‘Yes,’ said the raven. ‘All is forgiven.’
‘Sucked in about the dishes, though,’ said Todd. ‘Tell her that.’
‘Sucked in about the dishes, now you have to do them all by yourself.’ The raven twitched and gnashed his beak at Todd. ‘And don’t ever make me say “sucked in” again.’
Mackenzie tugged on her braid. ‘Did it hurt?’
Todd flinched.
‘No,’ lied the raven.
Mackenzie’s lip trembled again and she looked over at her brother’s grave. ‘He gonna forget about me?’
The raven gave Todd a final look; it was as if his face had never seen anything else but the small girl standing in front of him.
‘No,’ said the raven. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mackenzie. ‘That’s good. That’s real good, Ravo.’
‘Just raven will be fine.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mackenzie. ‘’Cause I’m sure not gonna forget about him. Especially not when I’m doing his share of the dishes.’
The raven let all his breath out at once. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to the important business.’
‘What’s that, Ravo?’
‘Well,’ said the raven, ‘I need your help.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sunday mass was creeping up. Not long left to plot the destruction of Barnabas Brittle. Not long before the raven could be back in his church, in his rightful place, with his wondrous songs.
Mackenzie was onside. As soon as she’d made nice with her brother she’d jumped at the chance to play a part in the raven’s plan. Typical. Humans were only too happy to help after they got what they wanted. She’d probably try to take all his glory, too.
The raven had been made to work hard for everything he’d earned. He wished he’d had a superior bird-type to help him when he’d been going through life’s troubles. Instead he’d got an unhygienic pigeon.
Without the gospel songs, without the calm and the hope they gave him, he found himself fretting and prone to nervous chills. His feathers started to fall out and he had to arrange his hackles so they weren’t noticeable. He strutted around like he always did and he spoke with his usual authority. But once inside his den, alone, the raven felt timid and overwhelmed, like the last note Father Cadman played on the organ – tinny and fragile, a tiny pocket of sound left behind, long after the organ lid had been closed and everyone had left.
A few days before Sunday mass a huge storm hit the churchyard. Fat raindrops and hail found their way into the raven’s den and washed away his meagre pile of jewel beetles. He knew he’d hit rock-bottom then because he didn’t even have the church to go and hide in.
He stared through the stained-glass windows. Candles flickered high up on the walls, their colour reflected in the mosaics on the roof columns – the Jesus man and all his disciple brothers, eyes glowing with the warmth of tiny flames. There were few people in there today, scattered about among the pews, heads bowed and hands clasped. Their reverence covered them, shushing their feet as they walked and their clothes as they moved.
And, of course, there was Father Cadman and the low strain of the organ as the priest’s playing kept time to the rain-shadows darting over the walls.
The raven pressed his head against the wet glass. He could only catch the ends of the notes, the mere shapes of them, but even then they went piercing through him like shards of ice: Oh! Heaven came down and glory filled my soul! The choir and the organ and the incessant drum of the rain beat into his body, and below him old Jeremiah Hickelsby, curled up into a ball, sobbed and sobbed into the wall of the church.
‘Dead, long dead!’ he said. ‘No song sung for me, no prayer read! Only the rain, and the cold, and the noise. Bury me deeper, it’s all I want. A proper grave for a poor old man and his throbbing head.’
Jeremiah slunk away towards the mausoleums, his arms over his head, and the raven felt his heart stir, just a little. But then a fat drop of rain hit him fair in the eye and the only creature he felt sorry for was himself.
The clouds sat low and broiled on the horizon, breathing down chimneys and creeping under doors, and casting their misery and pall over everything. Oppression hung in the air. The raven shook the rain from his feathers and flew back to his den. His wings cut the air as if wading through oil. The sky was pregnant with the promise of a storm.
‘Absolute rubbish,’ he said to a locust resting on the window ledge of his belltower. ‘And go find somewhere else to sit. This den is taken.’
