“Excuse me, my young lady,” a voice interrupted. “Feeding the pigeons is a crime. You can be fined or even face prosecution.”
Her back stiffened. But then she relaxed as she realized the voice sounded vaguely familiar. Caitlin looked up but didn’t immediately recognize the elderly man standing in front of her. He was short and plump with a tartan bow tie and a brown tweed vest. His light-gray beard grew to a sharp point, and he wore a herringbone ivy cap.
“Pay attention to the signs,” he said.
“What signs?”
He smiled. “Precisely my point—you’re oblivious to the signs. Thus, you are breaking a law that bans the dispensing of pigeon feed.”
The old man gestured with a finger toward the empty spot on the park bench beside her. “May I?”
Caitlin shrugged. “Sure.”
Moving as if his bones were tired and sore, the old man gingerly sat down, letting out a weary huff and a laborious heave as he planted his bottom beside Caitlin.
He looked around suspiciously as his left eyebrow arched. When it seemed the coast was clear, he presented an open palm to Caitlin along with a mischievous smile.
She poured him a handful of crumbs, whereupon the old man sprinkled the feed onto the pavement for the pigeons bustling about; they eagerly gobbled up the morsels.
Caitlin drew her brows together playfully. “I suppose you don’t pay attention to the signs either—or perhaps you’re willfully choosing to commit a crime.”
“Was that a question or a statement?”
How weird, Caitlin thought.
“Not many pigeons left in these parts,” the old man continued. “Used to be about four thousand birds on an average day. Which made for one large lot of pigeon poop.”
“You mean guano,” Caitlin responded.
“Very good,” the old man replied with an impressed nod. He pointed toward a menacing bird circling overhead. “Harris hawk,” he said. “A bird of prey. The city brought them in to frighten off the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and now here. Pigeon pest control, you might say.”
The hawk suddenly nose-dived, causing a flock of pigeons to scatter.
“That’s cruel!” Caitlin said.
“Indeed.” The old man agreed as he stroked his beard. “But while most pigeons fled as the hawk approached, a few remained. Apparently they were prepared to fight for their nourishment, despite their fear and the danger.” His tone became foreboding as he went on.
“Unexpected turns of events, though painful and frightening, often serve to make us stronger. They impel us to become the person we are meant to be. Destiny holds both pain and blessings, my young lady. But make no mistake, both serve the same purpose: to help us evolve and contribute our very best to this world.”
The old man presented an open palm again. Caitlin poured him more crumbs, which he tossed to the pigeons.
“Well, it’s time for me to run,” the old man said as he rose slowly. “Be well, my child. And be strong. And remember: we don’t have a choice about the pain that comes to our lives, but we do have a choice about suffering.” He removed his cap and bowed gracefully in a parting gesture.
No way!
Caitlin was certain she saw two insect antennae protruding from his head.
A majorly bizarre day, to say the least.
She pushed aside thoughts she was having about how the old man oddly resembled Amethyst, the green-tea-drinking caterpillar and butterfly. Instead, she pulled out Dr. Kyle’s book and stared bitterly at the cover.
The Colours of Our Character
A New Technology for Eradicating Fears, Phobias, and Anxiety
Dr. J. L. Kyle
She perused the book, heart palpitating the way it did whenever she was forced to confront a friend about an unpleasant issue. Dr. Kyle had pirated her deepest secrets. Plundered her painful experiences, then used them as his own insights into treating various anxiety disorders. He even used zombies as a metaphor for the onslaught of negative thoughts. Every page was a page from her life.
He used sunlight as a metaphor for the mind. The red and violet bands of color spectrum transmitted fear and courage, sadness and happiness, anxiety and serenity, respectively. The most important mind frequency the sun transmitted was the color green. He said we find our humanity when we activate our free will to resist the red-band emotions,
which in turn lights up the feelings found in the violet end of the spectrum.
Duh. Who d’ya think told him all that?
