Crow's Tale
an excerpt

Chapter 1

Jim Herrin extricated himself from under the hood of the station wagon, and stretched his aching back for a moment, trying to work the kinks out. The spring sun was bright after the gloom of the engine, and he had to squint a bit to make the least thing out. Perhaps that was why at first he didn’t see the car making its way down the road toward him, which suddenly loomed into view as if it had just materialized. It was surely just the heat vaporizing off the road that made things seem this way. Still, even as he saw it approach, it seemed to flicker in and out of sight, as if it had not completely made up its mind to be here. Jim blinked a few times, but it didn’t make the illusion vanish. Perhaps he was dehydrated. He wiped his hands on a rag, then bent to take a swig of water from the bottle on the ground beside him. By the time he’d set it down, the car had stopped out at the gate. Jim waited to see who would get out with some interest and even apprehension. The car gave him a queer feeling, he wasn’t sure just why.
The driver, and there was only the one person in the car, that much Jim could see, was taking his sweet time about climbing out. The car, on closer examination was about as outlandish a vehicle as Jim had yet laid eyes on. It struck him as more the idea of a car than something the auto companies would ever churn out. A rag-tag vehicle assembled of motley parts. Still rather fabulous, even impressive in its own way, though showy and vulgar were other words that sprang to mind. Look here, though—the fellow was getting out.
Again, the first impression was strange, even just this side of bizarre. The man wore a black suit—very black, even overly black, Jim thought. As he came around the car, Jim could see that a brilliant crimson handkerchief stuck almost mischievously out of his pocket, and for some reason the first word to spring to Jim’s mind was “stolen”. He also wore an assortment of rings on his fingers, not all together unusual for a man these days, even in these more conservative parts, but again there was a feeling that the man had not been able to resist these bright, glittering objects, and may not have come about them in the most honorable way. Gypsy, Herrin thought, and then reproached himself for this ethnic stereotype. Yet the word somehow persisted, as meaning something exotic and not all together one with the rest of us.
“Good morning,” the man called as he approached. Herrin had assumed till now that he was lost—it happened frequently enough on these back country roads—and was going to ask directions, but he was walking toward him more deliberately than apologetically, and Jim realized that his intention was something more specific.
“Hello,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m looking for James Herrin—is that you?”
“That would be me,” Jim said. A lawyer then, or—or what, exactly. In the old days he would have thought social services, but he had never seen a social worker dressed in a suit like that. Trouble? But it didn’t feel like trouble—not exactly.
“I’m Frank Corvus,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jim said as he shook it, though he was not all together sure that he was. Did the IRS dress like this? It didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility.
“I’m trying to track down a fellow name of Starling—ever heard of him?”
“Jack Starling? Yeah, he works for me. What about him?”
“A private matter. Strictly confidential, I’m afraid.”
“Not running from the law, is he?” Herrin joked, but in an uncomfortable kind of way.
“Not exactly,” Corvus said, though not in a way that Herrin found reassuring. “I’m sorry—I really can’t tell you. If you could just give me some idea where I might find him. . .”
“Well, he lives out at my place, actually.”
“I meant, right now.”
“Well, it’s not as if I keep tabs on him, you know.”
“No, I understand that, but some rough idea, perhaps?”
Herrin glanced at his watch. “It’s after four, so he’ll have knocked off work, I expect. Not one to put in the extra hours, I’m afraid. This time of day, you’ll likely find him down at Green’s tavern. That’s where he is most evenings, anyway.”
Corvus smiled. “Not a homebody, then?”
Herrin gave a little grimace. “You might say that.”
“Thanks, Mr. Herrin. I’m much obliged.” Without further ceremony, he made his way back to the car.
Herrin watched it make its way down the road with a touch of ambivalence. Hope I didn’t land Starling in it. Then he shrugged. He liked the guy all right, but Starling wasn’t the best worker he’d ever employed. A little flighty. And the truth was that after all these months, he still didn’t know all that much about him. He’d hired him at Jamie’s insistence, and was grateful enough for the fellow finding the boy after that snowstorm that he was pleased to be able to do him a favor. But he and Jamie had drifted off in their own directions after Starling had moved into the barn, which was only natural given the difference in their ages, and given Starling’s predilections for pool, beer, and flirting with women, this was just as well. But he exerted no bad influence on the boy, even if exerted no good one either, and the place had been strangely peaceable through the winter—strangely after the dramas of the preceding season, that is.
If you’ve gotten yourself into some kind of trouble, Starling, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Then he sighed and bent to his work again.

