When he was a kid, Adam liked crows. He
cawed to them and they answered. They cackled if his boy-caws caught in his
throat. But one day, when he was grown, Adam shot a crow. He felt the crows had
it coming. Day after day, dozens of crows clamoured from the treetops
encircling Adam’s house. Squawking like harpies they’d snatched him from his
dreams. Those dreams were his refuge, the only place he found his son.
In
Adam’s dreams, eleven-year-old Dylan and his Labrador Lucky, stood in a rowboat.
“Dad,
look at this catch!” Dylan’s excitement stirred the early morning stillness and
sent silvery ripples across the water to his father sitting on the dock.
Adam
lifted his nose out of the Sunday newspaper. A string of fat, yellow perch dangled
from Dylan’s hands. Adam’s heart quickened at the sight of his boy holding the
fish.
Brought
back to the sameness of his days by the ruckus of the crows, Adam stuffed his
head under the pillows. The crows goaded him anyway. Caw, caw! Until one spring
morning he decided to teach those birds a lesson. Crows in the wild are
skittish, hard to get close to. But he was sure if he shot one, the message
would soon get around. He stood in the shadow of a hemlock, took aim and fired
his rifle. The bird dropped from branch to branch, to earth.
Shocked
by the brutal death of their family member, the crows cried bloody murder.
Then, they stopped. The forest fell silent. It seemed as if everything waited,
even Adam. He put the rifle down, leaned his long frame against the tree,
shifted his weight onto his good leg and lit a cigarette. Minutes passed.
Suddenly, in a dark, flapping cloud the crows flew away. “That’s the end of
that,” he said, grinding his cigarette butt in the dirt.
The
crows returned later that day. Twenty or more sat as shiny black sentinels in
bare-limbed maples. They ruffled their feathers against the damp and grieved.
Song-birds at heart, the crows gave full voice to a dirge.
Adam
heard their keening and felt sorry for what he’d done. He stared into the gloom.
He had listened to loons lament the loss of a mate. However, it never before occurred
to him that a crow might mourn.
He
awoke early the next morning. Except for chickadee chirps and the screech of a
blue jay, the woods were quiet. Adam opened the door to a red sunrise that
split the sky, the same red sky that lit the day Dylan and his friend Tessa pulled
Lucky from the lake.
He
put on his coat, walked outside. Adam noticed there were no crows in the trees.
They had moved on. Dylan had also moved on.
Frost
hung in the air. Crow lay on the ground. While Adam looked at the dead bird he
thought of something his uncle once said, “The crow is the smartest of all
birds and crow knows it’s the smartest bird. Some people believe that crow
feels it’s better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven.” Adam wondered about
that. Perhaps heaven and hell were the same place, depending on where you
stood.
His
uncle had told him that even a dead crow was considered a sign of good luck.
But Adam didn’t feel it was a lucky omen to have a dead crow at his feet,
especially as he was the one responsible for its demise. He gazed at the bird.
Adam
crouched by the crow in its bed of wet sugar-maple leaves. His feet stirred the
leaves releasing their musky sweetness, confined all winter beneath the snow.
How he loved that smell. Dylan had loved it, too. Adam imagined maple sap
running clear out of the trees and into the buckets hung from taps. He imagined
his son’s laughter, his head bent as they poured globs of boiled syrup into the
snow and made taffy that drizzled down their chins.
It
occurred to him then, to bury the crow instead of tossing it into the forest. Adam
picked up the bird with both hands. Limping over to the edge of the garden to a
copse of hemlocks, maples and sturdy oaks, he placed the crow on the ground. At
times when he could find no other way to quiet his mind, he sat in the garden
reading until sundown. He leafed through books on ancient civilizations and war
but often preferred to listen to the creaks and murmurs of the forest and the
howl of a lone wolf on the far side of Echo Lake.
As
he stood near the crow, he remembered that one clear night when Dylan was eight
years old, they’d sat in this same spot and watched the ethereal dance of
aurora borealis. High above the tree line, brilliant green and white lights
shimmered and arced. “Is that what heaven looks like, Dad?” Dylan whispered.
Adam
looked into his own heart then looked into the wide eyes of his boy. “Yes,” he had
said.
Grabbing
a shovel from his wood shed, he carved through soil littered with acorns and
hemlock cones. Adam dug deep enough so that foxes wouldn’t be able to root out
the bird. He laid the crow in the hole, covered it with earth. Lucky was buried
nearby. Three months after Dylan and Tessa saved her life she’d died of old age
or a broken heart. Both, maybe.
Adam
rolled a handful of nubby brown cones in his palm. “To everything there is a
season,” he said. The ancient hemlocks sighed.
