The Crow Talker

“Are those books?” she said, scrambling across the nest. In the corner, beneath Caw’s tattered sweater, was his latest stack.

“Yes,” said Caw. “But—”

Lydia took one. “They’re picture books!” she said, grinning.

Caw really wanted her to go now, but he couldn’t think of the right words.

“Why are you reading picture books?” she said. “They’re for little kids.”

Caw felt his blush deepen.

Lydia’s look turned to utter dismay. “Wait – I’m sorry. Did you ever learn to read?”

Caw lowered his gaze and managed a tiny shake of his head.

“Hey, these are library books,” said Lydia. “Did you … steal them?”

“No!” said Caw, glancing up angrily. “I borrowed them.”

“You have a library card?” said Lydia, her eyebrow arching.

“Not exactly,” said Caw. “A woman – a librarian – leaves them outside for me.”

Lydia put the book down. “I could teach you to read,” she said.

Caw didn’t know what to say. Why was she being so nice to him?

“I mean, if you want me to,” she added awkwardly. “Maybe we could go to the library together – pick something to help you learn.”

Caw was about to reply when Milky let out a thin cry. Everyone looked at the white crow.

“Whoa, I didn’t see him there,” said Lydia, shifting uncomfortably. “Why are his feathers like that?”

“They always have been,” said Caw, his eyes fixed on Milky. “Listen, thanks for the offer with the library, but—”

Milky squawked again.

“Sounds like he wants you to come with me,” Lydia said with a grin. She pushed out her bottom lip. “But then, I don’t speak bird.”

Glum hissed.

“That one’s tetchy, isn’t he?” said Lydia.

Caw was watching Milky. Why was the white crow making such a fuss?

Milky blinked. Did he really want Caw to go with this strange girl? It had been Milky’s words about the spider that had convinced Caw to follow Lydia’s father the night before. And if he hadn’t, he never would have seen the tattoo. The one that matched the ring in his dream.

“Come on,” Lydia urged. “What harm can a trip to the library do?”

Of course! If anyone could help him understand what the spider symbol meant, it was the librarian. She had so many books.

“So what do you say?” said Lydia.

Bad idea, said Glum.

I think she’s all right, said Screech, holding up his leg.

Caw looked at both of them, then at Lydia. He’d never had a friend before. And she’d gone to a lot of trouble to find him. Plus Milky had spoken for the first time in all the eight years Caw had known him. Perhaps it was a sign.

“Before you say no, it’s my way of saying thanks for saving us,” said Lydia.

Caw watched her face closely, as if her features might betray her thoughts. Was he actually ready to trust another human being after avoiding them for so long?

Perhaps not yet. But if he kept his guard up, and the crows were with him …

“OK,” he said. “Just this once.”

(#u2f4bd70a-05b9-5ef6-ae1c-7f6c0f6d47cf)

aw always felt on edge when he went out in the daytime. At night, when he scoured the city for food and supplies, the darkness protected him from prying eyes. It allowed him to move freely through the streets and along rooftops. But down on the ground, under the glare of sunshine, he felt exposed. Cars gridlocked the streets and hundreds of people filled the pavements and shops. He told himself the people weren’t looking at him, but it never helped.

This time, though, with Lydia at his side, he almost felt normal. Of course he kept an eye on the sky, to check that Screech and Glum were still with them. Milky had remained behind at the nest.

Blackstone was vast, its streets organised on a grid. Caw couldn’t read the names on the signs, but he counted the blocks. That way, he always knew where to find the road that led up to the park. As they walked deeper into the city, buildings loomed up on either side, so tall the sky was just a strip of grey above. The people who lived at the top must feel like they were in a nest too, he thought.

Monorail lines threaded over the streets on viaducts or plunged into tunnels that burrowed underground. The stations were scattered through the city, disgorging passengers from the bowels of the earth. Caw had never ventured beneath the streets. The thought of being trapped down there chilled him to the bone.

“My dad’s so stressed out,” Lydia was saying. “He says his job might be on the line. Those prisoners were in maximum security, but they managed to break through the floor of one of the bathroom stalls.”

Caw let Lydia talk the whole way. She was good at talking. He learnt she was an only child, that her dog, Benjy, was scared of cats, and that her favourite subject at school was Maths. He was listening, but everywhere he went, his eyes scanned for an escape route, preferably upwards – drainpipes, fire escapes, window ledges with enough room to wrap his fingers around them. He wondered when he would find the right moment to tell Lydia that he’d never actually been inside the library before.

They were approaching it now, a huge old-fashioned building with a grass forecourt, broken up by paths and strange metal sculptures. The first time he’d gone there was just over a year ago, at twilight. A storm had swept across Blackstone, and he’d taken shelter from the rain under the grand fluted columns that stood at the front of the library. He hadn’t even known what was inside, but the lights from a window had tempted him to look closer. As he’d pressed his nose against the glass and seen those high shelves lined with thousands of books, he’d been mesmerised. They reminded him of being a child back in his bedroom on the nights when his mother would pick a picture book from the shelf and read to him until he fell asleep.

The middle-aged woman had taken him by surprise, appearing at the main doors, and asking if he wanted to come inside. She was shorter than him by a head, with black skin, and tightly curled black hair turning grey in places. It was the first time a human had spoken to him in months, and if the rain hadn’t been falling so hard, he would have run away. As it was, he froze on the spot. The woman had smiled, and told him she was called Miss Wallace, and that she was the Head Librarian. She asked him if he liked books. Caw said nothing, but the woman must have seen a look of longing on his face.

“Wait here,” she’d said.

And against all his instincts and the advice of the crows, he had.

When the lady had emerged again, she was clutching a pile of colourful books, and a steaming cardboard cup. “You look cold,” she’d said.

Caw took a cautious sip. Hot chocolate. He closed his eyes, savouring the taste. It was rich and creamy, filling him up the way rainwater never did. She let him choose the books he liked the most – the ones with the fewest words. Maybe she guessed he couldn’t read, but she didn’t say so.

“Just bring them back the same time next week,” she’d said. “Leave them by the fire-escape steps at the back of the building if you’d rather not come in.”

Caw had nodded and tried to say “Thank you,” but he was so nervous he’d ended up mouthing it instead.

The following week he’d returned the books, and found another pile waiting for him with another cup of hot chocolate. It was the same the next week, and the one after that. Occasionally Miss Wallace would come out and say hello. Only once had she suggested she could ring someone – “to help him” – but Caw had shaken his head so violently that she hadn’t repeated the offer.