Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(59)

Joanne touched my arm. “What are you trying to do?”

“Blyth,” I said, “A jackdaw with a secret. He’s gone.”

“A secret?”

“Something he’s trying to tell me.”

“The noises that birds make—it’s not real communication.”

“What is? Being told what you can and can’t do? That how you act puts the shits up people? Is driving people crazy, locking them away—is that real communication?”

“Please, Wil.”

“Putting our terrors into the minds of kids—is this what it’s about?”

“No!”

“He understands how to live, how the system works. And he knows we’re messing it all up.”

“Stop!” she shouted. I could hear the nervousness in her voice. “I have to be honest with you: I’ve always tried to be straight with you. I don’t think your behaviour is entirely rational.”

“You think I’m acting irrationally. Come here.”

I grabbed her and pulled her towards the workshop. She came willingly enough at first, but as I opened the door and the smell hit her, she blanched and struggled. I opened both doors wide to let in the light.

“Jesus, what’s that smell?” She stood there, her free hand over her mouth, gazing into the interior. I flipped on the light. I watched as she took in the sight of skeletal corvids hanging from the roof beam. “What are they?” she whispered.

“Birds.”

“Real?”

“They were.”

“How? I mean, why?”

I pulled her inside and grabbed a cloth from the worktop. I told her to hold it over her mouth and nose. I lifted a plastic tub up onto the worktop. She watched while I prised off the lid. Inside, the ends of three nylon stockings—each containing a section of the dismembered kite—were suspended in the solution. She vomited. I reached out to help her but she panicked and stumbled, and as she fell she grabbed the vessel, dragging it down on top of her. She sat there, clothes covered in the stinking, fat-rich solution. She was silent for a moment, then started to scream. I tried to help her. She pushed me away, scrambled to her feet and ran from the workshop. “Wait,” I called as she ran to her car. “Jo,” I said. “It’s not what you think. It’s just birds.”

The engine turned and failed, turned again and fired up. I walked to the car, my shirt splattered with kite tissue. Jo spun the car and gave me one last hollowed-out look before accelerating out of the yard.


I enter the house, knowing this won’t be the end of it. Joanne will see to that. She’ll return soon, very soon. And she won’t be alone. Exhaustion eats into my bones. I haven’t slept in three days, not since Trecastle. I shut my eyes. Soon, my thoughts become inchoate, I dream I’m searching for Blyth in the forest. I’m running and then I’m flying, gliding through the dark canopy. I search for what seems an eternity, always about to close in on something that is never quite in reach. A truth, the truth of what Blyth knows. I can smell it in the damp, viscid air. When the sky is at its blackest, my feathered body slows and hovers, and a sudden, powerful dread pushes me down. Sinking through the branches, the feeling of horror grows and my screams are smothered in the deep, unforgiving darkness.

I wake, heart racing. A tapping noise scatters the last remnants of the dream. I don’t know what time it is, not until I paw at my eyes and glance at the window where Blyth stands framed in the late-afternoon light. We stare at each other for a moment and I try to fathom what it is he wants from me. He waits but doesn’t speak. I climb the stairs and change into a black shirt and jeans. I go back downstairs and venture out into the evening. Blyth has disappeared again. Dusk is not far away. The rooks have gathered to greet me. They begin to cry out, screeching until a great clamour of approval fills the air.

Suddenly, they fall silent. Blyth has come. He looks at me from the roof of the Austin, lifts his head, and calls: chyak, chyak. He skips forward, dips his head, and lifts something in his black bill. Moving closer I recognise the chain of coins. He flaps his iridescent wings and rises. The rooks remain silent while he tumbles in the air then spirals off towards Glasfynydd. I follow him. In the forest, the ground begins to rise steeply. I struggle through the long, dew-covered grass, scanning the sky. At the single lane road that cuts north through the forest, I stand a moment to catch my breath. Up ahead, a steep bank rises above the road. I hear a scratching noise and see Blyth a few feet away. Then he is gone, leaving a coin on the tarmac. I pick it up and crawl up the bank, dragging my body through the gorse and ferns. After a while, the ground clears and I press on deeper into the forest. Soon, I cross a dirt track. There’s no sign of Blyth. I drop to my knees and search the ground until I find another coin on the far side of the track.

I plunge into the trees ahead, the low branches and brambles tearing my arms and face. The ground continues to climb. My legs ache and my lungs seem about to burst. I grab branches to pull myself up the slope, feeling like I’ve been here before. This sense of déjà vu grows stronger as I emerge from the trees at the top of a ridge. The sun has disappeared behind the hill to the west, leaving only a darkening, bruise-coloured sky. The air is still and quiet.

I stare down into the dark, pine-crowded gulley. I’m oppressed by a sudden, immense dread. I look for Blyth in the preternatural quiet. “I’m here, Blyth. Now show me.”