THE SHADOW OF A WING OVER THE OLD HOUSE
Moving into the weathered house on the outskirts of York brought a whirlwind of new experiences, yet nothing could have prepared me for the strange, almost mystical encounter that awaited beyond the threshold.
One crisp morning, as the sun barely broke through the clouds, a knock echoed from the door leading to the back garden. I froze. The garden door? Who could possibly be knocking there? My heart skipped a beat with uneasy anticipation, and holding my breath, I slowly opened it. Before me, strutting across the porch with an air of purpose, stood a great raven. Its black eyes bored into me with such certainty, as if it were the rightful owner of the house, and I the unwelcome intruder.
“Good morning,” I blurted out. “Are you here for me?”
“For you? For you? Who else, then? King Cole himself?” The raven’s voice was rough yet commanding, as though it were accustomed to giving orders.
“Well… King Cole certainly doesn’t live here,” I mumbled, feeling disorientation wash over me.
“So, you’re the new tenants, then?” The raven tilted its head, scrutinizing me from head to toe, as if deciding whether I was worth its time.
“Yes, we… we’ve just moved in,” I nodded, still struggling to make sense of the situation.
“Oh, aren’t you grand! A proper orator’s guild we’ve got here!” it sneered. “A schoolmistress, are you?”
“No, not at all, I’m just—” I stammered, feeling like a child caught misbehaving. “Sorry…”
“Right, enough of that,” it cut me off. “Got a cat in the house?”
“No, not yet… why?”
“Then you’re in charge. You’ll do for talking to. Understood?”
“Uh-huh…” slipped out before I could stop myself.
“Not ‘uh-huh,’ ‘understood’!” it snapped.
“Understood,” I corrected, flushing. “Thank you…”
“Listen close. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, sizing you up, so to speak. And here’s what I’ll say about your dogs. The black one’s a proper lad. Pinched a bone from him this morning, and he didn’t so much as blink. Quick thinker, that one! But that ginger bitch of yours—” The raven narrowed its eyes. “Thinks she’s a wolfhound. Bark at me again, and she’ll get a peck on the noggin. Clear?”
“Clear,” I said, a chill crawling down my spine. “Please forgive her. She’s from the shelter, she’s… well, traumatized, has PTSD…”
“From the shelter, you say?” The raven scoffed. “And left her wits there too, did she? All brawn, no brains, that one. Bit dim, no offence.”
“A little,” I admitted. “But I’m training her. She’s obedient, really!”
“Anyway, consider yourself warned,” it said curtly. “Now, about your children.”
“Oh, they’re wonderful!” I babbled, hoping to soften its tone. “They respect nature, adore animals! My daughter rescues spiders, moves them to safer spots. And my son—he’s released so many lizards from the house! They’ve even saved turtles from the road…”
“Have they now?” The raven eyed me suspiciously. “Bit keen on the crawly ones, aren’t they? Reptilian sympathizers, are they?”
“No, of course not!” I nearly choked. “They’re just normal, human children! I never even thought—”
“You don’t need to think. You need to watch, listen, and take note,” the raven lifted a wing pointedly. “Got it?”
“Got it,” I nodded, feeling its gaze pierce right through me.
“Right, since you’re the one in charge, pay attention. We’ll be watching you, so make sure there’s shade in the garden—this heat’s unbearable. Put water out, up high, and add ice—we like it chilled. And we won’t drink from the dog’s bowl, mind. Leave treats too. We’re not fussy, but we’ve got standards. Come winter, light a fire—we’ll stop by to warm ourselves. Heard it’ll be a bitter one. And keep things tidy! This is a quiet neighbourhood, these trees are ancient. Understood?”
“Yes, absolutely! Understood! Thank you!” I nodded, utterly spellbound.
“Here’s a feather,” the raven plucked a gleaming black quill and thrust it into my hand. “Stick it in your hat, so everyone knows you’re under our protection. That’s all for now.”
With a flap of its wings, it vanished into the branches of the old oak, leaving me clutching the feather, my head spinning with questions. What do ravens eat? What treats would suit them? And how on earth had I ended up under their “protection”?
I stood on the porch, staring into nothingness. The wind rustled the leaves, and from deep in the garden came a caw—approving or mocking, I couldn’t tell.
Later, I learned ravens fancy nuts, cheese, even crusts of bread. I set out a bowl of water on the old bench, added ice as instructed. A canvas awning appeared in the garden, and come winter, I lit a fire. True to their word, they came, huddling close, eyes glinting in the flames.
But above all, I understood this: with the locals, be they folk or ravens, it’s best to find common ground. They guard the peace of this house, these trees, this garden. And perhaps, in their wise old eyes, there’s more than meets the gaze at first glance.
