sucks. Don’t have anybody to talk to. Nobody except grumpy old dead people. Don’t think they even remember why they’re dead anymore. Don’t think they care. Just want to be unhappy, I guess.’ He sighed and for a moment his eyes held a scrap of fear. ‘Don’t want to end up like that. Being dead isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know.’
‘No,’ said the raven, ‘I do not know, because I have never been dead. Now, if you feel inclined to talk, there’s a particularly chatty pigeon around here somewhere who I’m sure will –’
‘He can’t see me,’ said Todd. ‘Nobody can see me but you.’
‘How fortunate for me,’ said the raven.
‘Yup,’ said Todd. ‘So you wanna hang out?’
‘No, I don’t wanna,’ the raven said. ‘Not if you can’t even speak properly.’
Todd shrugged. ‘Don’t care. Not like dead boys can go to school or anything.’ He sighed again, and threw up his hands. ‘Being dead’s so boring. And I wanna talk to Kenzie. It’s no good just watching her. That’s kinda useless, you know?’
‘I saw her sulking in church,’ said the raven. ‘Amongst other things I’d rather not have seen.’
‘Huh?’ said Todd.
‘Nothing,’ said the raven, and turned back to his reflection. ‘And the correct term is “I beg your pardon”.’
‘Huh?’
‘Uncouth,’ muttered the raven.
‘Nice eyepatch you got there,’ said Todd. ‘Very dashing. Now you just need a cutlass.’
‘I’m not a ruffian,’ said the raven. ‘I prefer not to get into physical fights. I spar with words and wit. Intellect is the greatest weapon of all.’
‘True enough,’ Todd said. ‘But you’re no match for Kenzie. She’s got a mouth on her like nothing else, Mum always said.’
‘I have noticed,’ the raven said, remembering their very first encounter.
‘Talk to her for me?’ said the boy, getting up and moving closer. ‘Please? Just tell her I’m not mad. That’s all.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said the raven. ‘That compromises every single thing I believe in. It compromises who I am.’
The boy seemed almost close to tears and the raven fluffed out his wings and pretended to look for slaters. The thought of food made his stomach roar outrageously, and the raven turned to look out the window and affected a disgusted air.
‘Lawnmowers,’ he mumbled. ‘Noisy, beastly things.’
‘Funny how they sound like stomachs,’ said Todd. ‘You hungry?’
‘What’s that?’ said the raven.
‘Are you hungry?’ said Todd. ‘Got a buttered croissant out by my grave if you want it. Kenzie left it for me. Used to be my favourite. No good to me now, though. Can’t even smell it.’ He looked up in a sudden panic. ‘Not anymore. Can hear and see, but I can’t feel or taste or smell.’
‘That’s just as well,’ the raven said. ‘The pigeon mausoleum is atrocious. Even the groundskeeper has given up.’
‘Least it’s got some decoration,’ said the boy. ‘Not like me. I haven’t got anything. Nothing good. Not even a tombstone yet. Just what Kenzie leaves me, and some crappy flowers. I hate flowers. Used to give me hayfever. Kenzie never brings me flowers. She knows better. Wish I had something good to show for myself, something that said who I was. Nobody can tell from some rubbish flowers. Everybody forgets.’
‘Chatty today, aren’t you?’ said the raven. He’d never been in this position before, as someone’s confidant, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. His stomach gave another huge growl. ‘Lawnmowers,’ the raven said again.
‘Sorry to be wasting your time,’ Todd said. ‘Like I said, I’m just real bored and lonely. Feeling a bit sorry for myself. Kenzie’ll be here soon, anyway. Not that we can talk, but it’ll be good to see her. Have that croissant if you want. Promise it’ll taste good.’
‘Thank you,’ said the raven. ‘I’ll see what my schedule allows.’
The boy nodded. ‘See you then.’
The raven clacked his beak. ‘Goodbye.’
Todd disappeared into the sun, towards the direction of the churchyard gates. In the brightness of the day he showed up very thin and flimsy, until it almost seemed as if the weeds and the tombstones and the sacred statues were sucking him in.
The raven tried to pick up his singing exercise, but his heart wasn’t in it now. Not even the thought of his handsome eyepatch could cheer him up. Discontent niggled at him like the itch of his bee stings.
Another rumble from his stomach. The raven fluttered up to one of the windows and rested in the arch. He looked towards The Garden of Remembrance for Our Children Taken Too Soon and picked out the spot where Todd was buried. He hopped down, he hopped back up. He shifted from foot to foot. He scratched at his stinging red welts.
And then he spread his wings and took off.
He circled the boy’s plot three times before he came to rest on the powdery dirt. His stomach gnawed at him as he eyed the croissant. It was a little grubby, having been left in the dirt, but it had an attractive golden-brown colour underneath and took the shape of an engorged maggot. All in all it looked quite appealing. As a rule, the raven limited his practice of trying new things, but now he was beginning to feel that by doing so he had missed out on quite a lot that life had to offer.
The raven studied the croissant as if it might launch an attack on him. When he was sure it wouldn’t, he darted forward and took a little peck. The soft flesh tore away in chewy flakes as he jabbed at it with his beak.
‘Pruuk-pruuk-pruuk,’ the raven cooed. He grasped the remainder of the croissant in his claws and flew away to his den, where he devoured it with almost as much pleasure as he devoured his own reflection.
Done, he nestled against his treasure in preparation for the usual mid-morning nap. The discovery of the croissant had made him feel all sunshiny and buttery himself, which was the only reason he began to think about the ghost-boy Todd. How upset he’d been, thinking no one cared about him anymore, except his sister. What agony it would be to suffer the embarrassment of an unmarked grave.
The raven had been taught to honour death – after all, he was practically the patron saint of dying. To have your death passed over must be a real wing-clipper. Even humans deserved better than that.
His treasure lay solid at his back: such splendour there was in that towering pile. Who saw it but him? Who admired the work that had gone into it, except himself and maybe the weatherhen? Surely it would be no less grand if he took a few measly things from it.
It took him exactly half an hour to organise himself. Seated in the belltower window, he waited for Todd and Mackenzie to wander over. When they did, making their usual way to where Todd was buried, they found that something had replaced the wilted flowers.
Glittering right in the middle of the rectangle of dirt was the letter T. Made from old beer bottlecaps, it shone golden in the sun. It was only a small letter T, as the raven didn’t like to be too generous with his treasure, but to Todd it encompassed the whole world.
What the Raven Saw Page 5
