An Unkindness of Ravens

A short story

There is a deep and solemn purple to the warm summer darkness, and the night is breathless, like me. I inhale deeply, as if there is never, ever, enough fresh air to breathe, like the air can burst my lungs with happy. This sweet solace always finds me here atop the gray eaves of the house, drowning under a panorama of pastel stars.

My disbelief is weak only in the late night, a time when I can believe in elves and Angels and talking ravens and happy-ever-afters. At the very least, the shadows of the night never seem to touch me here. Tonight I’m enjoying a bright-horned moon, as I perch carefully on the slanty rooftop, in the loveliest of my party dresses, black as a pretty raven, holding a large black feather in my hand.

As I await the evening’s potential to blossom into the readiness of an uncertain night, I am befriended by the nightly birds, my very own Unkindness of Ravens. This is what a group of ravens is called, though only because they are so misunderstood. Almost two feet tall they are, intelligent and friendly, not at all unkind. They all perch very close to me, including me in their “unkindness”.

“Bonsoir,” says the white-headed raven.

“Bonsoir, bonsoir, soir, soir, soir,” echo the rest. I talk to them sweetly every night, so they are learning my words.

“Je t’aime,” I say to the raven.

“Je t’aime, je t’aime, t’aime, aime…,” the ravens’ echoes return to me a dozen-fold.

I sing to them a song of ravens and nests and wings that ride the warm winds, and they listen and sway, from one foot to the other, watching me open a container of fruit. Their claws click and clatter on the shingles, as they walk and hop closer for apple slices. They must take them from my hand and then suffer my gentle pat to the head to get my sweet slices of apples. I steal them from Mama, and even though our money is limited, she is happy to think I’m eating them. I like to think that the ravens love me, that I don’t buy their love with sweets and with my pretty singing. I do so hope they love me as I love them.

“You need to get out more, Cassandra,” my mother told me earlier. “Tu devrais … um … you should make some friends.”

“Oui, Mama,” I had said, looking down. I was so afraid to meet her eyes, to see myself the way she sees me. I don’t want to be different than I am, but her eyes tell me to change, so I will go to a party tonight. I just wish she knew how difficult this is for me.

I can see the place from my perch, the place where the party will be, just three blocks away down the dark streets lined by Victorian houses like ours. That house is brightly painted and alive with light and sound already. Our house is grey and untended, yet it is beautiful and vine-covered like it is in harmony with the earth in such a lovely and slow way.

Grandmama’s abandoned house is next door, in desperate need of repair, fire-blackened, windows broken, surrounded by a yard of tall weeds. It is the place where the Unkindness lives, the ravens, I mean, though I only remember human unkindness there when Grandmama lived. The ravens watch me there from the ornate roof cupola and atop the wide eaves with their ornamental brackets.

The Corbeau family, perhaps, is slowly being taken back to God, disappearing into long history and longer neglect. First Grandmama, then Papa, then my sister Simone. She, too, loved the beautiful black ravens, but sadly she found she could not fly. Mama and Tante Madeleine and I still remain, living quiet among our candles and books, but Mama, my beautiful Mama, has many friends that visit, all men.

“Bon nuit,” I tell the ravens, sadly. As one, they open their wings wide to fly, cawing quietly, back to Grandmama’s.

There is little time before I must go, but I can make haste carefully, quietly, so Mother and Auntie don’t hear that I have been, once again, on the roof. They worry I will fall like my sister. I still cry for her. The house is old and creaky, the Mansard slope to my gable dormer window is treacherous, but the window is open. My bare feet are well accustomed to the rough shingles, and my hands and arms trained for the grab and twist required to go back in.

I go downstairs when I am ready, my stockings and shoes now in place, face freshly washed and painted, neck scented with Mama’s best parfum. I am ready to go, just awaiting those who consider me their friend, for reasons I do not understand. We attended High School together, and sang in the choir together, Bethany, Susie, Liz, Ricardo and I. I don’t remember being friends, but lately it seems that we are.

“You’re going like that?” Mama asks me. “All black like one of those birds?”

“But, Mama…..”

A knock on the door prevents the answer, the answer I don’t have to explain myself. All four of my friends laugh and smile when I open the door and step out into their embraces and happy energy. They say they like my dress, but they smile to each other.

“Á plus tard, Mama,” I say to Mama, kissing her, first, on the cheek, before walking away.

I don’t understand the nameless and inexpressible fascination my friends have for inviting me to late night musical performances. I am sure I am not very fun to be with. My melancholy nature, sweet though it may be, dominates the labyrinth of my complexity. But I sing sometimes when I meet a nice boy, and everybody listens to me sing… so quietly until I become too self-conscious in their silence.

