Crowlines

Crowlines

The crows lined up on the low tension line into the urbanización. Even without their corvine burden the lines sagged between poles which scarcely pretended to any verticality. Russell wondered if anyone he knew even thought a word like that. Most days he felt as if one half of his brain was talking about football with the old man on his left in the Venta and the other was wondering if there was any connection between the words verticity and vertible.  The birds were looking down the street, up the slope towards the top of Sierra Vista. A hunter's gun went off in the hills on the far side of Don Diego's ranch. The crows left. One flew towards the rising sun, one in the opposite direction. The other flew over the roof of Russell's house. That at least made him smile. No chance of sharing that joke. McMurphy among the loons.

The gate squealed and the metal scraped along the paving slabs. He'd seen one of those old oil cans at a flea-market recently. Another tradesman's artefact as 'decoración'. There were stalls that sold old irons, huge keys that would lock a cathedral door or a pirate's chest and all manner of tools that anyone under fifty wouldn't recognise. There was some WD-40 in the house somewhere. He'd spray the gate sometime, but probably not today.

He looked through the window. The TV was on: property porn. Escape from the Country, was that it? Or something to do with the Sun? He walked round the back, took the stairs to the roof-terrace.

Next door's weather vane was a witch on a broomstick. The Cuckoo's Nest crow was perched on the brush end of the stick. The vane had rusted years ago, the wind always blew from the west according to Baba Yaga. Of course, it might not have been the same crow. Who could tell crows apart, save another crow? Russell told himself it was. Sometimes he wished he smoked: a great excuse for time alone, outside with a cancer-stick.

There was a shout from inside. The crow turned its head and pecked at something. A pin-feather? Russell went downstairs to see to whatever needed to be done.

The last bottle smashed into the others at the bottom of the container. It was four in the afternoon. Nobody should be asleep at that hour. If they were, tough. He turned to walk the fifty yards home. There was a crow on the aerial on the electricity sub-station. What on earth was that aerial for? Russell laughed. Maybe it was for crows. He moved a hand to the corner of his eye, felt the wrinkles. Laughter lines, crows' feet if you had that cast of mind. His mother had called them crow-lines. She had mixed things up all her life, until – well,  there was nothing to confuse at the end.
The crow on the radio-mast – or whatever it was – put its head under its wing. Did birds really sleep like that?

He looked at his watch. Five. Five! He looked down, he still had the bottle bag. Had he spent half-an-hour staring at the crow? Surely not. Turning into the urbanización proper, he looked up at the power lines. One bird. He opened the gate, no squeak. He must have sprayed it after all. Funny though, he still wasn't exactly sure where the WD-40 was. No matter, there were things to do, inside. Cook, feed, clean up, dishes. An hour of TV, then bedtime. By the time bed was achieved he no longer felt like sleeping. He'd drink coffee in the lounge and watch the street-lights flicker until dawn, as he always did.  

The big hand was straight up, the other pointed at right-angles to the right. 3! It must be 3 in the morning. Russell stood up and went down the hall to the bedroom. He heard the snoring. Good, no need to panic. He needed some sleep, proper sleep, that's all. Wasn't that a side effect of insomnia; lacunae in the memory, forgetfulness? It couldn't be anything else. It just couldn't. Back in the lounge, the curtains were open and the blinds were up. Heads: he hadn't closed them – tails: he'd forgotten opening them. He went over to the window and looked out. The moon was bright and well past its highest point. A crow was on the power-line. He was inclined to think it was the same one. Maybe he'd put some bread down. Weren't they supposed to eat road-kill, that kind of thing? He should look crows up. He would, if he got time.

Showered, out of the seat, dressed, breakfast, settled in front of the telly. He ought to eat something himself at that point, but like most days he just didn't feel like anything. He peeled a banana; still too hard to have put in the porridge. Good job he hadn't bothered. Not that the fruit's absence or otherwise would have been noticed.

Russell went outside with his lap-top. He could see the sofa through the front door. Wikipedia – Crow. Ha! There it was. Morrigan: Irish mythology, goddess of war – and death. He looked up. The crow was perched on the gate, balanced on the wrought iron, between two finials. He supposed they couldn't be called that if they were on a gate. The crow spoke his name. He ran to the gate and flapped his arms. The black bird flew away, defecating as it went. Nothing landed on Russell. He didn't believe in luck much, unless it was all bad.  

There was no movement on the sofa. He looked in through the beaded curtain. Mouth open, snoring. Situation normal. Could he risk some music on the lap-top?  Probably not. He sat down on the wooden chair, stared out over the long wall at the front. Russell played the overture from 'La Gazza Ladra' in his head. Over fifty years since he heard that first. A vinyl recording. The classical records were always much thicker and heavier. They say that Rossini threw the completed sheets of music from the window of a locked attic to copyists standing in the street. Wasn't the magpie a corvid?

The house phone rang; unusual enough in itself, but it was dark. He was sure it had been mid-day only moments ago. It rang off before he'd even moved. Russell looked out towards the gate.

'Is it time?'

'Caw!' came the answer from the line overhead.

'Are you sure?'

'Caw!' Russell could have sworn the bird gave a jerky nod.

Maybe the crow was right, it was time to make some difficult decisions. How could he look after anyone if he got any worse?