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Well, that was embarrassing, said Screech, landing at his side.
Maybe you should be training with Crumb after all, said Glum.
Caw sat up, rubbing his back. Why hadn’t it worked? He’d done it before.
“Take me after the police car!” he said to his crows.
He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and felt the power surge. He might not be able to change into a crow, but he could do the next best thing.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw them coming. Black specks amassing from every direction. The crows of Blackstone were obeying their master.
One by one they descended in a dark swirl, alighting across his clothes. As each fluttering bird attached itself, Caw felt his body lightening, until his feet left the ground completely.
“Follow them!” he said.
Caw’s legs wheeled as the crows carried him up, high into the air, swooping along the road’s path below. Panic turned to exaltation as Caw gave himself to the power of their wings and the ground shrank away. In the distance, he could see the city’s sprawl. He had to stop the car before it reached the crowded metropolis, if he was to avoid being seen by non-ferals. He steered the crows with his mind. There! The car was just ahead, driving slowly along the winding road. The crows speeded up, until Caw was dangling just ten feet above the vehicle. Could he do this? He’d need to time it perfectly.
“Drop me!” he said.
Do what? squawked Screech.
“Now!” shouted Caw.
The talons released him as one and Caw fell, smashing feet first on to the bonnet of the car. He lost his footing and slammed into the windshield. The brakes screeched and the car swerved, and he bounced up over the roof. The world lost all its bearings and Caw braced himself with his arms over his head, until he thumped, side-first, into something very hard.
Caw rolled over, finding himself in the middle of the road. He sat up just in time to see the police car mount the kerb and skid into a tree with a grinding crunch.
Pain shot through Caw’s ankle as he stood, but he thought it was just twisted. As that faded, a dozen other injuries screamed for attention. His jacket was torn too. The crows were already coating the trees on either side of the road. Wincing, Caw hobbled towards the police car, dread building in his stomach. What have I done? It was spilling smoke from its crumpled bonnet as he yanked open the back door.
The police officers were moving weakly in the front seats. Alive, thank goodness, but still dangerous. Caw leant over Quaker’s body and unclipped his safety belt.
“Caw?” said Quaker. He was blinking rapidly, as though in shock.
“Come with me!” Caw said.
“How did you –”
Caw grabbed Quaker’s arm and hauled him out. “This way!” he said, leading the way up a grassy verge. Each step sent a fresh spike of pain up his leg. “Off the road.”
Quaker stumbled at his side through the undergrowth of the forest. Caw didn’t know where he was going, other than as far away from the police as possible. They slid down a leafy slope, tripping over roots and stumps, then splashed across a small stream. Scrambling up the slope on the other side, they reached a small sunken dell. Quaker fell to the ground, panting. Caw’s ankle was burning with pain as the crows settled around them.
“Keep a lookout,” Caw told them.
“Oh, Caw, what have you done?” sighed Quaker.
A thanks would be nice, said Shimmer.
“What do you mean?” Caw asked the cat feral. “I rescued you.”
Quaker’s head twitched left and right, as if he’d heard a sound. He staggered to his feet, his eyes were filled with terror. “No, you haven’t,” he said. “She’s watching us, even now.”
Caw frowned. “Who’s watching us? There’s no one here!”
Quaker shook his head, breathing heavily. “You don’t understand, Caw.”
In the distance, Caw heard shouting. The police. It wouldn’t be long before more arrived. “Listen, I need your help,” said Caw. “I have something to show you.”
He scooped the stone out of his pocket.
Quaker’s fidgeting ceased at once. His eyes fixed on the object in Caw’s palm.
“No,” he said, shaking his head rapidly. “Oh no no no.”
Quaker backed away, as though he was afraid the stone might hurt him.
“Come back,” said Caw. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s what she wants,” mumbled Quaker, never taking his eyes from the stone. “It all makes sense. How did you get it?”
“Someone gave it to me,” said Caw. “He said it came from my mother.”
Quaker reached the lip of the dell. “That may be so. But it’s not safe, Caw. You’re not safe. Put it away, for God’s sake.”
Caw tucked the stone back into his pocket. “Why? What is it?”
Quaker’s throat bobbed. “Get rid of it,” he said. “Tell no one you have it. Not Crumb, not Lydia, not Velma – no one! Your mother would have told you the same. It is the crow feral’s burden. Take it somewhere where no one can ever find it again, and please … I beg you … keep it away from me.”
He turned and ran, darting away between the trees.
“Wait!” said Caw. “I need your help!”
