The Crow Talker. Jacob Grey
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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.
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.
They cover his arms and legs, talons digging into his skin and pyjamas. A dark cloud that appears out of nowhere, carrying him upwards.
His face is filled with feathers and their earthy smell.
He’s floating, up and up, carried beneath their black eyes and brittle legs and snapping wings.
He gives his body to the birds and the rhythm of their flight, prepares to wake …
But tonight, he does not wake.
The crows descend and set him down lightly on the pavement, looping back towards his house along a pale driveway running between tall trees. He sees his parents at his window, now closed. They’re hugging, holding each other.
How could they?
Still, he does not wake.
Then Caw sees a figure, a thing, materialising from the darkness of the front garden, taking slow deliberate strides to the door of the house. It’s tall, almost as tall as the doorway itself, and very thin, with spindly limbs too long for its body.
The dream has never continued like this before. This is no longer part of his memory – somehow Caw knows that, deep in his bones.
By some trick, he can see the thing’s face, close up. It’s a man – but the likes of which he’s never seen. He wants to look away, but his eyes are drawn to the pale features, made paler still by the blackness of the man’s hair, which sits in jagged spikes over his forehead and one eye. He would be handsome if it weren’t for his eyes. They’re completely black – all pupil, no white.
Caw has no idea who the man is, but he knows that he is more than just bad. The man’s slender body draws the darkness to him. He has come here to do harm. Evil. The word comes unbidden. Caw wants to shout, but he is voiceless with fear.
He is desperate to wake, but he does not.
The visitor’s lips twist into a smile as he lifts a hand, the fingers like drooping arachnid legs. Caw sees that he’s wearing a large golden ring as his fingers enfold the door knocker, like a flower’s petals closing. And now the ring is all he sees, and the picture inscribed on its oval surface. A spider carved in sharp lines, eight legs bristling. Its body is a looping single line, with a small curve for the head and a larger one for the body. On its back, a shape that looks like the letter M.
The stranger knocks a single time, then turns his head. He’s looking right at Caw. For a moment the crows are gone, and there is nothing in the world but Caw and the stranger. The man’s voice whispers softly, his lips barely moving.
“I’m coming for you.”
Caw woke up screaming.
Sweat was drying on his forehead and goose pimples covered his arms. He could see his breath, even under the cover of the tarpaulin that stretched between the branches overhead. As he sat up, the tree creaked and the nest rocked slightly. A spider scuttled away from his hand.
A coincidence. Just a coincidence.
What’s up? said Screech, flapping across from the nest’s edge to land beside him.
Caw closed his eyes, and the image of the spider ring burned behind his lids.
“Just the dream,” he said. “The usual one. Go back to sleep.”
Except tonight it hadn’t been. The stranger – the man at the door – that hadn’t really happened. Had it?
We were trying to sleep, said Glum. But you woke us twitching like a half-eaten worm. Even poor old Milky’s up. Caw could hear the grumpy ruffle of Glum’s feathers.
“Sorry,” he said. He lay back down, but sleep wouldn’t come,