His whole body felt waterlogged, inside and out. He cleared a space at the bottom of his treasure and nestled down, fixing an eye on the water leaking down the walls, daring it to move just one drop closer. The wind wound itself round and round the old belltower, shrieking through the cracks and taunting him in icy little flurries.
The raven shuffled further into his treasure. He felt like sleeping for a long, long time, right through to winter, and waking up in the past somehow, to the bell tolling below him and the church doors flung open, and the songs within telling him that this was where he belonged.
The raven closed his eyes and fell asleep. He did not wake up until his treasure tumbled down onto his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A gold bangle fell on top of the raven’s head and then added insult to the injury by somehow getting stuck around his neck. The raven burst out from the disorder that was doing its best to bury him.
‘Kraaaaa!’ he said. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
He stumbled about, pitched forward by the stones breaking up beneath his claws. Sleeting rain gushed through the entrance of his den. Outside, the world was a mass of whirlpool grey and trees bent double by the wind. The storm had reached its zenith, and rain thundered down on every tombstone and inch of gravel with the vigour of the wronged.
The raven tried to get his wings to work, but he was caught between gusts pulling him in different directions. There was a force pushing up from beneath, as though something was trying to suck down all the stones.
The gold bangle swung round and round his neck and kept hitting him in the beak. The raven tried to dislodge the bangle, and to shove all his treasure to safety, but it was scattered everywhere now. The world outside the windows was slightly off-kilter, and it was as if the thunder and lightning were right inside his head.
And then the floor gave way beneath him.
The raven blinked and tried to make sense of what was going on. He watched, confused, as his treasure pile simultaneously slid to the right and collapsed from the inside out.
And then there was the most magnificent groaning noise, from the very guts of the earth. The pile of wood and rubble that used to be one half of the belltower roof fell away. It was followed by the whole right wall and then the rest of the roof. The remaining stones struggled for a minute, shook with the effort of holding on, but then they too gave a sigh and fell forward, expelling decades and decades of dust, mould and grit.
The raven caught a whiff of something very old, clean and wet. It was a similar smell to the ancient gums when they tipped over, like he’d seen in those first few months in the mountains. They would crash to the ground and their gnarled roots would bring up the heart of the earth itself.
A piece of debris flew by the raven’s head and he turned round and round, making his way towards what he thought was the den entrance. It was hard to tell because now everything was a mass of falling stones and grey rain.
But he found a gap and shot out into the tumultuous afternoon, a sodden mass of flapping black feathers. The gold bangle clung, heavy and cold around his neck, and gusts of wind needled into him, battering him helter-skelter through the sky.
The churchyard had been transformed into a grey and gloomy ghostland: branches and shrubbery strewn everywhere, dirt churned up, mausoleums dripping menace behind the ominous outlines of the graves.
The raven heard a hysterical scree-scree-scree, and fro
m the corner of his eye he saw the weatherhen turning rapid, frantic circles, water streaming from her body in defiance of the rain. She looked proud and fierce and resilient. Was that what it was like to live out in the world, instead of being tucked away in a dank belltower, guarding shiny baubles that, in all likelihood, no one really cared about but himself?
And what had been the point? Because even now, as all his carefully stolen and stashed-away treasure tumbled down from where it had been hidden for years and years, no beast came running. No one came to gasp over the golds and the pearly whites and the rosy pinks as they twinkled and flashed between the sheets of rain.
All his beloved possessions would spill away to the ground below and be buried by the rubble of the belltower. His whole life poured into the mud, and he was embarrassed that there was not more to show for it – nothing that said who he was and what his life had been.
The raven let the wind and the rain pummel him along, until it deposited him on the steps of one of the mausoleums. Totally bedraggled, he heaved himself through a gap in the masonry and disappeared inside.
