The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(65)

“Look at the size of that crow,” I said.

“Raven,” Keyes replied. “A very old friend, and now my traveling companion. His name is Gruffydd.” He spelled it out. “It’s Welsh. After a prince who fell from the White Tower in a failed escape, a very long time ago.”

Simon smiled at my confusion. “I believe he’s talking about the Tower of London,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Keyes. “I was a yeoman warder there a number of years, after service as a regimental sergeant major. Began as deputy to the ravenmaster. He retired some years ago, and I took over.”

He nodded toward the black bird.

“That’s how we met. Raised him from a fledgling. Named him as well. At one time, all the birds were named for the Queen’s regiments. Now they’re often named for old gods, or for those who find them. Or rescue them. I named Gruffydd there for the prince that couldn’t fly.”

Simon leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “I remember the ravens,” he said thoughtfully. “I was in London a few weeks before shipping out. Took a tour of the Tower. The ravens were something. Six of them. Bigger than you’d think. Must be a huge responsibility, taking care of them. What is it they say? If the ravens ever leave the Tower, the empire will fall?”

“That’s the legend, anyway,” said Keyes. “But there have been episodes when the ravens have been absent—toward the end of the war, for instance—with no detriment to the monarchy.”

“How do you keep them from flying off?” I asked. “You don’t keep them caged, do you?”

“They are, indeed, caged at dusk. I whistled them in for bed, but at dawn they were out again, roaming the grounds. I fed them from my own hand—raw meat from Smithfield Market. Boiled egg every other day. Bird biscuits soaked in blood—a delicacy. The odd roadkill. And they don’t fly off because their wings are clipped—or one wing, at least—every few weeks. They can still fly a bit, but no appreciable distance.”

There was affection in his voice, but it still seemed a cruel fate for such wild creatures.

“They are wild,” Keyes said thoughtfully. “But they’re natural mimics, and very intelligent. And they do have their fun. Gruffydd was always my favorite. Every day he tells me, ‘Good morning.’ When I fill his water bowl, he says, ‘Cheers.’ He used to stake out a particular doorway at the Tower, lying in ambush for tourists. If you wore a hat, he’d try to grab it. And if he made off with it, he’d be off to a restricted area and battle that hat like billy-o.”

Pal plopped his rump down heavily on the tile floor, still training on the bird. He licked his chops and whined. Simon tapped his leg. “Here, boy.” Ever obedient, Pal rose and moved to sit next to him.

“Don’t worry about Gruffydd,” Keyes said. “He can manage, should the dog get out.”

I wondered what sort of bond this man and that raven could possibly share. If Keyes whistled, would Gruffydd come? Perch on his shoulder, clutching the nubby tweed? Say “Good morning” and “Cheers” on cue for a boiled egg or beef?

Keyes sighed. “Twenty-five years—he was getting on, you know. After his de-enlistment I brought him back to Surrey. My wife is still there—did I say?—puttering about the garden.”

When he was ready to head out, I rang the man up as he pulled on his cap and gathered his things. I cleared his breakfast dishes and delivered them to the back. By the time I returned, Keyes and Gruffydd were gone.

For the rest of the day, I couldn’t get that raven out of my head—picturing him perched on weathered stones in high places, buffeted by winds that would never bear him away.





The Parting Glass





The librarian, Jean Toliver, arrived at the farmhouse one morning dressed in the long skirt, velvet blouse and squash blossom necklace I now took to be her uniform. I imagined she’d come to press me to attend her club meetings, but soon found it was to invite me to a poetry reading set for the following week. Amateur poets, most of them local.

Then she asked where I’d like to appear on the program, and somehow by the time she left she’d inked me in for a slot.

I’d never enjoyed reading in public, and had only ever done so twice: at a student event in college, and a small community reading by a pair of unknowns—myself and a coffeehouse barista.

Both times, I’d nearly backed out. But for the first reading, Terri had been there to make sure I made it to the podium. I managed the second only after a shot of vodka from a hip flask the barista had stashed.