And that snake was cynical to me about the whole idea of using colors to explain human nature. He didn’t even understand it. Didn’t get it.
She had tried explaining it, over and over.
He either purposely feigned ignorance, or the sketchy shrink really is totally ignorant.
That is, until the light bulb went out in his office during one session and the light bulb went on in Caitlin’s head. When that light bulb had flashed and burned out, she suddenly found a way to explain it to him. The two of them had been sitting in near darkness. Totally creepy. Caitlin had quickly flicked on the flashlight on her phone. Then she explained it to him; a light bulb burns out when the filament breaks and the positive pole and the negative pole touch directly. There is a momentary flash, then total darkness. The light bulb shines only when the filament resists. Resistance creates light.
And now Dr. Kyle had hijacked her philosophy and claimed as his own.
Contemptible thief! Plagiarist. Con man. Creep. Scoundr—
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Suddenly, a menacing shadow was moving over Hyde Park. The rolling gloom seemed never-ending.
Caitlin’s initial thought was that a giant blimp or a colossal low-hanging cloud must have been passing overhead. But she quickly realized that this was an unearthly presence. The humongous shadow moved over the parkland slowly and ominously. Before Caitlin could even look up, thousands of pigeons erupted in a flurry, fleeing the area in panic. Stranger still, the Harris hawk that was there to scare off the pigeons took flight as well, frightened
off as if some malevolent force were descending upon the Earth.
Caitlin lifted her eyes. Her mouth hung open. The sky was paved in gleaming black tar.
But it wasn’t black tar.
A vast and savage sea of black crows was winging overhead, packed so tightly together and in such vast numbers that they looked like the underbelly of some gargantuan alien ship—a ship with no sides and no end.
The black swarm blocked out sun and sky, its shadow rolling over the earth like the angel of death.
Thousands of frightened people came to a standstill, eyes wide at this implausible, intimidating spectacle in the sky.
And then the unthinkable happened.
Crowds scrambled frantically, fleeing Hyde Park as hordes of screaming crows began touching down.
They fell like black rain.
Caitlin’s body went cold.
Tens of thousands of birds were landing by the second. Squawking like demons. Blanketing the full breadth of Hyde Park in a silken sea of feathered gloom. Devouring the grand entrance to the park and drowning Caitlin in black feathers.
A hundred thousand crows were suddenly on the ground, black beaks glistening, black bodies crammed so tight they swallowed every blade of grass and crack of concrete. They spread as far as Caitlin could see.
The stench of feathers, dead insects, and bird droppings invaded her nostrils.
And then, for some unexplainable reason, the wretched birds went silent. Not a caw. The silence was unnerving. The scene, surreal. Terrifying. Caitlin half expected to see that blonde lady—Tipper or Tippi-something-Hedren—from that old black-and-white movie her dad once showed her, The Birds, running through the scene.
The Enchanter is behind this.
She was positively certain, and
her conviction filled her with nauseating dread.
The Lord of the Curtain.
Is it a warning? Is it connected in some way to that thieving plagiarist, Dr. J. L. Kyle? Aren’t black crows an ominous sign of impending doom?
Caitlin bit her thumbnail. She needed to get home. Her eyes frantically searched her surroundings. The vast majority of people had already fled the scene. Her bike was buried beneath birds. She couldn’t Uber her way out of there, because no vehicle could get close. And there was no escape route on foot because beady-eyed birds shrouded the earth. It looked like a scene out of the apocalypse.
She stretched out the collar around her neck.
Sirens suddenly screamed from afar.
A good sound!
Emergency responders were on the way.
The roar of helicopter rotors thrummed. She raised her eyes. News choppers hovered overhead. She glanced back to the streets. Fire trucks were pulling up curbside. She exhaled, sitting as still as stone, and watched as firemen drew their hoses from the fire trucks.