He had become his worst fear – a hobo, with bad grooming and no home and a bunch of miserly thoughts. The rain had turned his churchyard into a squelchy, muddy mess. He felt stunned – like a ghost must feel, waking up for the first time and realising that they were no longer fully themselves.
The raven squirmed into a pile of wet leaves and lay there like a dead mop. Probably smelled like one too. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the gospel songs. But he couldn’t even remember those.
‘I am sorry, scarecrow,’ he said. ‘I have lost the devotions. There are none left for me. I hope you found them, wherever you went. I hope you are happy.’
And just for a moment he felt the taste of the strawberries bloom inside his mouth.
***
The raven did not notice Mackenzie slip in later and stand at the door watching him. He did not feel the clean towel she placed over him, or the way she smoothed his feathers back so they fell all shiny-straight against his side.
He did not hear her mutter silly old crow, and look at him with something quite like affection.
Mackenzie did not see Todd watching her as he stood back in the furthest corner of the tomb.
Todd did not see the pigeon poking his head through a cleft in the stone, observing them with curious little eyes.
The pigeon saw them. He saw the raven and the girl and the ghost boy, and when he turned his head to the right he saw the tumbledown remains of the belltower that had once been the raven’s home.
The pigeon stood up straight and pottered about along the roof, picking at the ivy and chatting to himself in the most cheerful of tones. He came to the half-open door and ducked down to have another look – they were all still in there, the girl and the boy and the raven. The pigeon looked out into the dwindling rain and pulled his wings back. And then, very importantly, he recited:
‘Nevermore! Nevermore!
Leave my loneliness unbroken
Nevermore! Nevermore!’
Looking extremely pleased with himself, he flew away to see what he could scavenge from the raven’s treasure.
Why were there never any good poems about pigeons?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The glare hit the raven full in the face when he staggered out of the mausoleum the next morning. His joints ached and his feathers were stiff with mud.
‘Kraaaaa,’ he croaked, ducking his head against the early sun. ‘I am a destroyed bird. My life has been laid to ruins.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ said a voice.
‘Who dares . . .’ The raven looked around and almost toppled down the stairs.
‘Only me,’ said Todd, hover-sitting on the very bottom step. He turned around to look back at the raven, and for a moment he was entirely lost to the sun.
The raven squinted and ducked his head again, flexing his claws to get some feeling back into them. ‘What are you doing here?’ he grumbled. He must be looking scruffy in the most dramatic of proportions, and visitors weren’t high on his list of wants.
‘Watching out for you, actually,’ said Todd. He swivelled back around and rested his chin on his hand.
‘Oh,’ said the raven, and he flopped down onto the same step as the boy. ‘Thank you, I guess.’
‘Beautiful morning,’ said Todd. ‘Makes me feel good seeing it.’
‘It is not a beautiful morning,’ the raven said. ‘It is an awful morning. I am a ruined bird. My life lies trampled and scattered in the mud.’
‘You mean your junk-pile,’ said Todd.
‘No,’ said the raven. ‘I do not mean my junk-pile. I mean exactly what I said.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a grumble-bum,’ said Todd. ‘Just look. Out there. Over your grounds.’
‘No.’ The raven dropped his head. ‘I don’t want to look at it. Allow me to suffer in dignity, please. At least allow me that.’
‘But just look,’ said the boy.
The raven sighed and glanced up, shielding his eyes with his wings.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Look, you big old grouch. It really isn’t that bad.’
The raven’s life and life’s work was lying all over the churchyard for every pigeon and his flea to pick over. But something precious and subtle was there as well. The storm had wreaked its havoc, but a delicacy clung to the upturned planter pots, the broken tree limbs, and the clusters of flowers strewn all over the paths. The corners of the mausoleums had a thin layer of petals and leaves stuck to them, splashes of colour against the faded grey. Everything glistened, caught the light, looked scrubbed clean and washed down with sun. Everything, from tombs to abandoned wheelbarrows to the spires of the church, had a lightness, a sense of belonging to only themselves. The sky was clear, the air was fresh. It felt as though everything dead had risen up and left.
