"The Crow in Tree Number Five" by London Copeland

There it stood looking like an entranceway to a private cemetery; a rusty black gate with a broken chain lock, ajar, with just enough space for me to squeeze through safely—safely? I second guess myself as I do three Hail Mary’s across my chest. Barren black trees cross over my head as I go through the gate. One…two…three…four…I count the trees per his instructions, only the trees on the right side, stumbling deeper into a murky forest. Stricken trees lead me further into the woods, and then suddenly I pause from counting. My eyes blink as thick mist rolls in like a swarm of spirits blocking my view of the trees. I grasp my tweed coat trying to keep warm as November greets me with an icy chill. I take a deep breath, rewrapping my red wool scarf around my neck, trying in vain to see beyond the fog. ”When you get to the tenth tree just wait there, and I will come.” I stare at the fog, antagonistically, reflecting on his words. 

“Dammit. I can’t see. Go away, fog!” I scream helplessly at the wet whiteness before me. I blink in utter shock as the mist parts before my eyes making a clear pathway.

”What?” I gasp; hesitate to walk between the fog. I thread with caution, listening for any sound. The trees emerge once again as I step through the fog gate, but just the very tips of the trees can be seen. I shudder when a black crow squawks, then swoops above tree number five. It lands on a rickety branch, tilts its head, and looks at me. My heart races as I meet the raven’s gaze; its yellow eyes pierce at me as if it knows me.

“Don’t be silly, Heather Corbyn,” I tell myself, trying to be brave, yet moving hastily pass the fifth tree and the crow. Six…seven…eight. I count again without looking back at the crow in tree number five. My knees buckle as I draw near to the tenth tree. Shivering I thrust my hands inside my pockets and come to a halt in front of tree number ten. Welcoming the warmth in my fingers, I recall my Grandmother chiding me from the window—“Where your mittens, Heather! It’s cold as Chloe’s grave.” I cringe regret telling her that my gloves were in my pocket. I can see her gray head and that worn blue kerchief wrapped around her neck from the window of our old Brent flat. The truth is I wish that I didn’t lie about many things; one lie, in particular, telling her that I was meeting Alexis at her house, and we were going to the market in Brixton for Ackee and saltfish; when in fact, Alexis has flute practice today. And though she begged me to wait until after her practice, telling me not to go alone, I went anyway. As these thoughts race in my head, I stand firm, but awkwardly by tree number ten.  Suddenly a gush of wind shakes me to the core. Nearly falling over I cling to tree number ten startled as the mist closes up with a loud Swoosh! The pathway is gone, replaced with a wall of whiteness, yet everything in front of me is clear. I sigh of relief, looking down at my boots. I can feel the object pressed against my ankle inside my right boot. My eyes flit at the brown grass, then at more black trees ahead of me as I wait anxiously for the answers to the questions that were stuck in my head since the day I found it.

It came as a surprise, stumbling upon it, yet somehow it felt predestined. I found it in her hatbox—her only hatbox—when I went to get her sewing needle and thimble on the nightstand by her bed. I remember feeling a bit reluctant. Like how many times will she keep mending that plaid frock? I let my complaint be heard.  

“Until there’s no more fabric left to stretch,” My grandmother retorts rhythmically like she was answering a riddle. As I snatch up the needle and thimble, the hatbox took me by surprise. You see, my grandmother is a stickler about keeping things in its own little place, drawer, box, or old Tesco bags. Yet, there lay her hatbox in open view instead of on the top shelf in the closet. The box itself is far from plain, cream-colored with pink ribbon wrapped around the lid, and the hat inside looks like a strawberry cream puff, a secondhand find from a thrift store with The Selfridges label still intact. It’s the fanciest thing that she owns. I squint at the old but sturdy hatbox wondering what on earth is it doing here. I also knew because I caught her once, that more than a hat lives in that box, like interesting trinkets, old letters, and stuff. When she caught me staring at her that one day, as she dug through her box, she shoos me away, mumbling about putting the kettle on for tea—in a voice an octave higher than her normal pitch—when in fact, teatime has come and gone. That day, like now, is a bit out of sorts, yet my hands reach for the lid. Let’s see what you have in here, Grandmother that made you shoo me out of the room. I take the lid off with both hands, peering into the box. Underneath a pink ruffled brim and frilly organza, I see an ancient skeleton key…

Something stirs in the distance bringing me back to the now—tree number ten in the misty forest. Then suddenly a giant crow appears, that same crow that was in tree number five—only it’s gigantic! Too scared to move, I stare in horror as the crow transforms into an old man right before my eyes. He lands with a clumsy plop, hooded like a monk in a brown tunic.

“Show me the key!” he demands in a voice much stronger than what he looks. I obey him, pulling off my right boot. Ignoring the cold sting to my feet, I shake out my boot, and the key falls to the ground. I pick it up and hand it to him, straining to see his face beneath the hood. A stiff claw hand reaches for the key.

        “Yes. This is it just like the others,” he mumbles. The key disappears inside his cloak. His yellow eyes stare at me from underneath his hood.

“Heather Corbyn,” he mutters softly.

        “Yes?” I react to the gentleness of his tone and move in a little closer.

        “I am Ian, your grandfather. Today marks the beginning of your new life.” He announces. “We are Crow-yans.” On those words, he turns his hood down. He is bald with deep crows’ feet and weathered skin.

        “Crow-yans?” I repeat, still stuck on the words of him being my grandfather.

        “Yes. You are a Crow-yan,” he smiles at me. “We have been waiting.”

        “We?” I gulp.

  “Yes, granddaughter,” On the old man’s words a flock of crows appear in the sky; they soar down towards us, transposing into men and women before they hit the ground. I stifle a shriek looking at them all.

“Welcome to the family, Heather,” an old woman says. Her tunic, unlike the old man’s, is glossy and black. She bows her head as if I was royalty, her smile as gracious as a new mother.

-30-