A gathering of Crows

She Looked up at the pig iron sky with a hard defiance from her glittering turquoise eyes, before she covered her hair with the hood of her black fur-lined winter coat, and finally step outside to face the dim light of the day.
She hated the winter rain. To her it felt like gnarled thin spectral fingers, that at first began to tap then slowly scratch its way through her coat and onto her the clothes in a ruthless and relentless attempt to slice her pale skin into shreds.
She stared to her left and followed with her eyes the old flint wall that slowly descended into the middle distance.
The wall defined the boundary between the old vicarage, a collection of timber wattle and daub farm building's; that had over the years become increasingly isolated from the growth of terrace and semi detached houses that had grown over the years on the other side. The wall represented something deeper for her. It represented fear. A fear that, at she stared at it, seemed hard to precisely define.
Slowly she followed The flint wall as it descended and then rose a sharp hill upon which in the distance the square spire of St Andrews church and the fingers of the old oak trees could be just be seen disembodied by a spectral mist that to her, floated about the spire like a pair of wings.
As she made her way towards the old church, she fought against the easterly wind With grim determination.
Her emotions a complex mixture of love, sorrow, rage and regret, were a torrent within her, as her shiny black heels, scraped and clicked as they echoed sharply down the newly laid tarmac of the wide, empty, coal laid dark and red brick street.
In an attempt of distraction she looked left, beyond the string of old, rising terrace house's of Whitmore Street; to look towards the middle distance; and the prominent hill that surrounded the small town of Bridgeton.
Today the hills seemed severed by wispy, milky white cloud; leaving an uneasy impression with her of some dreamlike playground for the old, near forgotten, lesser gods who were once thought to inhabit what the older locals called the dragon's spine; but wealthier
As far as she could recall, the name –and the story connected with it- were passed –through word of mouth- from an ancient legend associated both with the village, and the young King Arthur. But the embittered ever cynic within her, fought back against such preposterous ideas by saying "that in all reality, it probably had more to do with absurd geography,than myth and legend."
yet, on days like this it was easy to see why such legends existed. For the hill rose in a strong, steep climb; to then slowly descend in a long lazy arc, around the western half of the village leaving a vivid and powerful impression upon the mind of the observer.
She often found herself staring up at it; looking at the spindling ash trees that covered it. Today, with the icy blue rain and the deep slate sky, it really gave her an impression of fibrous scales on some sleeping giant, yet waking to be reborn. then something did happen. Something unexpected. the trees upon the hillside moved. They seemed to sink in and then bend out. She shook her head violently, in a hope of knocking the image out of her mind. it didn't work. The rising mist about the hills seemed to thicken and curl between the fibrous branches of the leaf-less trees. It began to blur their image; turning the ancient woodland, upon that hillside into browned, feathered scales; that slowly started to undulate, in steady, regular intervals, along the ridge of a narrow, curved, high arched back; creating-in her minds’ eye a disquieting impression of deep, heavy and regular breathing.
"Come on Charlotte!" she started aloud. "Hold it together!"
for James sake, the words echoed from her mind; given no relief. But then there was a roar. She jumped with fright; as a military jet screamed past low overhead. Then, like a banshee wailing in the night, was lost within the rolling clouds. All this added to her feelings of disquiet as she climbed the slow rising curling steps that led to the entrance of the church.
In this cold icy weather even the graves appeared different…during the summer, these haphazard heaps of fragmented stone, ravaged and twisted by age, had almost been lost amongst the tall pointed brown stalks of the wild grasses, leaving the butterflies to float about them with abandon, while the shadows of the ancient gnarled and twisted oak tree's looked on with friendly faces. Their open arms seemed to give protection to the departed congregation.
Now, partly thanks to the icy rain,brought about by the even and the season’s change, they had finally begun to change once more, leaving the verdigris to grow and the plump hairless spiders to spin about the aged copper names; to finally reveal the names of interred.
While the oak trees now stood, almost broken backed and saw toothed; ready for revenge. It was as if... Charlotte thought... as if the long interred dead had come to welcome their new arrival with a hideously savage triumphant laughter.
She looked down as she made her way towards the heavy faced pall-bearers, around the finely polished rose-wood casket. And looking towards her right, and at the tired careworn vicar, a man everyone knew as "father Peters". A tall, balding, middle aged man with large oval eyes, a round red face, pug nose and heavy set jowls; who –after greeting a couple of the mourners- slowly began to limp towards her, across the brown damp grass.
There was a sharp screeching sound followed by a ‘click, click’ and a rasping reaching ‘Caw...caw.’ It made her jump and look around.
There, upon one of the aged grave stones, rested an enormous crow.
She could tell by the lack of a fan and the narrowness of the beak, that it was a crow and not a raven, its’ sinewy gnarled three toed talons, made a nerve-shredding gravelly scraping sound; as it scratched its long pointed claws upon the crumbling stone for support.
It let out another rasping ‘Caw’; as it bobbed its head, then stretched and throbbed its large shiny black wings in a sudden sharp move.
It made her jump back a little; as little as the crow called out once more.
Then, from above, came a reply.
She looked up to see another crow, just as huge as the first, slowly curl down from the grey spectral sky, to settle upon another of the broken grey-brown stones directly in front of her.