‘Yes,’ the raven said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘How does it smell?’ asked Todd.
‘Excuse me?’ the raven said, and tossed his head. ‘I do not smell. And if I do, it’s perfectly justified, knowing what I’ve been through.’
‘No,’ said Todd, ‘not you. This. Everything. How does it smell?’
‘Oh,’ said the raven. ‘Like usual, I guess.’
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘It should smell different. I remember everything smelled different after it rained. Me and Kenzie used to go outside in the backyard and just stand there and sniff. It was one of the best smells. Even better than when Mum used to bake fresh bread. That was the only thing she was good at making. Always when we came home from school.’
The raven took an unenthusiastic sniff.
‘Well?’ said Todd.
‘Yes,’ said the raven. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Describe it to me.’ Todd leaned forward, his neck craned up.
The raven sighed and sniffed again. ‘It smells,’ he said. ‘Like . . . like . . . well, very clean. Like all the messy, dirty parts have been washed away from the earth. Along with my treasure.’
‘Go on,’ said Todd.
‘Give me a second,’ said the raven. He took another deep sniff. ‘Yes. And new earth has been turfed up, from very deep down. As if someone has dug a hole at the centre of the earth and scattered what they found all over the churchyard.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Todd.
‘And,’ said the raven, craning his own neck forward, ‘there are overtones of floral and gum. Very sharp, but subtle, seeping out of all the broken branches and plants. And a very sweet smell of wet wood.’ He shuffled up a few steps. ‘There is also a waxiness. Like one of the church candles has just been blown out but there is no smoke. Although there is a sort of smokiness hanging about. But not from the candles. There. Is that enough?’
‘Yep,’ said Todd.
The raven noticed Todd’s eyes were closed. A bit funny, seeing as you smelled out of your nose, and closing your eyes was unlikely to have any effect what
soever. ‘All right in there?’ asked the raven.
‘Brilliant,’ said Todd again. ‘Thanks.’ He opened his eyes and stood up, stretching his arms and legs into particles of sunlight. ‘You wanna go see the damage to your belltower?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said the raven. ‘What an insensitive suggestion.’
‘The longer you put it off, the harder it will be.’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m going. Stay here and mope about if you want.’ He started to drift away.
‘I’m not following you,’ the raven called to his back, but it was at that moment Clarinda Shuttleworth chose to come forward to enquire about the whereabouts of her locket.
The raven took one look at her beseeching eyes and groaned. ‘Sorry,’ he told her, ‘another time. Try the lost property if you can get into the church.’
‘But my locket,’ the ghost said. ‘Won’t you help me find it? A bird like you would know all the best places to look.’
‘I don’t have time for this,’ said the raven, refusing to meet her gaze.
‘Please,’ she whispered.
The raven hopped from foot to foot. ‘Maybe when my schedule isn’t so busy. Not so fast, Todd Trebuchet. I’ve just been through an ordeal, you know.’
The raven launched himself into the air, as he’d done a hundred times before, except his wings were stiff and waterlogged. The only things that flew were dried bits of mud and clay, shaken from his body as he tried to make progress. He dropped back down to the ground, rolled, and ended up with half of his body in a stagnating puddle.
‘Come on, then,’ said the boy. He was too polite to pass comment, but the raven didn’t have to look up to see the grin on his face.
‘I might walk,’ said the raven. He pulled himself upright and stretched out his claws as if all along that had been his intention. ‘It’s a nice day for it.’
‘No problem,’ said Todd, and he floated along extra slowly so the raven could keep up.
The raven stopped once or twice at the clearer puddles, to see how his reflection was doing, or to tweak a stray feather back into place. He had fallen from grace and been cast to the very bottom of the pit. But he was determined not to stay there for very long. And when he came out, it would most certainly not be with a bedraggled appearance.
What the Raven Saw Page 12
