The Crow Folk Read online

  Was there a time before this?

  She had asked the birds, but they did not understand.

  Suky did not want to defy her Pumpkinhead, but the birds had come and spoken to her this morning and she could not help but listen. They had told her how so many of their brothers and sisters had cried in fear before falling from the sky and dying over the village; they had told her how they helped a girl and a boy lost in the woods; they had told Suky she was pretty and that they were glad she wasn’t stuck in a field any more.

  Suky could not be sure how she understood their twittering. It just came to her mind like a song she knew the words to. They didn’t stay long – they were afraid of Pumpkinhead – but they promised to come back, though they still could not answer her questions.

  She didn’t want to ask the others. Some were playing horns and clacking sticks as the rest danced in circles. Most looked mindless to Suky, or confused as if they had woken from a slumber.

  Pumpkinhead led the dance, striking his cowbell faster and faster. The band’s tempo increased and the dancers began to whirl like falling sycamore seeds. Pumpkinhead’s zigzag smile widened as the dance became a kind of frenzy. He beckoned her to join.

  Suky smiled politely and shook her head while sitting on her hands. She had little joy for dancing.

  Pumpkinhead’s smile narrowed. He began to move around the dance towards her. Suky could not help but be thrilled that he would be with her soon. She had no heart to beat or skin to tingle, but somewhere in her mind she felt a flush of joy at the thought of spending time with her Pumpkinhead. The dancers had their own rhythm now and they continued to twirl as Pumpkinhead tossed the cowbell and stick away and sat next to Suky on the old stone steps.

  ‘Are you troubled, my sister? Why not join the dance?’

  ‘I ain’t much in the mood for dancing and cavorting and such,’ Suky said. ‘I am content to sit here and sort through my jumbly thoughts.’

  ‘And what jumbly thoughts are they, sister Suky?’

  He called her by her name. She felt the memory of excitement and blushing.

  ‘Confused thoughts. Childish thoughts. I’m being a silly blabber and I shan’t bother you with them.’

  ‘But you must.’ Pumpkinhead took her gloved hand in his. ‘We are the crow folk, we share our thoughts and dreams. It is no bother. Please. Tell me.’

  Suky watched her brothers and sisters dancing for a moment longer. A voice in her head told her that a problem shared was a problem halved. It troubled her that such thoughts arrived in her head like an echo from another place, another Suky.

  ‘If we are indeed named the crow folk,’ Suky started, ‘then why ain’t we friends with the crows and other birds? Why do we fear them so?’

  ‘We do not fear them, Suky.’ Pumpkinhead bristled at the suggestion. ‘They fear us.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Suky dipped her head. ‘I din’t mean nothing by it.’

  ‘No, no. It is a good question.’ Pumpkinhead craned his head up to the sky, scanning for birds. ‘There was a time when we were friends with the birds, especially the crows, ravens and jackdaws. We danced with them as your brothers and sisters do now. We sang songs, told stories and watched over the land, spirits and guardians together. Then men came. They grew their crops and wanted it all for themselves. They drove a wedge between us. They changed us. Deformed us. Made us hideous to scare our old friends and now they scatter at the very sight of us.’ Pumpkinhead turned back to Suky. She felt his eyes upon her. ‘But that is not what troubles you, is it, sister?’ he said. ‘Tell me. Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I have these memories swishing about in my head,’ Suky said, squeezing his hand. ‘Thoughts of another time. Another me. They’re as distant and thin as clouds in the sky, but I feel them there all the same, like scraps of a dream. What does it mean, my Pumpkinhead?’

  Pumpkinhead glanced over at their brothers and sisters as they danced, then he turned back to Suky, his voice low. ‘You are not like the others,’ he told her. ‘Your mind is fast and canny as a fox’s. I like that. What does it mean? It means I can trust you to help me make all our lives more content.’

  ‘How can we do that? We can’t do nothing but dance all day. We must have a home, a place to rest our weary bones – not that we has bones as such – but a home all the same. Otherwise, what is the point of us?’

  ‘I have had some thoughts about that,’ Pumpkinhead said, gesturing at the abbey, then at the wood surrounding it. ‘This place still has some of the old power.’

  ‘You mean the thing what made us what we are.’

  ‘I speak of magic.’

  Suky hesitated. ‘I don’t rightly believe in magic.’

  ‘And yet here we are.’ Pumpkinhead spread his arms wide. ‘What more proof do you need?’

  ‘I believe in you,’ Suky told him. ‘I believe in us crow folk here and now, and if you reckon it’s magic what brung us together, then yes, I do believe in it very much.’

  ‘Very good, sister, very good. There’s hardly any magic left in this realm, which makes it all the more precious, and it’s what keeps us thriving and together. There is a book…’ he began, then stopped as if he had said too much.

  ‘What sort of book?’ Suky asked. ‘A magical book?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Pumpkinhead leaned closer to her, excited, like a boy with a secret. Suky had never seen him like this. ‘A book of spells, my sister, with words and pictures of magic and ritual and power. It is in the village somewhere. I can feel its strength, even from here. If we could find it, we could use it. Imagine. Our brothers and sisters working together with magic to create a haven. A place of our own where we will never be disturbed. You want that, don’t you, Suky?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ Suky said. ‘Who has this book of spells? Where will we find it? And how do you know it’s here?’

  ‘Someone has been using it,’ Pumpkinhead said. ‘A witch of great power has been reciting its words. When she does so, the book sings to me, sister Suky, like a bird in a cage, and I want to free that bird and make it fly high. I want magic to soar and do wonderful things for us.’

  ‘Like singing songs with the birds again?’

