The Crow Talker

Where’d he come from? said Screech.

Caw sat up. A tall, thin man was holding the boy by the back of his neck. Brown wiry hair protruded from beneath the man’s stained woolly hat. He was wearing several layers of dirty clothing, including an old brown trench coat fastened around his waist with a belt of frayed blue cord. A tufty beard coated his jawline in uneven patches. Caw guessed he was in his mid-twenties, and homeless.

“Leave him be,” said the man, his voice rasping. In the semi-darkness, his mouth was a black hole.

“What’s it to you?” said the boy holding Caw’s left arm.

The man shoved the boy with the lip rings hard at the bin, letting him go.

“This guy’s crazy!” said the boy holding Caw’s legs. “Let’s go.”

Their leader picked up his knife and brandished it at the homeless man.

“Lucky you’re so filthy,” he snarled. “Don’t want to get my knife dirty. Come on, fellas.” The four attackers turned and tore out of the alley.

Caw scrambled to his feet, his breath coming hard. Looking up, he saw his crows perched together on the fire-escape railing, watching silently.

After the gang had rounded the corner, another smaller shape slipped from the alley’s darkness to stand close beside the man. It was a boy of about seven or eight, Caw guessed. His narrow face was pale and his dirty blond hair stood on end. “Yeah, and don’t come back!” he shouted, shaking a fist.

Caw darted towards the chips scattered on the ground. He started dropping them back into the box. No need to waste a good meal. All the while, he felt the gaze of his rescuer and the boy on his back.

When he’d finished, he stuffed the box inside the deep pocket of his coat and hurried to the fire escape.

“Wait,” said the man. “Who are you?”

Caw turned to face him, but kept his eyes on the ground. “I’m no one.”

The man snorted. “Really? So where are your parents, No one?”

Caw shook his head again. He didn’t know what else to say.

“You should be careful,” said the man.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Doesn’t look like that to us,” said the boy, tilting his chin upward.

Caw heard the crows’ claws shifting on the railing above him. The man’s eyes flicked up to them and narrowed. His lips turned in the ghost of a smile. “Friends of yours?” he asked.

Time to go home, said Glum.

Caw started up the steel ladder without looking back. He climbed quickly, hand over hand, his nimble feet barely making a sound on the fire escape. When he reached the roof, he took one last glance and saw the man watching him as the young boy rooted around in the bins.

“Something bad’s coming,” called the man. “Something really bad. You get into trouble – talk to the pigeons.”

Talk to the pigeons? Caw only talked to crows.

Pigeons! Screech said, as if he’d heard Caw’s thought. You’d get more sense out of a brick!

Probably off his rocker, said Glum. A lot of humans are.

Caw heaved himself on to the roof and set off at a jog. But as he ran, he couldn’t shake the man’s parting words. He hadn’t seemed crazy at all. His face was fierce, his eyes clear. Not like the old drunks who stumbled around the streets or squatted in doorways begging for money.

And, more than that, he had helped Caw. He’d put himself at risk, for no reason.

Caw’s crows flew above him, wheeling around buildings and circling back as they made their way to the safety of the nest. Home.

Caw’s heart began to slow, as the night took him into its dark embrace.

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

t’s the same dream.The same as always.

He’s back at his old house. The bed is so soft he feels like he’s lying on a cloud. It’s warm too and he longs to turn over, pull the duvet tight to his chin and fall back asleep. But he never can. Because the dream isn’t just a dream. It’s a memory.

Hurried footsteps on the stairs outside his room. They’re coming for him.

He swings his legs out and his toes sink into the thick carpet. His bedroom is in shadow, but he can just make out his toys lining the top of a chest of drawers and a shelf stacked with picture books.

A crack of light appears under his door and he hears his parents’ voices, urgent and hushed.

The door handle turns and they enter. His mother is wearing a black dress, and her cheeks are silver with tears. His father is dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a shirt open at the neck. His forehead is sweaty.

“Please, no …” Caw says.

His mother takes his hand in hers, her palms clammy, and pulls him towards the window.

Caw tries to tug back, but he’s young in the dream, and she’s too strong for him.

“Don’t fight,” she says. “Please. It’s for the best. I promise.”

Caw kicks her in the shins and scratches at her with his nails, but she gathers him close to her body in a grip of iron, and bundles him on to the window ledge. Terrified, Caw fastens his teeth over her forearm. She doesn’t let go, even when his teeth break her skin. His father draws back the curtains, and for second Caw catches sight of his own face in the black shine of the window – pudgy, wide-eyed, afraid.

The window is flung open and the cold night air rushes in.

Now his father holds him as well – his parents have an arm and a leg each. Caw bucks and writhes, screaming.

“Hush! Hush!” says his mother. “It’s all right.”

The end of the nightmare is coming, but knowing that doesn’t make it any less terrible. They push and pull him over the ledge, so his legs are dangling, and he sees the ground far below. His father’s jaw is taut, brutal. He won’t look Caw in the eye. But Caw can see that he’s crying too.

“Do it!” says his father, releasing his grip. “Just do it!”

“Why?” Caw wants to shout. But all that comes out is a child’s wailing cry.

“I’m sorry,” says his mother. That’s when she shoves him out of the window.

For a split-second, his stomach turns. But then the crows have him.