Paula Hillman, author

The first thing I wrote, after I left teaching, was this strange little story as an entry to a newspaper competition entitled ‘Murder‘. I took my inspiration for it from a scene of carnage I’d seen while walking at Furness Abbey: the devastation of a woodpigeon by some kind of predator, probably a sparrowhawk. The piece didn’t win the competition , but it was eventually published by Lancaster University’s Flash journal. When I read the piece now, it doesn’t sound like my writing at all…that’s three years of study and editing!

Crow Murder by Paula J Hillman.

I should be admiring the beauty of this November morning, the way a trail of soft grey mist hangs across the ruin. Perfect silence, shattered only by an early blackbird’s call. I should be singing my song, rousing my brothers and sisters from their slumber. I should be enjoying the fresh feel of dewed grass between my toes. Instead, I am staring at a death scene. My eyes are compelled to look; the gore, the hunks of body flesh, they are everywhere, scattered across the jewelled grass. Ugliness and beauty combined. Scarlet and emerald beads tossed carelessly. There is no head. The anonymity of the victim has been preserved, though not with any purpose, I am certain of that. I must find Strix. He will know what to do. There is a crow, perched high and unusually quiet. His eyes are full of black contempt. He waits.

   Strix is surprised to see me. ‘You are well met, Eritha,’ he says. His yellow eyes fix on me, and I shudder. He could end my life with one nip from his flat and lethal beak.

His large grey head does not move.

   ‘Death has come to our home, Strix. We must move quickly.’ I try to calm my fluttering heart. It is adding a shrill and fearful note to my voice.

   Strix regards me for a moment. ‘We are always surrounded by death, young Eritha. What has made you come to me with such trivia?’ He rules with a stern and uncompromising authority, and I am suddenly fearful. Will he simply chase me away? I have to attract his interest.

   ‘I would not waste your time, sir, with tales of ordinary death. This is barbarism. It is butchery. This is not the quiet and dignified death required of our kind.’ I am quaking as I speak, as much from anger as from awe.

   ‘Show me,’ he says suddenly. I have his attention.

   ‘Let us fly,’ I tell him.

   We wing our way across the chill of the morning. A bright sun shimmers our feathers, a sun with no right to be bright. Our brother, unknown though he is, has been brought early to his death. There is no brightness or heart in that. We pass the ugly crow, watching us with indifference; feigning disinterest.

   And here is the scene, murderous and bloody. A blue-bottle hovers, no doubt savouring the sweet smell of carnage. A leg, disconnected from its body, points heavenward. Strix shudders. He walks around the scene, looking and smelling and scratching. Feathers and chewed flesh catch between his toes and he flinches. But he does not stop observing. I watch, a student learning from the master. He speaks, finally.

   ‘We had an agreement with the hawks. They have broken their agreement. We have to act.’

That statement drives an icy finger of fear into my heart. He will have to summon Milvus. He stretches his wings in a gesture that speaks of power and supremacy, then opens his beak and lets out a sound, both terrifying and raw. I fall. There is strength in that noise, and something more. A quality that cannot be expressed in mere words. Its potency forces me out of consciousness, just for a moment. Strix re-folds his great wingspan and regards me with his yellow glare.

   ‘Eritha. You are not hurt. Get up. I need a witness. It will be you.’ I can hear his words, but I do not reply, nor stand. I would rather be dead than face the might of Milvus. Strix continues, moving towards me. ‘I hear wing beats. I need you to stand by me. There must always be a witness. Eritha!’

   I open one eye and lift my head. Strix is peering down at me but there is no kindness in his expression, only need. I get to my feet, grooming my feathers to distract myself.

   ‘I am sorry, Strix. Milvus almost ate me on the last occasion that we met. Only my red breast feathers kept me safe, serving to warn him. I fear I will not be as lucky if we meet again.’ I feel such a fool, but I have no time for further thoughts – a shape hovers in the sky above us. It takes form and becomes a huge and beautiful bird. Darkness shadows the underside of its wings, and the blade of its beak fills me with fear all over again. Milvus has returned, summoned by the call of his enemy. He lands beside us and shakes the energy from his feathers. I huddle against Strix, a small and powerless creature between these two kings of the air.

   ‘Strix. I did not expect us to meet again. I imagine there is a good reason why I have been summoned?’ Milvus’s voice is smooth and calculating, as though every word holds a great worth. His face is that of a fighter, almost devoid of feathers to allow the clean devouring of his prey.