But Quaker was gone.
There’s no pleasing some people, said Shimmer. Her voice seemed distant and muffled. Caw shook his head. Perhaps he’d fallen harder than he thought on the road.
“I’ve found footprints!” shouted one of the police.
A bird squawked from a distance, and Caw saw it was Glum, perched on a branch twenty feet away. “What did you say?” said Caw.
This way! said Glum. I’ll get us out of here.
Caw ran after him, ankle throbbing. With every step, he could feel the stone bouncing against his side.
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s Caw rushed up to the graveyard followed by his crows, he saw Crumb and Pip waiting at the gates. A stranger might have thought they were two very mismatched brothers, one over six foot tall and the other barely four and a half.
They’ve made a bit of an effort, haven’t they? said Glum.
Crumb had combed his hair and shaved. He was wearing his best pair of shoes – or perhaps he’d just put new tape around the old ones. Pip wore a crumpled black dinner suit, the jacket baggy over his shoulders, and he’d even found a bow tie from somewhere. Caw suddenly felt self-conscious about his own torn coat and scruffy boots.
The pigeon feral grunted. “So you decided to show up at last. Where’ve you been all day?”
“Sorry,” said Caw. “I lost track of time.”
“Hmm,” said Crumb. “Come on, the service is about to start.”
Caw trudged along the path after Crumb and Pip, while his crows flapped up and landed above the chapel door. His ankle still ached a little, but he was hardly limping now.
Like the ruined Church of St Francis, this place was long abandoned and the graveyard mostly untended. It felt strange being back here – the place where his own parents were buried. Crumb led them around the other side of the church where Caw saw a small gathering of people around a freshly dug grave. A mound of soil stood at the graveside waiting to be piled into the hole in the ground.
There were about a dozen people present besides Crumb, himself and Pip. Caw recognised a few of the other ferals. There was Ali, dressed in a slim-fitting black suit and still clutching his briefcase, which buzzed softly with the swarm of bees held inside. Racklen, the hulking wolf feral, stood at his side. Caw was disappointed not to see Madeleine, the raven-haired girl in the wheelchair, but he saw two of her squirrels perched in the branches at the edge of the graveyard.
He tried to scan the other faces without staring. There were people of every age. A girl of maybe four or five had a huge Dobermann sitting patiently at her side. An old man was leaning on a stick, though he didn’t seem to be accompanied by any creature. Two boys, who looked identical, stood on either side of a large, floppy-eared hare, its nose twitching. At the back stood a youngish couple with a baby in a pram. A hawk sat perched on the pram’s rim, and beside it, strangely, was a raccoon. Were both parents ferals?
At the head of the grave stood a figure Caw knew very well indeed. Mrs Strickham was dressed in a long black coat with pale gleaming buttons. She looked more severe than he remembered her from two months ago, the lines of her face taut. She acknowledged Caw with a brief nod and a smile that softened her features. She was holding a white rose. “Please, everyone, gather around,” she said.
Caw joined the group, which formed a ring around the empty grave.
No one spoke for several seconds. Caw had never been to a funeral before, let alone a feral one. He wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. Then he noticed that, one by one, the crowd were turning towards the church. He followed their gaze, up the path, and his eyes fell on the strangest thing.
Not the coffin itself – that was a simple casket, made of tightly woven wicker – but the fact that it was moving, gliding across the uneven ground as if on a cushion of air. Caw suddenly realised what he was seeing. There were centipedes under the coffin, thousands of them, their tiny legs scurrying along.
“They’re carrying her!” he murmured.
“It’s their final duty,” said Crumb.
When they reached the graveside, the centipedes descended the slope down into the earth, taking the coffin with them. As it came to rest at the bottom, Mrs Strickham cleared her throat.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said, speaking over the grave. “Emily would have been honoured to see you here.” Several heads bobbed in acknowledgement. Not for the first time, Caw felt a stranger in the company of the ferals and the history they shared.
“I first met Emily fifteen years ago,” Velma Strickham continued. “Some of you are too young to remember a time before the Dark Summer, when many of our kind were known to one another.” A smile crept over Mrs Strickham’s face as she said the words. “Emily ran a ferals group under the guise of a knitting circle, and many struggling with their powers benefited from her kindness and advice. She was a loving mother to her three girls as well. I say this from personal experience, but it is always hard to know when as a feral parent you should tell your children.” She paused. “When to burden them with their destiny.”
Caw swallowed as a fresh pang of grief rose from his heart. His mother was snatched away before she ever had the chance to speak with him.
