Chapter 3 #2
The exhilaration of the successful flight wore off, and I began to look for a way to get into the building.
I looked for a flat portion of the roof, since those tend to deteriorate first without the slope to wash away the weather, but didn’t see any.
Considering the age of the building, centuries at the youngest, the roof was in good shape.
The front of the building rose up two stories like the cathedral part of a monastery, the bell tower still in relatively good shape, while the back wings, two leading off each end and another wing connecting them at the back, were a tall one-story.
There in the corner under the ridge line was a spot darker than the tar of the roof.
Was that a hole? I hopped toward it but then paused.
What did he look like flying? I quirked my head at the thought and caught movement from the right.
A huge bird headed toward me. The damned owl again.
I rushed to the hole, hoping that’s what it really was.
It looked too tight as I got closer, but I flung myself at it, out of options.
Headfirst, I pushed my small body into a smaller space, thinking only of escaping those nasty talons.
He could’ve changed me into any animal, a wolf even, but why a crow?
My father hated crows with a passion, going so far as buying a BB gun to chase them away when they got close to our fruit trees, and he had hated firearms. How many nights had I spent listening to him complain about the damn crows?
The jagged edges of the roof gripped me, scraping a couple feathers loose, but I squeezed my body forward until my head popped out into the room below me. One final lunge and I was through.
I flapped my wings in time not to crash into the stone floor, sitting still for a moment to catch my breath.
I stretched my wings, gently rustling my feathers back into place.
One wing feather was bent, and I picked at it with my beak.
Hopefully, I would still be able to fly.
The damn thing wouldn’t lie flat, and the base of the feather poked into my wing as I folded it up.
The sound of deep voices nearby had my heart racing again.
Should I escape and face my chances with the owl or see who it was?
My muscles ached from all the flying and, frankly, I didn’t stand a chance on my own against the owl.
I hopped slowly in the direction of the voices.
If there were people here, could I warn them?
I moved cautiously, Matthew’s reaction to my crow self still fresh and grating, like too much garlic in my alfredo.
The giant wooden door at the end of the hall was shut, and I lacked the proper anatomy to open it.
Light leaked through the cracks between the walls and ceiling.
Hmm. Maybe with enough space in the cracks, I could spy on them from the rafters.
Getting up there would take finesse, not the usual launch-my-body-up-and-flap-violently technique I had recently perfected.
It took three attempts and more noise than I wanted to make to finally balance on the edge of the plaster wall.
I scooted forward quietly, stepping gingerly over a jagged piece of wood, the room opening up below me.
Neither of the room’s occupants looked my way, for they were deeply involved in an intense conversation.
But before I could catch what they were saying, they grew quiet.
A man in his late fifties stood in front of a blazing fireplace, one large enough to cook an ox, brows drawn, deep in thought.
He wore a fine, custom-made suit and a crisp white shirt, looking completely out of place in the medieval setting.
His hands rested behind his back, eyes trained on the threadbare rug twice the size of the largest I had ever seen.
The furniture could have belonged in a Gothic European museum, with large, dark wood, heavily carved, consisting of two great chairs on either side of the fire and two facing them, along with a massive wooden table lined with benches.
On top of the table, two candles burned in large, rudimentary candlesticks.
In the shadows, on an even larger chair pushed against the wall, sat The Monster.
I could just make out his horns. I looked back at the man, seemingly unaware of the danger.
Quiet, Corvus, you’re distracting me.
His voice thundered in my head, impossible to ignore.
I looked frantically between them, but the strange man looked far from afraid.
Did he not realize the danger he was in?
I should flee while the Monster was otherwise occupied.
I stayed frozen on my perch. My actions were beyond foolish, but I couldn’t make my wings take me away, not yet.
“How comfortable you are in your weak skin. Have you forgotten who you are?” The Monster spoke, his voice the same deep timbre in my ears as I heard in my mind.
The stranger cocked his head. “It is important to be able to adapt. You call me weak, and yet you still live a thousand years in the past.” He motioned to the room as if his meaning wasn’t clear.
“I know men well. I walk with them regularly.” But his words lacked conviction.
“Good. Then do me the pleasure of pointing me in the direction of the whiskey.”
The Monster stood, and I hunkered back, ready to flee.
He turned toward me, catching my eye for a heartbeat.
With the light behind him, I couldn’t see his features clearly.
Was he smiling? No, he couldn’t be. If there had been a smile on his face, it was gone, but his features relaxed, and I examined him as he stopped just below me.
Thick horns, like those of a water buffalo, shone like ebony in the firelight.
His skin was dark gunpowder gray, resembling more the flesh of a shark or whale than a human.
I leaned closer and peered down at him. Against the wall below my perch was a sideboard with two crystal decanters.
He opened one and poured a respectable amount into an old goblet, talons clicking against the pewter.
He carried it back to the stranger, clothed in nothing more than a ragged kilt, giant wings folded against his back.
“Don’t make me drink alone. Even you aren’t that rude.”
The Monster nodded once and made his way back to the sideboard. This time, I was certain he was smiling.
Shut your beak. You’re staring.
He was right. I was. He didn’t ask me to leave, but curiosity was killing me. What was I witnessing? And why was he talking to me?
But keep it down. I meant it earlier, you are distracting me, and I need to be sharp.
What could he be talking about? Were my thoughts distracting him? But how could I possibly control that? He reached for the second decanter, pouring a tiny amount of golden liquid into a second pewter goblet.
“Is that mead? Where do you even find that around here?” asked the Stranger, as the Monster joined him again by the fire.
“I told you. I still interact with people regularly.”