           Strix will not bow to this show of superiority. He looks cleanly at Milvus, with eyes full of the world’s wisdom. ‘Have you started taking again? I ask this simply, so answer me in kind. Did you do this?’ He takes the violet eyes of Milvus with his own and guides him to the scene of vile carnage that has spread itself across the meadow, defiling the purity of this crisp, clear morning. A look of horror spreads across the face of the gigantic bird. He says nothing. The silence lays like a fallen tree in the space between them.

   Milvus shakes his graceful head. ‘I have not,’ he replies simply, ‘we made an agreement, and I would never, ever break my word. You have shamed me by speaking thus.’ He looks again at the dismembered body. ‘This poor creature has not been taken to feed. See how the flesh has been deliberately torn,’ he circles the scene as he looks closer, ’the head is missing, and each wing has been torn from the body. No,’ he whispers, ‘this is a deliberate killing.’ The way he says that word sends a shiver through my body, and I step towards Strix. I do not trust Milvus. He seems to be delighting in his regard for the unfortunate victim.

   ‘I am sorry,’ Strix replies quickly, ‘but I had to ask. There has not been enough time since our agreement for me to trust you completely.’ He turns away from the contemptuous gaze of Milvus and my eyes meet his. ‘Come, Eritha, we must find out who has carried out this cruel slaughter, so that it cannot be inflicted on any more of our kind.’

   Milvus stretches his long, dark wings. They cast a shadow over us both. He turns his head, searching for a wind that will lift him away. His ungainly legs suddenly propel him straight toward us, then he catches the breeze, and it takes him. We watch as he drifts upwards, gently at first, then with a soaring power.

   ‘Do you think he was lying?’ I ask, as Strix watches him.

   ‘No.’

I wait for more, but no words come. I look again at the reeking scene before me. I cannot be sure, but the grey feathers and white dander that flutter lightly amongst strips of flesh remind me of Brother Columba. Soft grey, delicately tipped with black. No. I refuse to put a name and recognition to this terrible scene. Strix hops away. I follow him, hoping he is still questing for answers and not just seeking his home. On the highest ledge of the ruin, the black shimmer of a watching crow catches my eye. It strikes me as unusual that he is alone. They usually wreak their havoc in destructive duos. He is pretending a disregard for Strix and I; crows are never indifferent, unless they are hiding something.

   ‘Strix,’ I say. ‘Look. Up on the ledge.’ His eyes swivel upwards, following my words. ‘That dark devil has been watching us since we first arrived. Crows never sit alone. What is he up to?’

   We are speaking in whispers. ‘I have been watching him, too,’ Strix says. ‘See how he waits, then looks away, how those vacant eyes are lying. He knows we are here, but thinks we are foolish enough to not be alerted.’

There is something so deceitful about those creatures. Their whole demeanour is a lie. Strix signals silently to me that I must follow him. We hop into a sunless place at the base of a crumbling wall. Then we wait. Our breathing slows and we synchronize. There is beauty in the silent morning. But death, too. I blink. I cannot still my eyes, as Strix can. Time creeps by and the morning sun rises, warming my plain feathers and turning them to gold. Then, from the ledge, the crow drops, like a pitch-dark stone, straight onto the killing field. He glances around for a moment, those bottomless eyes finding a use, finally. Letting out a loud and surly laugh, he begins to despoil the corpse, clearly enjoying himself. He has done this before. Strix turns away: he cannot watch.

   ‘A murderous crow,’ I say simply. I watch then, as Strix flexes his mighty wings and lifts himself into the air. He takes the crow in one strike. It is so engrossed in its brutal game that it does not see the Herculean bird, or even hear the beat of strong wings. Deadly talons are forced into the crow’s neck, silencing him forever, and the two fly upwards into the bright morning. As they circle the ruin, the crow struggles weakly. One or two of his brothers sing out their mocking caw, but none fly to his aid. That is the nature of the crow. They are partners-in-crime, not brothers-in-arms. Strix continues in his judicial flight. He will be using the dying crow as an example to our brotherhood. He will be making sure that we are all reminded of the penalty for savagery. This is why he leads; this is why we all listen and obey. For a moment, he hovers above the death-place, then he opens his beak, and the errant crow falls, tumbling twice over itself, then hitting the ground with a soft whump. I watch, awestruck, as Strix disappears into a clump of ancient beech trees. Then the morning is silent again.

   I hop over to the dead crow. The contempt and defiance have gone from his eyes. They are open and staring and black as night. I cannot resist. I peck at one of those open eyes.