Keene Brian - A Gathering of Crows

Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He’d slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.

They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early— too early to sleep—but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he’d sleep lightly.

Except that he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior’s nursery, a large black crow had perched on the edge of his son’s crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a shadow fell across him, as well.

He didn’t wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.

The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby’s screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man’s face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby’s screams abruptly ceased.

“W-who…?”

“Scream,” the shadow told Artie. “It’s better when you scream.”

The pounding on Axel’s door grew louder and more insistent. The chain lock rattled and the door shook in its frame. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shapes on the walls. The pounding came again. Gripping his walking stick like a club, Axel tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the curtains. Jean Sullivan stood on his porch, holding Bobby in one arm and beating on the door with her fist. Breathing a sigh of relief, Axel lowered the stick and hurried to the door. He fumbled with the locks as Jean hammered again.

“Mr. Perry? Axel? It’s Jean from next door. Please let us in!”

She sounded frantic. Releasing the chain from its hasp, Axel turned the knob and yanked the door open.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What is it?”

Jean stumbled into the house and slammed the door shut behind her. Bobby held tight, his arms and legs wrapped around his mother. The boy looked terrified. Axel stared at them both in concern.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Didn’t you hear me knocking? Or all the noise outside?”

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t hear so good these days. I came inside after the dogs started barking. Was going to fix myself a bite to eat, but with the power out, I decided to just go to sleep instead. I was laying down when I finally heard you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jean turned around and locked the door behind her.

“Did you say there’s trouble? What kind of trouble?” “I don’t know.” She turned back to him. “People screaming and shouting. Gunshots. Something exploded on the other side of town. I think there are a couple of fires, too.”

Axel gaped. “Good Lord…”

“Bobby, I need to put you down, sweetie. Mommy’s arms need a break.”

Shaking his head, the boy buried his face in her hair and clung tighter.

“Bobby…”

“No, Mommy. Bad things are out there.”

“We’re safe now. Mr. Perry won’t let anything happen to us.”

“Your mother’s right,” Axel said, not understanding any of this, but trying to sound brave for the boy.

“Whatever’s going on, it can’t get you in here.”

Bobby peered doubtfully at the old man from between his mother’s hair.

Grinning, Axel raised the walking stick. “If it does, I’ll whack it with this.”

“That’s just an old stick.”

“Oh no, it’s much more than an old stick. You see, this walking stick has magic.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Bobby,” Jean chided, “be polite.”

“But Mommy, there’s no such thing as magic. It’s just make-believe, like in the cartoons and Harry Potter.”

Axel winked at the boy. “Magic is more than just stories, Bobby. Where do you think the lady who made up those Harry Potter books got the idea from? I reckon magic has been around as long as human beings have, and that’s a long, long time.”

He paused. Axel couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard somebody screaming outside. He wondered if he should go out and check, but then decided that Jean and Bobby were his primary responsibility now.

“So what can it do?” Bobby asked, pointing at the walking stick.

“I cut this branch off a magic tree a long, long time ago when I was just a little older than you. We lived way down in a hollow on the other side of Frankford, back near where the quarry is today. There was a cave at the far end of the hollow—more of a sinkhole, really. My daddy filled it up over the years because our cows kept falling into it. But next to the hole was a big old willow tree, just as gnarled and ugly as I am now. The tree’s name—”

“Trees don’t have names, Mr. Perry.”

Jean frowned. “Bobby, manners!”

The boy stuck his bottom lip out and pouted. “But I called him mister.”

“It’s okay,” Axel soothed. “Everything has a name, Bobby. Not just people, but animals and trees and even rocks. God gives everything a secret name. This old willow tree’s name was Mrs. Chickbaum.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“Aye, I reckon it is. But that was what my mother said its name was, and she knew about these things.”

“Was your mommy magic?”

Axel was surprised to find himself tearing up as he answered. “Yeah, she was. My mommy was magic. And so was old Mrs. Chickbaum. Not in a way that you’d probably understand. The tree couldn’t fly or turn people into salamanders. But you felt better in its shade. You rested easy underneath its branches. There was a little spring to the left of her trunk, and that water was just about the best I’ve ever tasted— clear and fresh and ice cold.”

“So Mrs. Chickenbaum made things better?”

“That’s right. Nothing bad happened around her. And this walking stick came from Mrs. Chickbaum and I’ve had it ever since, and it’s always brought me nothing but good luck, for the most part. So I reckon we’ll be safe enough here. Okay?”

Bobby smiled, and then slowly relaxed. “Okay, Mr. Perry.”

Jean lowered him to the floor and sighed. Axel heard her back crack and her joints pop as she straightened up again.