Cannons of water came gushing out of the nozzles. A booming wave of squawks shook Hyde Park as the repulsive birds thrashed and flapped and took to the skies. Plumes of water swept the area. The crows smothering her bike abandoned it in a frenzy and returned to the sky. Pathways leading out of the ghastly scene began to open up.
Caitlin seized the moment.
She jumped up from the bench, hopped on her bike, and began to pedal. Fast. Faster. Maniacally.
She bolted from Hyde Park like a bat out of hell.
Should I glance back to see if crows are following me?
She didn’t dare.
CHAPTER Five
Caitlin tore down Royal Street and pulled her bike up to her apartment building. She couldn’t wait to tell her dad what had just happened. She knew he was probably hearing about it on the news already.
During the last eleven months, Dr. Kyle had told Harold Fletcher that Caitlin’s fanciful stories about her mom and her adventures down the grave of Lewis Carroll were just part of an overactive imagination fueled by an unwillingness to confront painful truths.
Nevertheless, her dad had always winked at her. Always given her a reassuring hug after such observations by that nasty shrink.
He believed in her. He might not have understood exactly what had happened to her, but he seemed certain that something out of the ordinary had occurred and that his daughter was not dreaming it all up.
Caitlin climbed ten flights of stairs. She zipped down the hallway, breathless and sore-legged from all the bike pedaling and stair climbing. She burst into her apartment.
“Dad, did you see the news?”
She took the stairs two at a time to the second floor of the split-level flat. She knocked on her dad’s bedroom door. Silence. She nudged the door open just a crack, peeking in.
“Dad?”
Still no answer. She gently opened the door all the way and tiptoed into the room.
He wasn’t in bed. Not at his desk. Bathroom lights were off. She looked by the side of the—
Her heart jumped!
Harold Fletcher lay face down on the floor.
Unconscious?
Heart in her mouth, she dashed over to her dad and grabbed his wrist.
God, no!
His skin was cold. No pulse. She whipped out her phone. Dialed 999. Summoned an ambulance. She didn’t even hear herself speak. She turned back to her dad.
“Daddy, please wake up! Wake up!” She wiped the wet from her eyes.
“Sound the trumpets, I have returned home from school!” a spry voice called out from downstairs.
Natalie! No!
“Get into the kitchen—now!” Caitlin screamed, desperately trying not to sound hysterical but failing miserably.
She choked back her emotions. “And wait there—do not come upstairs!”
“When did you become sheriff of London Town?” Natalie shouted back in defiance.
Caitlin slid her hands underneath her dad’s forehead and chest. She rolled him onto his back. With both hands, she pushed hard and quick on his chest. Again. And again. She placed her ear over his heart. No beat.
She pushed hard and fast on again. After five or six more thumps, she held his cold hand. Placed a finger on his wrist. No pulse.
A morbid sound made her skin crawl.
Cawing.
She turned to the bedroom window. A black-eyed bird was perched on the tenth-story ledge. Watching her. Its beak looked as though it were smiling.
The wail of an approaching siren seized her attention. She leaped up, ran out of the bedroom, and flew downstairs. Natalie was ambling out of the kitchen, her thumb sunk in a jar of peanut butter. She scooped out a thick, sticky globule and shoved it into her mouth.
“Wha up wid you?” she mumbled through a mouthful.
Caitlin beelined to the front door. Before opening it, she turned to her sister. “Get back in the kitchen! Now!”
Natalie was clearly taken aback by Caitlin’s forceful manner and tone. Evidently this was not a moment to test her sister’s patience, so Natalie slunk back into the kitchen.
Caitlin opened the apartment door and stepped out into the hall. The elevator chimed. The door slid open. Paramedics rushed out.
“Upstairs!” Caitlin shouted. The responders ran into her apartment. “First bedroom on the left.”
Caitlin walked gravely back into her apartment, head hung low. She leaned against the wall in the front foyer. Then she crumpled to the floor, knees tight against her chest. She buried her head in her arms. She absolutely refused to look up when the paramedics carried the stretcher down the stairs and out of the apartment.