Starling stood at the bar at the Green Lantern and gave a cautious sideways glance toward the other end of the bar. It was about a girl, of course—it always was. Sheila Kelly had been giving him the come on for the past three nights, but when he approached, she just gave a laugh and walked away. Then he’d have nothing to do but slink away with his tail between his legs and retreat to some dark corner of the bar and drown his sorrows in a good pint. To make matters worse, it was throwing off his pool game. Still, he knew she was interested, whatever the appearances. Call it animal instinct. She caught his eye, laughed again, then tossed her hair and turned away. Not tonight, then, animal instinct or not. He sighed.
“She’s killing me,” he said to no one in particular. He decided to go outside for a smoke.
It was dusk out, and a light rain had begun to fall. He shifted up the collar of his jacket, and then made for the protective shelter of the eaves, less out of concern for his clothes than his cigarette. He hunched his hands around his lighter and struggled with the flame for a minute before he got the thing lit. He took the first satisfying puff. He looked out at the spring rain—his mood restored.
“You shouldn’t smoke—a smart bird like you,” said a voice from the darker shadows under the eaves.
“Hey! You startled me. I didn’t see you there, pal.” He glanced over at the stranger, who was hard to make out in the darkness. The man pulled out what looked to be a very expensive lighter and lit an elegant looking cigar. “You’re one to talk, aren’t you?”
“You’re right; a smart bird like me shouldn’t smoke either.” He savored a puff of the cigar. “Well, it’s some small compensation for being human, though, isn’t it? Bad for us, though. Particularly bad for the likes of us.”
Starling appraised him. “Do I know you?”
“Why? Do you think you do?”
“I don’t know. You remind me of someone. Sorry—I can’t quite place it. You from around here?”
“Not recently, no. But I’m moving back to the area.”
“Have you been here to the pub?”
“Never had the pleasure before now.”
“Dang—this one’s going to bug me, because I’m sure I know you from somewhere. Maybe through work? Do you know Jim Herrin?”
“We’ve had the pleasure of meeting, yes.”
“Ah, well, that’s it then,” Starling said relaxing. “Did we do up a house for you then, this winter? Because I’m the painter. Starling. Jack Starling” He said it expansively, proudly, and inhaled happily.
“Oh, right. The painter. ” He sounded amused.
Starling took umbrage. “Is there some complaint about my work? Because Mr. Herrin never said anything about it.”
“No, there’s no complaint about your work. You’re a little on the touchy side, aren’t you? No—I had just forgotten about your love for color. It’s touching, really.”
“You could do with more of it,” Starling said, deciding to forgive him, and looking at him appraisingly. “I’m not sure that black’s really you.”
“Oh, it’s really me, Starling. It’s really me.”
Starling shivered briefly, but put it down to the rain. “Just a thought.”
“I appreciate it,” the stranger said. “Well, I really must be going.”
“You’re not even going to come inside? Come on, I’ll stand you a round.”
“Another time perhaps. How’s Jamie by the way.”
“The kid? Oh, I don’t know. Just doing the usual kid thing I suppose. I don’t really keep track, you know? Kind of busy with my own stuff.” And he looked toward the door of the bar, drawn like a moth to try his chances with flame again. “Sure you won’t come in?” He thought drinking with a distinguished looking stranger couldn’t hurt his image.
“So you’re not close, then.”
“Who, me and the kid? Nah—nah. I mean, really, how could we be? Age difference and all. Look, if you’re really not coming in—because there is this girl in there who is really getting under my skin if you catch my drift.”
“Of course—it’s spring, after all.” And with that the stranger snuffed out his cigar, and took a deep breath of the night and said, “Ah! It’s good to be back. Well, I’ll be seeing you around, no doubt.” He started to the car.
“Sure thing.” Starling said. “Hey—I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
“Corvus. Frank Corvus.”
“Nice meeting you.”
“I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure.” He got into his car—a rum old thing, and drove away. Despite his itch to get back inside and try his luck, Starling watched him down the road. He heard the crows cawing from their nearby roost. That’s right, he thought, the crows are back—have been for a week or so now. Corvus was right—it was now well and truly spring. Maybe some luck would come with it. Starling too took a deep breathe of the fresh spring air, and then went back inside.