Adam
was tired, too tired for his forty-five years. Some days were an eternity. He
felt as if he could barely stay afloat. He thought about his wife, Suzanne. The
way she had retreated inside herself. Crippled by his sorrow and self-blame,
Adam felt powerless to help her. The loss of their only child consumed their
lives. Grief was a lonely place. Suzanne packed her bags and moved in with her
sister on the other side of town. “I need space,” she said. Adam believed she
needed time to forgive.
Before
she left for work on the morning of the accident, Suzanne had warned Dylan and Tessa,
“Stay off the ice. I mean it!” she said, her hand fluttering at her breastbone.
A January thaw had created unstable conditions on the lake. An emergency nurse
in their local hospital, Suzanne encountered plenty of seasonal tragedy.
Adam
had gone to the shed to saw logs for the fireplace. Later that morning, Dylan
poked his head inside the shed, “Dad, we’re taking Lucky for a walk.”
Adam
intended to remind Dylan, “Listen to your mother. Don’t go on the ice.” Except
he was preoccupied as he thought about his position with the Ministry of
Natural Resources, the rumours of downsizing, of moving the regional office to
a larger centre. He had no desire to move. Echo Lake was home. So instead, Adam
just nodded.
Friends
since they were toddlers, Dylan called Tessa “Feather.” She was so light, Dylan
said a puff of wind would carry her anywhere she wanted to go. Teasing each
other, the kids skirted the shoreline.
Lucky
ambled nearby until a snowshoe hare bounded in front of her. Old, arthritic,
sensible Lucky lost all reason when that hare flew past. She chased it across
the frozen lake. Dylan whistled at her to come back. She stopped running,
turned on a patch of thin ice, looked at him. The ice gave way beneath her
weight. Lucky dog-paddled in the frigid water till she was out of breath.
Spread-eagled
over the ice, Tessa clutched Lucky’s collar with both hands while Dylan hauled the
exhausted dog out of the lake. One last heave and she was safe.
“We’ve
got you, girl,” he gasped. Then as he dragged Lucky onto the ice, Dylan lost
his footing on the slippery surface and fell headfirst into the water. By the
time Adam heard Tessa’s screams for help and he jumped in to save Dylan, it was
too late. The lake had already claimed his son.
Wrapped
in the memory, Adam sat in the dirt beside the crow, beneath the trees bereft
of leaves. He lit a cigarette, closed his grey eyes. Smoke leaked from his
lips. Although he didn’t see it, a small winged shadow passed overhead.
One
evening Suzanne showed up with a bottle of Merlot and a beef casserole. “I’ve
never blamed you, Adam,” she said later, over a second glass of wine. “It was
the guilt you piled on yourself that I couldn’t cope with.” Suzanne stroked his
hand. Her fingertips felt soft, familiar.
Relief,
gratitude, rushed through him. “Thank you.” Adam was filled with an urge to
take her hand, pull her close and plead, “Stay.” But afraid she might say ‘no,’
he squeezed her fingers and hid his thoughts behind a wonky smile.
Afterwards,
while Adam opened the car door for her, the night wind tugged at Suzanne’s
coat. “There’s a storm brewing,” she shivered.
He
marvelled at her knack for knowing when change was in the air. Some people
licked a finger, poked it skyward to test the direction of the wind. For
Suzanne though, her sense of it stemmed from a pressure in her breast bone. Leaning
into Adam’s warmth, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him. His heart beat hard.
A
spring ice storm pelted Central Ontario for two days, breaking trees, downing
power- lines. Adam’s world became an icy cathedral. As he stoked the fire, he
heard a faint tapping on the glass door. Walking over to the door he peered
outside. On the other side of the pane was a small crow, black feathers encrusted
with ice. Blood on its neck.
“Poor
little fellow,” Adam said, cradling the crow.
He
lined a shoebox with newspaper and an old undershirt, placed the crow inside
and sat it near the fireplace. The bird shook, head lolling to one side, eyes
closed. Adam worried it wouldn’t survive the night. But it did and grew
stronger each day. The little bird took a liking to him, nibbled sunflower
seeds from his hand. It hopped around the kitchen, perched on the fireplace
mantel, made itself at home.
Adam
and Dylan had always watched Hockey Night in Canada together. They lounged on
the couch, Lucky curled at their feet. They cheered for the Leafs while Suzanne
heated popcorn in the kitchen and danced with herself to a favourite song, “Can I just have one more moon dance with
you...” Adam ached for those times, ached for his son.
“The
Leafs are playing the Penguins,” he said to the crow. Adam and the crow sat
side-by-side in front of the TV to watch the game. Adam in his usual place on
the couch, the bird in its shoebox. Halfway through the first period, the
Leafs got a goal. The crowd went wild.
“Score!”
Adam yelled.
“Caw,” said the crow.
***
Robyn Thomas lives in a forest in Ontario’s beautiful Haliburton Highlands. Family, wildlife and a deep appreciation for her natural surroundings, born of her “kiwi” beginnings, offer daily inspiration that informs Robyn’s writing, story-telling, mediumship and photography.
See all Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.