She just sat there, head still bowed, eyes closed, drowning in a well of tearful grief.
Soft fingers suddenly caressed her hair. She smelled creamy peanut butter. Natalie had come out of the kitchen.
“What’s wrong, Caity-Pie?”
Caitlin’s throat throbbed as she stifled the urge to cry.
She raised her head, wiping away a warm roll of tears from her cheek with her sleeve.
Large sculptures of peanut butter that would make Michelangelo weep with envy were pasted on Natalie’s nose, lips, and chin. Normally that would’ve cracked Caitlin up with laughter. But all cheer had abandoned her.
Slowly, carefully, and contemplatively, she made eye contact with each of the four corners of the ceiling in the front foyer of their flat. The OCD had beaten her down.
And despite her effort to regain her composure for her sister’s sake, Caitlin’s voice broke as she replied through a waterfall of salty tears, “Dad’s gone.”
CHAPTER Six
Spy-Glass Hill, Treasure Island
Scores of nightingale birds boasting a bright array of colored feathers were perched high in tall coconut palm trees, serenading Treasure Island with their sweet music. The crooning nightingales were actually lustful males, and, as lustful males often do, they were using their song to seduce the female nightingales by convincing them of their mating prowess.
The seductive birdsong, however, sounded like damnable white noise to Janus’s ears. Shrill cacophony. Janus hated birdsong.
Janus had just led his black-clad crew of crowmen through Zeno’s Forest. Profiting from Zeno’s space-and-time transcending properties, the crowmen had transported themselves to Treasure Island. When they touched down on the island, they flew the rest of the way, winding up at the summit of Spy-Glass Hill.
Janus hated it there. But Treasure Island was the location of the portal. And the portal led to the place where the treasure lay in waiting—a treasure far more valuable to the Enchanter than any wooden chest brimming with the plundered booty of pirates.
Janus had brought six other crowmen with him. All six were dressed like Janus in identical black garments. Da
rk fedoras with creased crowns and downturned brims cast narrow
shadows on their elongated, tar-black beaks. Each crowman wore a long, dark coat that hung to his black-feathered anklebones.
Janus had selected only masculine hunters like himself for this task. The male crow’s propensity for extreme violence, along with its remorseless nature, was a necessary trait for achieving a successful outcome. Crowman Janus was determined to perform his task quickly and efficiently to impress the Lord of the Curtain. Janus’s craving for power and position almost matched his lust for flesh and ants.
Janus’s mission on behalf of the Lord of the Curtain was clear: remove the obstacle to the treasure. The obstacle, in this case, was the firstborn. This would clear the way for the Enchanter’s top deputy, a thieving bastard buccaneer, to secure the treasure: the second-born.
The Enchanter’s first deputy went by the name Blackbeard, though his scurvy face was nearly beardless aside from a slight outgrowth of stubble—more salt-and-pepper than honest black.
Blackbeard had special status among the Enchanter’s minions because he was the one who, long ago, had opened up the first portal into the human world: the Kirriemeuir Cemetery.
The Enchanter’s second deputy was the notorious marauder Captain Flint, the man whom Janus had come to meet—and to take measure of him.
Janus was the third deputy, but he hoped to rise in rank after today’s task.
Flint’s role was to reveal the hidden whereabouts of the portal so that Janus and Blackbeard could cross over and carry out their part of the operation.
Janus’s covert mission was to also evaluate Flint and Treasure Island for signs of life and the green band of the color spectrum.
There were already rumors circulating about Captain Flint and the island. Rumors alleging that the red was dissipating from Flint’s eyes, that the island was messing with his head.
Treasure Island had become a rare phenomenon—one of only two known locations in this world where there was any semblance of life. Strange occurrences of greenery had been reported there, despite the deficiency of the sun’s green wavelength. Even the songbirds Janus found so insufferable were suddenly sporting colors.
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