“I met an odd bird at the pub this evening,” Starling said over dinner that night.
“What was his name? Jamie, get your elbows off the table.”
“Sorry,” Jamie said distractedly.
“Corvus, Frank I think it was. Ever heard of him?”
“Not before today, no. I thought he knew you.”
“Knew me? I thought he knew you.”
“No, I had the distinct impression he knew you.” Herrin hesitated. “I even wondered if you were in some kind of trouble.”
“Trouble? What sort of trouble would I be in?” Couldn’t get in trouble if I tried, he thought gloomily, discouraged by his luck with Sheila that evening. “You know I don’t do anything but work, shoot pool and sleep.”
“I was thinking it might be trouble from your past,” Herrin said. “It’s not like we any of us know so much about it.”
“No trouble in my past that I can remember,” Starling said easily. Not that I can remember so very blasted much of it, he thought to himself.
“Well, what did he want?”
“Want? Nothing. He was just hanging out under the eaves smoking a cigar. I don’t think he wanted much of anything. I don’t even know what he was doing there.”
“He was looking for you. Of that much I’m sure. Jamie.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Jamie said. He sat up straight again.
“Corvus,” Gram said. Now that’s an unusual name. I’m sure I’d recognize it if I’d heard it before. It means something doesn’t it?”
“Crow,” Jamie said. “It means ‘crow’. In Latin.”
The others turned to him as if he were a talking dog.
“What? We’re studying birds in my biology class. We have to learn the boring old Latin names for everything. Can I take my pie up to my room? I’ve got homework to do.”
“Sure. I don’t want you up too late, on the computer, though. It’s a school night.”
“See you all tomorrow.”
Gram dished the others up some pie. “Speaking of crows—they’re back. I noticed some in the yard this morning.”
“I noticed them tonight too,” Starling said.
“Don’t remind me,” Herrin said.
“Why?” Starling asked.
“Disgusting creatures, crows.”
“I wouldn’t have thought—” Starling began.
“It’s complicated,” Gram said, giving Starling a cautioning look. “At any rate, if the crows are back, it won’t be long before the other birds are back too. That will be a treat. It’s been such a long winter.”
Will it be a treat, though? Starling wondered as he dug into the warm apple pie. Will it really? The thought of it somehow made him uncomfortable. Something was changing. He was not sure he liked the idea.

Jamie lay across his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had devoured the apple pie, but he was not doing homework. The computer sat blinking but unattended on his desk. He was thinking about school, but not in a scholarly way.
School was better now. He was no longer the ‘new kid’—no, make that the new, weird kid, and had finally started to make a few friends. He wasn’t going to win Mr. Popularity by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn’t an outcast. He was more likely to find his friends in the chess club than the locker room, but at least he had friends, or people who could pass as such, anyway, and the memory of having none was still fresh enough for him to value any that came his way.
Last week, a new girl had arrived. He immediately felt empathy for her, as he would have anyone, because he had arrived late in the school year himself last year, and knew what a drag it was. And you could tell right away that she wasn’t going to make it any easier on herself. She dressed like a Goth, and Goths weren’t particularly in fashion around here. But some of them at least showed a little style and people admired them behind the ridicule. She looked like someone who had read about the subculture in a teen magazine—make that a teen magazine with some of the crucial how to pages torn out. She hadn’t gotten it quite right. And yet—well, there was also some sense of reality that the other Goths seemed to lack. It was as if, if there really were Goths, and not just people playacting, they would probably look something like this—a little drabber, a little wilder, a little more individual—frankly, a little scarier. There was something about her that was not pretend.
He was drawn to her. She wasn’t making friends, but she didn’t seem much bothered by it. There was something so self-contained about her that on some level, you really couldn’t imagine her having friends—not the usual gaggle of girls, anyway. Maybe some best friend. And maybe that best friend didn’t have to be a girl.
Her name was Morag. His friends were already ridiculing it, More Egg, the usual stuff. Personally, he kind of liked it. He sighed. He wished he could find the courage to just go up and introduce himself, but he wasn’t yet brave enough to do it under the very public scrutiny of the school yard. He turned off the light, his homework still not done, which meant a mad scramble in study hall tomorrow morning. Still, his father would be pleased to see him retiring so early. He lay looking out at the sky. It was pitch black tonight, with no moon, and barely even stars. He shivered—for some reason it reminded him of crows.