We walk the three blocks to the party house, my friends holding my hands and laughing with me. I feel almost happy, though in some ways I miss my solitude among the Unkindness. The girls are dressed in bright colors, and they wear their highest heels, making them nearly as tall as I am. Ricardo’s in grey and white.

“You’re so beautiful, Cassandra,” Liz says. “The boys will be chasing after you.

I blush. “Oh, I’m not beautiful.”

“I’m sure Luis will disagree,” laughs Suzie.

When we arrive, the front door is open, with some of the boys smoking on the porch or kissing with girls in the shadowed corners. The party is loud, every room full, a jazz band playing in the drawing room. I don’t drink anything, only water, worried about being among mostly strangers. I watch the musicians, intoxicated by them, their musical skill, their rhythms, their words.

Bethany stays with me for awhile, but then she starts talking to Fabien and disappears for some time. I am left on my own, just staring at the band. The guitarist sees me watching him and smiles at me, so I avert my eyes and walk away.

“Want a drink?” Luis puts his hand on my shoulder. He has such large, dark and luminous eyes that seem to behold everything inside me. He is so beautiful, he makes me nervous.

“Yes, have a drink, Cassandra,” says Liz pushing through the crowded room to take my hand.

“Non, merci,” I answer, flustered, as Luis puts a drink in my hand. I pretend to drink a little, pretend to like it, but I discard it into a plant when nobody is watching. I look out the window, into the darkness, and I see a raven, perched on a branch of a tree very close. I smile. He’s up very late for a raven, but I’m happy to see a friend watching over me.

I observe again, the musicians, from an obscured corner, out of view and lost in the rhythms of the music, the bass line, the blend of the saxophone and trumpet. I start to sing very quietly with them, a song I know well, lost and happy in the music, swaying, dancing. Another song, and another, and another, and I am lost in the moment, singing to myself. Was it an hour? Or was it less?

“Ah, singing,” says Luis, approaching from behind. “No, don’t stop.” he protests, as I become quiet.

He holds another drink for me, that I accept, again not drinking, and he talks to me so sweetly, asking after my family, my health, and what I’m doing since school. I have a small job, making little money, at the hardware store in town. I can walk there in the early morning, when it’s quiet and still cool. The money goes to Mama, so we can buy food, but I don’t tell Luis this.

“I always thought you were rich,” Luis says. “You know, the secret Corbeau fortune.”

“The lost Corbeau fortune,” I laugh. I do not wish to mislead him, no matter how beautiful I find him.

My mind wanders and briefly dreams that I see an interest in his eyes, non? A hunger, a desire for me? Should I fear his hunger? For me nothing is as it should be, and what should be, rarely ever exists.

“Do you want to leave, Cassi?” asks Luis… “to somewhere… more quiet?”

I blush. “I should go home. I’m sorry.” My heart is racing, and I feel I cannot trust myself.

“Let me at least walk you home,” Luis insists. I look for the girls and Ricardo, but I don’t see them.

The walk is quiet, Luis a little drunk, his hands much too friendly, so I push him away and laugh, pretending I’m not frightened. His beautiful eyes have a seriousness lurking within them now.

He laughs, too, but not in his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “Forgive me?”

There are no cars out this late at night, and we walk in the shadows of the blue-tinged moonlight, through the branches of the large oaks, maples, lindens and ash trees that line the streets. I am happy … I am relieved … when we reach my street and I see my house, but I see Bethany, Liz, Susie, and Ricardo waiting in front of Grandmama’s deserted house.

“We thought you’d never get here,” says Ricardo. The girls giggle behind him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I look up to the roof’s high cupola, where the ravens sleep. I feel uncertain. I feel the need of my friends now.

“We want to go in… look for the Corbeau Fortune,” answers Luis. “Just for fun, you know… and for you, of course.”

“J’en sais rien. There is no fortune, mes amis,” I protest. “It’s not safe in there. Dangereux.”

“We have flashlights!” Bethany laughs and they all turn on their lights. “Please??? If you’re with us, it’s OK, right?”

I reluctantly agree to go in with them.

Grandmama’s house is dark and still smells of smoke. I was last here as a young child, more than 10 years ago, when there weren’t holes in the floors and broken windows that were boarded up. We step further into the foyer and then into the devastated drawing room. The ceiling has fallen, exposing the high rafters. Everything is spray-painted in graffiti and obscenities. Empty bottles litter the floor. I watch all the time from my window, but I never see intruders. It’s been a reality hidden from me.

“Partez, Partez… artez… tez.” We hear murmuring raspy voices from all around us.

