The Forest
The black sheen of elegance, bent low to feed her young. The crow saw its kin, their necks elongated and their desperate beaks open, they screeched simultaneously at the sight of their mother. The black pits of pure instinct dart back and forth as she fed her children, predator instinct acting alongside maternal duty to see if it could find its next prey. The nest is getting too small, she thought, and soon the young would be forced to see if they could fly, or if they would fall, as so many have before them.
As they sleep, the mother took flight, rising well above the autumnal blanket that stretched well beyond the horizon. The next meal would be easy to find, it always was, but people have always associated the crow with bad luck, an omen – maybe this flight was less to do with instinct and more to do with destiny.
She soared, wingspan impressive, as she immersed herself with the sky until she needed to be recognised. Like obsidian spheres, her eyes caught the midday sun and glimmered with the embers of a dying fire. She looked down, seeing people every now and then, nothing new. Every trip the same, she flew until a pair caught her eye. A couple, one female, one male, writhing together in the undergrowth; not expecting to be seen, to be watched – but who takes notice of an animal, especially when they are so animalistic themselves?
Bringing its journey to an end, she landed on a dying tree; a speck of black amongst blazing red, the tree bleeding orange, red, and browns in the Autumn heat. A single caw; a test, really, to see if the intertwined pair could really recognise anything beyond their carnal embrace. Nothing in response, their grunting and moaning dripping with guttural, primal pleasure was all that escapes them. The crow cocked its head, she has seen this many times, and was uninterested by the whims of travellers. She was sent on another quest.
Taking flight again, she turned west, her caws mixing with the wind, going unheard to all but herself. She was at one with the forest, and knows where she needed to go next. Again she landed, this time again facing a female and a male, only now the crow is indicative and vital to the story. The black gleam of her feathers reflected in the bleak story below.
Her eyes darted back and forth, she is too primal to understand why she has been sent. Below her, there were moans again, but only from the female. She was knelt on the forest floor, hands clutching at her hair, sobs racking her body. The crow cocked her head again, as though trying to understand the overwhelming grief unfolding.
The male was there too, and his scent had the same alluring smell as the undergrowth… of the grave. The woman hunched over him, his eyes glazed over – prime for the crow. She has been here before, she knew the juices in that glaze are a delicacy she can savour all to herself before finding more food for her children. The woman wept; clawing at his clothes, ripping them with the talons of her nails. She unintentionally ripped his now useless flesh in the process – the crow sits. Waits. The fresh blood made her forget about her maternal instinct; all she can think about is her new hunger.
She cawed. A single caw, once again testing the waters. The woman shrieked – she reeked of fear, of vulnerability. The crow, again, darted its eyes over the body and sees the coagulated wound on his head, the final stamp on what was probably an unremarkable life. She can deny it no more, she fluttered down to the ground. Gradually, she hopped slightly forward, but the woman was prepared. The crow cannot move her eyes from the male, from his eyes – they seemed to be staring directly at her, inviting her to burst them and taste him for herself. The woman saw this, and shooed the crow away, despite her fear. She loved this man, and would not allow him to be defiled. A shame, as she is close to death herself. How long had it been since she ate? How long had she been lost? The crow could smell the black aura around her, but she had done her job. She had instilled the certainty of the grave in the woman, and can now move on.
In the air, her wings caught the breeze, and she glided with pure elegance across the sky. In the distance, she could spy a building; an unimpressive roof poking out of the otherwise uninterrupted skyline. Her head once again cocked as though in thought, and she switched her route towards the otherwise inconspicuous oddity. Soaring in, she realised she was not alone, seeing more humans at the building.
Drawing ever closer, she could again smell the alluring scent of fear – she drew closer, knowing this would, more than likely, lead to the scent of the grave. The flash of dead eyes made her caw with ecstasy, she could not resist the invitation that hung in the air.
She landed, again, with hope.
On a sill, she peered in with those eyes that drank in the soul, and watched. A man emerged in the room in the window, taller than most, with a face like thunder. The crow shook her feathers, as though he had instilled a fright in her. On the bed she could see a female, the source of the fear – she was tied down with her eyes wide, bound and gagged she emitted muffled screams as the man approached her. Under the scent of fear the crow could now smell the faint scent of stale flesh. Eyes once again darting round the room, she saw the lifeless gleam of eyes staring back at her – bodies, several of them, stacked in the corner of the room. Discoloured, and clearly rotting, the scent of the grave was almost more than she could bear.
She knocked her beak against the window, cawing over and over, hoping she could gain entry, as the man approached the bound, helpless woman. Once he reached her, he knelt down beside her while she gazed at him in fear. He caressed her face, wiping the sweat from her brow, and the scent of fear became overwhelming, mixing with the new scent of urine as the woman’s bladder lost control.
The man stroked the woman, tenderly, and he looked at her as one would a treasured possession; a toy or plaything from childhood. As he caressed, his strokes landed harder, and harder, until fresh blood started careening down the woman face. Slick with blood, the gag slipped, and the crow could hear her ear splitting scream as the sight of blood seemed to fill the man with ecstasy, and the strokes turned to blows – the woman screamed louder and louder, mixing with the excited caws, until all at once, the woman was still, and the plaything was a toy no more.
The crow recognised what had happened, and left before the woman was discarded – this man was not one she wanted to be close to, and she could find food elsewhere. By this time, the sun was setting, and twilight had engulfed the forest. As the crow took flight, she cawed, and turned back towards her nest. Tomorrow would be a new day, and she again would see nothing new.
A coin would be flipped, and she would either be a mother, or an omen.
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