Black Bird of the Gallows(17)
Reece’s mouth tightens. He sighs and turns toward the gaping blackness of the mineshaft. “Of course not. Someone’s always watching.”
7-you already know the answer…
Thank God for Google.
Seriously.
My father says that all the time, and I roll my eyes because he’s usually looking up gross health things, like cancer moles or how headaches could indicate a brain tumor. But here I am, hunched at my laptop, engaged in the world’s most unproductive activity: an internet search without knowing quite what you’re looking for. It’s eleven thirty on Sunday night and instead of studying for my test on the War of 1812 tomorrow, I’m looking up every term I can remember from Friday night. Scavenger. Black bird of the gallows. Cleaner of bones. Harbinger. It’s difficult to describe a man with a transforming face into a search engine. The results have varied from strange to deeply disturbing. It’s amazing how creative the porn industry is.
The only phrase that got a meaningful result was harbinger. The old-fashioned definition is someone who is sent ahead to secure lodging, but the modern meaning sends a shiver over my skin: one who comes ahead of a major change. One who foreshadows an event yet to come. Usually, a bad one.
There are other sites—ones run by people who are into conspiracies, the paranormal and whatnot, but I stumble across one with an author who documents facts and writes with clarity. Despite the dubious online moniker of ShadowMan43, his entry on harbingers pulls me closest to the screen.
Ravens and crows have long been called harbingers of death by many cultures.
These opportunistic birds rarely deserve the distinction, but some early cultures tell tales of roving murders of crows who feasted on more than just the bodies of the dead. These creatures are said to perform some sort of grim reaper role, where they took human form and sucked the souls from the dying.
Good grief. Is this what I’m dealing with? Grim reapers lurking around Cadence? It simply couldn’t be. And didn’t explain the existence of creepy guy with the bees. The article continues:
It’s important to remember that early cultures did not always bury the dead, especially in times of war and widespread sickness, so it was not uncommon to see crows feasting on human corpses. Mainstream historians will say the shadowy figures seen lurking around the dead were thieves, but many theories of impending evil persist. The Greeks, especially, believed crows were a bad omen, often forecasting death.
I scroll down, past a poorly scanned painting of St. Benedict with a crow at his feet, and continue reading.
Crows’ preference for carrion and perching in graveyards and near gallows has wrongly associated them with evil, but many ancient peoples saw the crow as a divine creature, existing in two planes of existence—the Earthly plane and the magical one.
The face-shifting man mentioned gallows and called Reece a harbinger. Not a normal thing to call a teenage boy. Unless the teenage boy is something other than he appears. I’m not comfortable with the idea that magic is involved. It brings to mind rabbits in hats and Halloween, neither of which have ever interested me.
My fingers curl tight, digging shallow half-moons into my palms. Reece knows what this thing is. It drives me up a wall that he knows.
The bee guy said the town was marked, whatever that meant. It doesn’t mean anything good, that’s for sure, considering the rest of the conversation. It sounded like something bad was going to happen in our town. If Reece knows what that is, I need to find out, too, for the sake of my dad, my friends—heck, everyone who lives here. But clearly, Reece isn’t going to give up his secrets easily. He can try to distract me with the—admittedly, interesting—attraction that sometimes sparks between us, but his chilling words linger.
Fear has become a baseline emotion, sitting low in my gut, but I don’t know what, exactly, I should be afraid of. I don’t feel safe. Not at school, not in my own home, with its insane home security system. I need to know if that strange bee-man is going to come for me again. I need to know why my mother’s features were on his face.
8-the bus stop
It’s a little jarring to see Reece at the bus stop Monday morning. He looks so normal standing there, leafing through his U.S. history book like he’s perusing a catalog. He’s wearing jeans under his wool coat. The morning sun glints off hair that appears still damp from a shower. He hasn’t been here since his first day, last Tuesday, but I’m surprised yet pleased to see him. Today begins my official surveillance of this boy. Considering the encounters I’ve had with him, it won’t be long before something bizarre or scary happens. I’m prepared for either.
The lone crow with that one white feather perches on the lamppost across the street. It’s beginning to feel normal, seeing it around all the time. However, if I’m dealing with harbingers of death, like I read about last night, it’s not a good sign that I’m being followed by one. The crow lets out a sharp caw. I startle at the sound, but Reece doesn’t so much as twitch. My palms go cold and damp. I don’t even know how to stalk anyone.
He finally looks up when I’m standing right in front of him. His face is pinched, his skin pale. Shadows sling under his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well. That’s only fair. Thoughts of him ruined my sleep all weekend. His brows dip low, just shy of a frown. “Hey, Angie.”