“Jesus. What’s that?” Ricardo asks. “Did you hear that? French.”

“They’re telling us to leave,” I say. I know it is the Unkindness of Ravens, but I say nothing of this.

“Allez, allez, allez… llez….ez,” the voices continue from the rafters.

Luis shines his flashlight through the old, broken house, seeing nobody, but seeing small eyes reflecting the light in the darkness above. “Screw it, let’s look around.” But I can see he is frightened, looking left and right as he moves forward, slowly.

The girls huddle together, wanting to leave but too scared to do anything other than follow the boys. We move toward the back of the house, to the rear rooms. Ricardo takes a map out of his pocket, hand-drawn.

“I paid a guy for this. Claims it shows where the secret safe is.”

Ricardo shines his flashlight on it, looking carefully and then pointing to the left-most room in the back, Grandmama’s bedroom. Inside, Grandmama’s burned bed still stands, partially, with one leg fallen through a cavernous hole in the floor and the middle of the bed collapsed. Graffiti covers the walls, and the room smells of alcohol and urine.

A huge raven flies past us to alight on the bedpost of the broken bed. “Non,” says the raven.

Angrily, Luis throws the flashlight at the raven, striking it before it can fly and causing it to fall from its perch. I dive to catch my beloved raven friend, only to find us both tumbling through the hole in the floor.

I hit the floor, two floors down, in the sub-basement, with a sickening thud. I find myself nearly unconscious on a platform of debris, which has apparently saved me from serious injury, but I hear them above, panicking, as they shine the flashlight far down on my prone form. My head is pounding, aching. I hold as still as possible, the raven still held in my arms.

“Let’s go.”

“We can’t leave her.”

“We’ll call the police to come here.”

“No. No police. She must be dead. For a fucking crow. Let’s get out of here.”

I am saddened that they leave, abandoning me to the dark and my injuries, but I know now that they are certainly not my friends. I had seen that Luis’ flashlight was near me, and I lay the raven carefully on the debris where we landed to find the light in the dark, crawling painfully along the floor, my hands fishing through the rubble. Once I find the flashlight, I turn it on to examine the raven, seeing that he is still breathing, rapidly, but bluish membranes cover his eyes. Does he sleep?

“S’il te plaît, Mon Dieu. Aide-le! Help him be OK, please,” I cry over the raven, lightly smoothing his feathers, stroking his head. I find a little blood on his breast, but not too much. In a few minutes, his eyes open and he awkwardly rights himself to rise to his feet.

“Mon Dieu,” he says to me.

I cry with relief and hug the large bird. Several other ravens fly down to join us.

“I don’t suppose you know the way out?” I ask the ravens.

They just stand, looking at one spot of the crumbling stone foundation of the sub-basement. One of them hops to the wall and pecks lightly at the stones, and a hole is revealed as some of the small stones fall. I step closer and remove one stone and then another. In a few minutes I can shine a flashlight into the chamber beyond, seeing multiple locked chests within a small room. I cover up the hole again, replacing each stone and dragging other debris over to disguise the recent activity.

Over the next few weeks, Mother and I recover the lost family fortune, secretly at night. We are grateful for the Unkindness of Ravens, that keeps us company as we remove our family treasure. It will change our lives, and we will be able to bring more members of the Corbeau family together now.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ֎ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Two months later, I sit on my rooftop, in the morning sun, distracted by the indefiniteness which hangs in the air. My friends have changed in my mind, from friend to shapeless, like the clouds that float upon a summer of dreaming. Maybe they fear to come around, to apologize. Maybe they fear what I’ll say or what I’ll do. As they were the only friends I had, I would have given them a chance to make it right though. My sister was my only true friend, I think, and she is with the Angels now.

I wish to see more of the world now, like a traveling raven might see the world on the wing. But I see a lot of the world from my rooftop, too. Mama had some rails and a sitting area added up here, and I put dozens of perches for the Unkindness and a large birdbath. From here I can see Grandmama’s house, slowly and quietly reinforced and re-modeled, trying not to disturb the ravens’ world. The attic and cupola will remain for the ravens, and the rest will be remodeled for Genevieve and her sister Gabriella, who both cannot speak. They will love the Unkindness, and we will love having them around.

In a sudden flap of great wings, the large raven I saved lands next to me upon the perch attached to my chair. I have not seen him since our adventure in Grandmama’s home.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Raven. I’m so glad to see you well.”

He watches me, quiet for a moment.

“Merci,” the raven says, bowing his head.

Originally published at https://vocal.media (no longer there).

Check out our other writing on Medium, in particular “Jardin Caprice”, to read about the young Cassandra and her sister.