Thirty-two

Gereon came to his senses, pulling himself with such difficulty from his dreams and their whispers. Death was the little sleep, not vice versa, but he’d be unable to help the boy from the other world in which he’d soon find himself. He pulled himself up with an effort and saw the rook, its wings flapping wildly, the black sheen of its head pulled from side to side.

“Nurse!” he cried, and matron came running. She had already heard the mad bird and came with a broom.

“Find Rian!” he commanded, as the bird took to wing and disappeared into the low sun.

“No, send the priest! Send Selden! Find the boy!” he corrected.

“Pater?”

“Go, I tell you!” and she saw the bishop’s fevered brow and the wild eyes that darted beneath it. She ran down the lane to the church shouting, “Help!”

The village girl had done the same, but toward the smithy's shop, running with her tears streaming and her wild shouts reaching Rian’s father’s ears. He heard his son’s name in the wailing and knew it couldn’t bode well. He reached his doorway, armed with the heavy hammer that he knew so well, so well balanced it was and how it would sing on the anvil as sparks flew off the hot iron. He ran towards the girl, her frantic pointing leading him to the bloodshed.

Selden was sunning himself, thinking of very little, wondering even less until the rook came swooping from behind him and with its frightful grace alighting on the muddy turf. It lifted its wings and cawed, its shining obsidian eye staring hard at the priest.

He was startled by the bird’s cries and stood, stepping back once from the rush of the fearful mania. He lifted his right hand to cast a spell, but as he reached out above his head he heard Matron’s cries.

She shouted, “Pater! Come! It’s Rian! It’s Rian!” and the priest understood.

The rook turned silent, its eye a dark heart that beat with a light as brilliant as a diamond.

Selden spoke to it, “Familiar,” and again it took to wing.

Selden went running after, with the Lord’s name on his lips.