  ‘Yes, yes, if you like.’ Pumpkinhead patted Suky’s hands at her simple thought. ‘But that will be just the start. For too long have men and witches jealously guarded the secrets of magic. If we could find that book, we would be free.’

  ‘And make peace with the birds?’

  ‘Peace. Yes, Suky. For so long have I yearned for peace.’

  ‘Then we should toddle off to the village and ask them for it.’

  ‘You have seen how they react to us,’ Pumpkinhead said mournfully. ‘They have no clue of the book’s power. If they did, they would surely destroy it, and with it any hope we have of happiness. I don’t need to tell you what that would mean for you, me, our brothers and sisters.’

  Suky watched the other crow folk as they spun to the beat. ‘No more dancing and cavorting and such,’ she said.

  ‘No more dancing, no more you, or me. You have to understand, Suky, the likes of us confuse and befuddle the people in the village. They have not come across our kind in their memories, and they recognise us only from their nightmares and shadows.’

  ‘We can’t… share it with them like good children?’

  ‘I am all for sharing, but the truth is most humans have little comprehension of magic. And once they fathom there is magic to be had, they will want it all for themselves. That’s what humans are like. They are jealous and greedy and they never know when their bellies are full. They will take and take and take until there is no more. And we must not let that happen, Suky.’ Pumpkinhead squeezed her hand in his. ‘Never forget we have every right to live and be as we please. I shall make a promise to you now. Once we take possession of the book, we will have a home, we will be a family and we will be happy.’

  ‘Master. Master!’ A cry echoed around the stone walls, bringing the music to a faltering end. The dancing s
topped and all heads turned to see the blackbird scarecrow come flapping from the wood and into the ruins of the abbey.

  Pumpkinhead’s hand slipped from Suky’s as he stood. ‘What news, brother?’

  ‘The village,’ the blackbird scarecrow said, all jittery with his arms flailing back and forth as he hurried to kneel before Pumpkinhead. ‘The village is… it’s… I saw… and brother Ernie—’

  Pumpkinhead rested his hand on the blackbird scarecrow’s head. ‘Calm yourself, brother. Speak only the truth. What of brother Ernie?’

  ‘He is gone,’ the blackbird scarecrow said.

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘The witch spurned him and he was torn to pieces and he is now but straw on the wind.’

  Suky’s hand went to her mouth. Around her rose wails of sorrow. Pumpkinhead’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘And there’s more,’ the blackbird scarecrow said. ‘The village is protected by black salt, brother. We cannot go in. It burns, brother, it will burn us all. I was warned off by the white-haired witch. Go away and don’t come back, she said with flames. And she said you would know what this meant.’

  Pumpkinhead nodded and embraced the blackbird scarecrow. ‘Thank you, brother. You are brave to bring us this news.’ He turned to the others. ‘Did you hear that, brothers and sisters? They mean to frighten us with witchcraft. We cannot let them do this. We will not let them drive us away. Brothers and sisters, I just made a promise to sister Suky, and I make this promise to you, too. We will have a home, a family. We will be happy.’

  There were cheers from the crow folk. Suky stayed silent.

  ‘We must stand together in the face of witchcraft,’ Pumpkinhead said. ‘We cannot wait for them to attack. We must be decisive. We must—’

  ‘No more hurting people,’ Suky blurted, then covered her mouth with her hand. Pumpkinhead was staring at her, and she prickled with a little fear and shame, but she continued all the same. Suky lowered her hand and spoke some more. ‘That Craddock was a bad man and we did what we did, and none of us took pleasure in it, and it’s in the past. But I want no more people hurt on our account. Promise me, my Pumpkinhead.’

  And then she saw it. A little flash of anger in her Pumpkinhead’s eyes, a tiny blister of frustration. A blink and it was gone.

  ‘We cannot trust them, sister Suky,’ he said, his smile back in place. ‘You saw how quickly that woman gave up Craddock to us. They betray their own kind, and they will destroy us.’

  ‘I don’t like it when we fight,’ Suky said, another memory bubbling to the surface, one from another life. ‘We must parley with them. Make peace.’

  There were murmurs of agreement around her, and she could see Pumpkinhead’s eyes dart to spot each dissenter as if remembering them for later.

  ‘Yes, yes, parley. Sister Suky is right,’ Pumpkinhead said, all sincere. ‘But how, my sister? If we can’t go into the village, how can we talk?’

  ‘It’s easy as pumpkin pie, my Pumpkinhead,’ Suky said. ‘We bring them to us.’

  24 SMOKE GETS IN YOUR MIND

  ‘We need to prove that scarecrow Suky and graveyard Suky are one and the same,’ Faye said. ‘And if we can find out who this Suky is, then we might figure out where she came from and why she’s come back as a scarecrow.’ Faye and Charlotte were marching around the side of the church. Faye was thrilled to be walking side by side with a proper witch and talking about living scarecrows. It meant she wasn’t half as barmy as she’d thought she was this morning. It also meant she couldn’t tell anyone else about what was happening, otherwise they would think she was completely barmy. She would worry about that later.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Charlotte asked as they left the church graveyard.

  ‘Here’s the thing, I know who she is,’ Faye said, tapping the side of her head. ‘It’s up here somewhere, I’m sure of it. I just need to shake it loose.’

  ‘I’m not sure we have time for that.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Faye turned up a path towards the vicarage cottage. The thatch on the roof had seen better days, but the garden with its herbaceous borders was a riot of peonies and lupins in purples, pinks, yellows and oranges. Bees buzzed all around them, and somewhere a chicken clucked as she announced the laying of an egg. ