‘I’m going to win it back for us,’ the raven said. ‘All this. Even the sun is on our side. May I demonstrate with a song?’
He sang ‘Joyful, Joyful’, not one of his favourites – a little too sentimental, perhaps – but befitting the moment. When he’d finished, the weatherhen whistled and cooed appreciatively.
‘See,’ said the raven, ‘now you know why I have to get back into the church. How can I let a voice like that go to waste?’
They sat there and watched the soft-hued light trickle into the churchyard, the blue skies open up and the first clouds appear. Just before eight-thirty the first cars pulled into the parking area and Father Cadman threw open the church doors.
It was now or never.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness
Drive the dark of doubt away
Giver of immortal gladness
Fill us with the light of day.
Some birds are made for greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them. The raven was of both kinds, which meant that his capacity for greatness was huge. Despite reassuring himself of this, the nerves in his stomach were relentless. Every second they seemed to find something else to have a nibble at. But it would be worth it. He was about to become one of the greatest corvids to fly the skies.
His minions were lined up at the back of the church, pressed against the wall, waiting to begin: a little girl, a ghost and a pigeon. The homily was done, the hymns sung, the offerings collected. They’d all watched as Barnabas Brittle performed his usual penny-pinching tricks. Now mass was drawing to a close.
The raven cowered down near the back of the church, hunkered into the shadows of the pews. Mackenzie had smuggled him inside her oversized jumper. He felt that any minute now a blast of light would come down from the human heavens and incriminate him for being where he shouldn’t.
Father Cadman was ending the mass, arms held out as if to embrace each and every one of his subjects.
‘Go in peace to love and serve the world.’
‘Love and serve the world, love and serve the world,’ cooed the pigeon. The raven glared at him.
‘Try to take this seriously.’
‘Oh, I am, I am. Can’t thank you enough for inviting me. A friend in need is a friend indeed, so they say.’
‘First,’ said the raven, ‘you are not my friend. And second, I didn’t invite you. You just followed me in from the roof and made yourself a part of the plan.’
‘Can’t say no to a good adventure when it slaps me in the face,’ the pigeon said.
‘It won’t be the only thing slapping you in the face if you don’t shut up.’
‘No need for threats, sir,’ said the pigeon. ‘You get wrinkles when you scowl.’
Mackenzie giggled. ‘It’s true, Ravo,’ she said.
‘Your lady friend won’t like that,’ Todd added, with the exact same glint in his eye.
‘That’s enough about my lady friend,’ hissed the raven.
‘Lady friend?’ said the pigeon, his neck bobbing at a million miles an hour. ‘Where? Who? Whoooohoooo, old boy, I knew you had it in you.’
‘That’s enough,’ said the raven, shooting a venomous look at the Trebuchet siblings. ‘Be quiet. It’s about to begin.’
People were getting up from their seats, chatting and reaching out to embrace old friends. Flowery perfume and the smell of polished leather filled the church. The choir launched into their final hymn:
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement seat
Be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!
His truth is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
It was just what the raven needed. As Barnabas Brittle snuck away out the back doors, slipping quietly into the churchyard, the raven launched himself into the air. The choir gave him a rousing exit.
‘Kraaaaa,’ he said, and below him Todd, Mackenzie and the pigeon stood to attention, excitement scrawled all over their faces.
It was on.
Mackenzie followed after Barnabas Brittle. Todd floated through the nearest window, and the pigeon and the raven snuck out using the raven’s old trick of the poor box, which now opened out onto air and grass since the belltower had collapsed.
They flew over the rubble, into a sky that was perfect, filmy blue – the raven with large, lopsided arcs and the pigeon in a messy flutter of wings. With his guts broiling, the raven came around the back of the church to see if everything was going accordingly. He was a bit worried, being the only creature that everyone involved in his plan could actually communicate with. And yet, so far so good.
Barnabas Brittle was hurrying away, at a faltering run, trying to transfer all the coins from his baggy sleeves into the pockets of his pants. On his way he ran right through the agapanthus beds and the raven rolled his eyes. His poor agapanthus. Again.
Back at the front exit, Father Cadman was surrounded by a bunch of people. Brittle, out of sight, dashed down the main path, dodging puddles and pools of mud. He passed the memorial garden, the plain tombstones and then the older part of the graveyard, with the tumbledown crosses and the small weathered crypts.
‘Come on, come on,’ the raven said under his breath.
Brittle scuttled on, veering by Jeremiah Hickelsby’s grave. His head was down and focused on keeping his jangling pockets quiet. He did not see the trickle of air that rose out of Jeremiah’s tomb, but he saw what came next. A tendril reached out to curl around the ends of Brittle’s hair and when he looked up there was Jeremiah Hickelsby himself, in fine ghost form, his beard in bushy tatters and his eyes furious.
‘CANNAE EVEN GET ONE MOMENT OF REST?’ Jeremiah bellowed, and his voice was filled with the anguish of a thousand sleepless nights. ‘HOW CAN I BEAR IT? WHAT IS THIS AGONY OF A HUNDRED CHINKING COINS? WHO DO YE BE THAT YE COME TREADIN’ LIKE ALL THE WORLD’S NOISE IS THERE CONTAINED IN YE GREAT CLOMPING BOOTS?’
Barnabas Brittle froze, he actually froze, his fingers half out of his pockets and his face even paler than the ghost.
‘WHAT?’ Jeremiah said, or rather boomed, and he seemed to swell in size and eat the space around him. ‘NOW YE ARE QUIET? DO YOU THINK TO TRICK ME? TRICKS, IS IT? YE THINK THAT YE CAN MAKE ME BELIEVE I IMAGINED IT THEN? ME HEAD! ME POOR ACHING HEAD!’
Brittle grabbed at his head as though he could pull the noise from within and when that didn’t work he lunged forward, writhing, at Barnabas Brittle. At this Brittle seemed to remember he had legs, and with a pitiful little squeak he took off down the track, head lolling and the coins in his pockets betraying his every step.
Jeremiah Hickelsby, or rather his ghost, had been shaken from his restless sleep and out into the living world. And, just as the raven knew he would, Jeremiah found that now he was out in his element haunting people, he rather quite liked it. The raven tipped Todd an unseen salute – it was the boy who’d done all the persuading. Just a bit of friendly ghost-to-ghost chat. He’d also mentioned something about the sunshine and fresh air doing wonders for a headache. The raven imagined Todd grinning now as Jeremiah Hickelsby, whooping, took off after Brittle.
It is a well-known fact, at least to ravens and all who matter, that not every ghost has the privilege of being able to haunt humans. They may only become visible after having been a ghost for a very long time. As it is, most ghosts settle all their unfinished business in the few years after dying and have no reason to hang about. They leave for the place that all ghosts go – to the mountains, where they become the dew on the flowers and trees, to be evaporated by the sun. Not just any ghost can haunt a human, which is, of course, why Mackenzie could not see her brother Todd.
But Jeremiah Hickelsby had been a ghost for a very long time, and a tormented one at that. He had not slept a wink for almost one hundred years. The bags under his eyes could have held a week�
��s worth of groceries. And so when he saw the look of terror on Barnabas Brittle’s face, it was like a shot of coffee to his brain. He had finally found a purpose to being dead. It was time to get his haunt on.
Seeing that this part of the plan had been successful, the raven nodded to the pigeon and the pigeon nodded back. The raven flew away to let Mackenzie know that she was up.
And this is what Mackenzie did: from her hiding place, she scratched her arms and smudged dirt on her face and let the pigeon muss up her hair. Then she ran around the side of the church, towards Father Cadman and all the gossiping ladies. Panting as if she had come a very long way, Mackenzie came to a halt in front of him and gasped, with her hands on her knees:
‘Oh, Father Cadman, you gotta come quick!’
Immediately the priest crouched down, his eyes almost disappearing under his brows. ‘What is it, Mackenzie?’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s terrible, it’s just awful, you gotta come quick.’ Mackenzie put her small fingers to her heart and then tugged on his hand. ‘It’s my brother, Father C, my brother. Quick, quick, quick!’ She wiped imaginary tears from her eyes and even managed a hiccup.
‘What is it? What have you seen?’ His hand closed around hers and he let her pull him out of the circle of buzzing ladies.
‘It’s the tombs, Father C, in the mausoleums, something terrible. I gotta talk to you, I gotta show you real quick.’
All the ladies were now looking among each other, heads turned and ears pricked, wondering what could be so awful that Father Cadman would be turning his attention away from them and running in the opposite direction with his ankles on display for all the world to see.
A few of them nudged each other and then trotted after Mackenzie and the priest, and they were soon followed by a few more, until a decent line had disappeared round the side of the church. Excellent. The raven swirled higher up into the air and headed away to the tombs himself.
Now it was his turn to show the world exactly what ravens were made of.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Down in the mausoleums, Jeremiah Hickelsby was in his element. He followed Brittle, peeping around crypt corners and letting out a moan or a wail or a rattle of breath. Then he would slither away between the columns, sneaking up behind Brittle, startling him all over again and sending him stumbling off in a new direction.
The raven kept an eye on proceedings, making sure Brittle ended up right where he wanted him – in the mausoleum where he had stashed his stolen loot. He seemed to be headed there anyway, as if it might offer some solid protection from the spectral show playing out around him.
There was a hunted look in Brittle’s eyes. Dazed and disorientated, he sometimes circled the same place twice before he figured out where he needed to go. He cowered beneath the shadows of the mausoleums and whimpered at every sudden noise. He had lost his smart Sunday hat along the way and his hand kept worrying at his bare head, gnarled fingers trying to claim back the one thing that allowed him some dignity.
The raven didn’t like the man, not even a little bit, but he knew when enough was enough. Brittle’s fingers needled at more than the skin on his head; they reminded the raven that not so long ago it had been him dragging himself around the mausoleums, ashamed of his own shadow.
He swooped down to old Jeremiah, who was hiding in the fork of a dying elm. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘hate to be the one to poop on a party, but I think that’s enough.’
‘But I’ll be having meself such a grand old time!’ Jeremiah swung around, grinning with a face full of terracotta teeth. ‘And not one ache for me poor wee head!’
‘Yes,’ said the raven, ‘that’s all very well. I’m glad to hear it. But as master of this plan, I declare your part fulfilled.’
‘Oh,’ said Jeremiah, and he threw himself from the branch. ‘What would ye have me do now, then? Go back to me grave? To death by tramping feet?’
‘Why don’t you go visiting?’ said the raven. ‘You’re only a few decades overdue, I’m sure you’ve got a few old friends hanging around somewhere. Maybe you can go and help that Clarinda Shuttleworth find her silly locket. There, just down that path. It looks very peaceful and quiet . . .’
It also looked muddy, overgrown and buzzing with gnats, for it was the oldest part of the churchyard, with the most ancient tombs and the stenchiest smells.
But Jeremiah’s face brightened and he floated down the path, as if it was the way to the land of a thousand mattresses. ‘Ooooh,’ he said, ‘I do likes meself some quiet.’
The raven flew back up into the sky and watched as Father Cadman, Mackenzie and the small trail of churchgoers behind them moved through the tombstones and headed towards the mausoleum that Barnabas Brittle was just now entering.
Ah, it was only moments away. The raven could feel the gospel songs stirring in him already.
He dropped into the mausoleum through a hole in the roof, as Brittle’s feet finally clattered on the outside steps.
The pigeon was waiting, as planned, cooing softly to himself in excitement. ‘My, my,’ he said upon spying the raven, ‘I’m just about to bust a gut.’
‘I’d prefer if you wouldn’t,’ sniffed the raven. ‘There’s a time and a place. This isn’t it.’
And then Brittle was sliding his way into the tomb, blinking his eyes to adjust to the dimness, his nose curling at the fetid damp smell.
Actually, that was probably just the pigeon.
Brittle tiptoed across the ground, his hands out as if they could ward off the ghost that was supposedly haunting him. It was noiseless in the mausoleum, earthly still, the walls brimming with the effort of containing so many years of silence.
When nothing jumped out at him, Brittle relaxed his shoulders, just the tiniest bit. But the raven was having none of that. He scraped the stone underneath his claw, drawing it out, and the pigeon gave a quick coocoocoo. The raven tried on a quick, sharp pruuuk, and the pigeon almost strangled his vocal chords with the effort of containing his glee. Brittle snapped into motion, his arms and head pulled up by imaginary strings.
‘Ohhhhhh,’ he said, and he lurched across the room and through the arch and down the passage to his vile little den. His feet rang out briefly on each stair before the darkness claimed back the noise.
And then, timed to perfection, the silhouettes of Mackenzie and Father Cadman appeared by the door.
‘This way, this way, quick!’ Mackenzie whispered, pulling on Father Cadman’s hand. ‘Can you hear it? In there. You listening, Father C?’
What they could hear was, of course, Barnabas Brittle moaning to himself. But, confined and swallowed by the thick damp walls of the tomb, it did not sound anything like a man. Fallen stones and fissured cracks allowed light to seep in but it was still dark inside – dark enough for one’s eyes to wonder at things that may or may not be there.
‘What is this devilry?’ Father Cadman said. ‘Mackenzie, what did you see? Your brother? We should go back and get the groundskeeper.’
But Mackenzie let go of his hand and darted further into the darkness. Her eyes slid over the raven just as he went down the passage ahead of them, and there was the tiniest glint of her teeth.
‘Come on, come on,’ she said. ‘Down here.’
The raven was in the alcove now and watched them come towards him. He saw their feet tapping down the steps, the barest shine of a forehead or a cheek as their faces passed under the light. He saw them stand on the bottom stair and peer around before finding the shape of someone hunched and beaten, crouched in the middle of his pirated den.
And, finally, he watched as first confusion and then realisation settled over Father Cadman’s face.
‘Barnabas,’ the priest began to say.
And at that the pigeon, for once getting his timing right, struck the match that he had in his beak against the stone wall. The flame flickered to life and Brittle jerked around at the noise and came face to face with a ghost.
It was not Jeremiah Hickelsby. Instead, a yo
ung boy sat calmly on the ledge that currently supported everything Barnabas Brittle had ever stolen. It was only a brief glimpse, almost as though he wasn’t there at all, because Todd Trebuchet had not been dead very long and did not hold haunting privileges. But it was enough. Because, before he faded away completely, Todd pointed one finger at Barnabas Brittle, and the condemned man jumped so violently all the coins came flying out of his pockets.
And then, because the raven never did anything by halves, he and the pigeon extracted the already-loosened nails from the shelf, and the stolen treasure came tumbling down from where it was half-hidden in the shadows. Coins, chalices, crosses, holy beads, religious trinkets – all of it plunged down, the sound amplified ten times over in the confined space.
And as it crowned the man who stole it, the church ladies, speaking in hushed whispers, appeared on the stairs behind Father Cadman and Mackenzie. Their faces were shocked hollows in the bleary light.
‘Thief,’ one of them said.
The match fizzled and went out, leaving the chamber in darkness. Someone sighed.
‘Oh, Barnabas,’ said Father Cadman. ‘My raven-friend was right. But I did not want it to be true.’
No one saw the raven, in his corner in the gloom. But when he heard those words all the world’s gospel songs burst out of his chest and he knew, truly, that there could be no raven more satisfied than him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The raven was welcomed back into the church. He had been restored to Father Cadman’s good graces, and his churchyard now had the sparkle that said storms were not welcome here.
And yet he could not find it in his heart to be happy.
Father Cadman was singing below: a deep, melancholy tune accompanied by the spare notes from a piano. Those notes plunged down into the raven’s breast, where he absorbed the loneliness off the words before they dropped away again and left a cavernous space. Not even the sight of a giant earwig in the awning crevices could arouse his interest.
What the Raven Saw Page 14