His hand stroked the stone in his pocket again and he felt suddenly empty. There was a lot his mother hadn’t told him. He looked around the assembled faces. Surely someone here must know about the stone? But could he really trust them? The words of Quaker flashed through his mind.
Tell no one you have it. Not Crumb, not Lydia, not Velma – no one.
Crumb put his arm around Caw’s shoulder, as if he sensed his discomfort, and Caw let his fingers release the stone.
“Emily was preparing to tell her children about her powers when the Dark Summer fell upon us,” said Mrs Strickham. “You all suffered in those months. We lost many. But few suffered as Emily did.”
The air seemed to have become chillier as a light wind picked up, ruffling the treetops and blowing leaves across the graveyard. Caw saw more birds gathered in the branches – thrushes, woodpeckers, and an owl. All seemed to be watching intently. The old man with the stick shifted a little, and a ferret poked its head from the bottom of his trouser leg.
“Mamba’s snakes were trying to find Emily herself, but instead they found her daughters,” Mrs Strickham said, her voice close to cracking. “Their deaths were quick and that was a small mercy. After that Emily fought on, somehow. Without her, we could never have defeated our enemies during the Dark Summer. But it took all she had and afterwards she was never the same.
“I will not say her twilight years were happy, because we do not need to sugarcoat our existence, and Emily would be contemptuous of such a lie. But nor do I think she died a wretched death. In fact, she told me just a week ago that she was planning to set up her knitting circle once more. That can only mean she had found a sort of peace.”
Mrs Strickham paused. Caw searched the faces of the other mourners, and saw that several were in tears.
“With Emily, the centipede line ends,” said Mrs Strickham. “Hers is a double death, and our world is poorer for her passing. May she rest in peace.”
“Rest in peace,” the crowd muttered, and Caw joined in.
Mrs Strickham threw the rose on to the coffin. Racklen stepped forward and began to shovel earth into the grave. The centipedes, Caw noticed, remained in the ground with their mistress.
“You went to see Quaker, didn’t you?”
The question startled Caw. He whipped his head around to see Pip, then turned back to keep his eyes on Mrs Strickham.
“You followed me!” he whispered.
“You might have got away from the pigeons, but mice can crawl down drains,” said Pip. “We lost track of you when you went up a ladder though.”
Caw let out a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was Crumb finding out about the incident with the police car. He would definitely not approve.
The mourners were beginning to drift away now and Crumb had gone over to speak with the ferret feral, greeting him with a hug. Pip’s mice were scampering around with the raccoon, climbing its fur while it tried to shake them off. Ali’s bees flew lazily around the meadow flowers that lined the graveyard, while their master spoke to the girl with the Dobermann.
“So what did you want with Quaker?” asked Pip. “Don’t worry, I haven’t told Crumb.”
“Do whatever you like,” said Caw. “I just wanted to ask him more about my parents.”
Pip frowned. But before the mouse feral could ask any more questions, Crumb beckoned them over. “You two, come and say hello to Mr Duddle.”
Pip did as he was told without question, but Caw hung back. Why did Crumb have to boss him around all the time? He pretended he hadn’t heard, he went over to the wolf feral instead, who was still shovelling, sweat glistening on his forehead.
The huge man paused as Caw came close and buried the shovel in the ground. “Crow talker,” he said flatly.
Caw wasn’t really sure how to respond. The wolf feral didn’t seem about to carry on digging, but didn’t say anything either. Caw began to wish he’d gone with Pip.
“I just wanted to ask,” Caw said slowly, “about the girl who talks to squirrels. Is she all right?” Caw remembered Racklen was the one pushing Madeleine’s wheelchair that day when he’d first met them.
“Why are you asking me?” rumbled the wolf feral.
Caw shrank back a little. “I … I thought you might be friends,” he said.
Something brushed against Caw’s leg, and when he looked down he saw that it was a fox. Velma Strickham was standing a few paces behind, staring fiercely at Caw.
“Would you come with me a moment please?” she asked. “There’s someone who’d like to say hello.” Without waiting, she turned and headed down the path through the graveyard.
“I guess I should go,” Caw mumbled at Racklen. “I’m sorry.”
The wolf feral’s glare softened, and he shook his head. “No, crow talker,” he said quietly. “I am sorry. Emily was a friend of mine, and today has been hard. Madeleine has a hospital appointment today, but she is doing well.”
Caw nodded.
“And by the way,” said Racklen, “all ferals owe you their thanks. What you did in the Land of the Dead … it was very brave.”