They both looked at the gathering behind Charlotte with the appearance of mild curiosity. Their three lobed eyelids curling over their heavy black orbs; which flicked up once... twice... then slowly one final time, to stare at Charlotte with a black malign intensity.
They’re looking at me I know it I can feel their cold eyes burning into me. the words tumbled from er heart as she saw the heads of the both of the crows, The one to her right and the other to her left, made similar jerky skittish twitches from one side to another.
Its’ as if they’re absorbing me. the words fell from her mouth like a bitter prayer.
She shuddered though she had no idea why. then like an answer from some cold dark world that she could almost touch she knew what it was.
They were calling out her name.
‘Charlotte Shaw... Charlotte Shaw... CAW’ click, click, ‘CAW CAW... CAW!’
She could feel the world begin to sink in upon her, as she head her name again and again and again. This time from behind. She spun around to see a third, and then a fourth crow land upon separate grave stones to her right and then to her left.
Nervously, Charlotte stared about her and with her left hand, subconsciously began to play with the heavy ringlets of her thick strawberry blonde hair. Her wide set, cat-like, ice blue eyes were filled with a mixture of fear, tears and cold rain, as she fixed her gaze at the bright brass handles of the coffin.
The steady drumming rain fell upon the casket, with the staccato of a rumbling thunder, that she felt flow right through her. The drumming, the dragon upon the hillside the crows... she searched herself for an answer; and one eventually came.
But not from her.
‘Murder...’
She suddenly span violently back towards the on-coming crowd, to face the vicar; who was standing before her.
‘Sorry..?’ She asked, unsure as to what she was hearing.
‘It’s called a murder...’ said Father Peters. He stared down at Charlotte, his large, mild green oval eyes, shone in the damp October morning. ‘...It’s’ what you call a gathering of crows....’ he took a step closer. ‘...Rather...’ He began, but he didn’t finish what he was saying, instead he simply looked down; his aged face pensive, before he changed the topic.
‘So you knew James?’ He asked gently.
‘Yes...’ Charlotte faltered and looked down, as a tear began to form. ‘... We were very close.’
‘Yes...’ He said sadly. ‘His savage and untimely death has been a real tragedy for the whole village.
Then from above, there was heard a terrible screech, like the wail of a small child, followed by a terrifying heavy squelching thud; as a large and heavy black crow; its’ neck torn open; its eyes gouged from their sockets; fell down with a jarring slam upon the coffin lid.
The bird slowly slid down from the lid onto the floor. Blood, rich, dark and deep, slowly curled down the side of the casket to spread in long wet tentacles’ by Charlotte’s feet. She gasped, held back a scream and took three steps back, but the body of the bird, still twitching and in its’ death throws seemed to be reaching out for her. She let out a howling scream, raising her hands to her face; just as Father Peter reached for her and held her in his arms.
The world twisted away from underneath her feet. She wasn’t at the churchyard any more, neither was she in Father Peters’ arms. She was at James’s house... in James’ tired bedroom; she stood opposite the mirrored dresser and to her left was the bed. She had a short rubber handled hammer in her left hand. Its stainless steel head was soaked in rich warm blood. She was hot, burning up in fact, holding the hammer, tightly, as James, his head cracked open by several punishing blows; lay prone at her feet. She was shaking violently, and screaming at the top of her voice.
But as she turned she saw her reflection in the mirror, but it wasn’t her image. Father Peters glared back at her; his face, a mask of rage, his hands soaked in blood, his eyes, wide, as black as midnight, and terrifyingly vulpine. In an instant, he reached out for her; but The world twisted away from her once more and in a swirl of iridescent colour, and she was back in the Churchyard... only it wasn’t winter, the sky had a strange golden hue and she felt a gentle summer breeze; and there was James’ in her arms once more...The James she knew and loved.
‘You’re going wake up soon Charlie, but it’s ok... you hear me... its’ ok...’ He said gently. Charlotte smiled and reached for him, but then he turned and was gone, a vapour made of mist, lost upon the breeze.
When she came around she found herself in the warm surroundings of the church hall; Father Peters was standing just a few feet from her.
‘So...your back...’ He began gently.
‘... You know you gave everybody quite a scare...’
Charlotte smiled, and tried not to look nervous, as she sat up; as he continued ‘...If it wasn’t for the fact that I know of your condition-‘
‘-Condition?’
‘Epilepsy...’ He smiled gently.
‘I’ve seen it before...’ he looked down; and away from her. ‘...in another parish.’
He looked pensive, then he smiled; before kneeling down beside her causing a wince to appear in his eye.
‘You spoke... just now...’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes...’ he said gently as slowly knelt closer; his face slowly turning menacing. ‘...you kept calling out James’ name... ‘ as he knelt next to her, I didn’t know you shared his faith.’
She stared at him, her face a blank mask; before she replied.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Do what?’
Kill him... kill James... why..?
‘I didn’t kill James...’ he began his face gentle serene, his jowls giving him the appearance of an aged baby. ‘...My dear... I saved him...from himself...’
Slowly she tried to get to her feet, but Father Peters held her down in almost a vice-like grip.
‘...And now... I have to save you from the same fate as him...’
Slowly he stretched out with his hands... surrounded Charlottes’ throat and then began to squeeze, as he screamed insanely with spittle spouting from his lips; ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ he hissed as the world began to fade.

it was then that the crow’s gathered together and as one, flew, high up into the great grey sky. Each staring at the other... they knew their task was done; and as they flew, within their eyes’ they carried the souls of James and Charlotte to the ancient land of the lesser gods.

Fin.

Copywrite Jan 2012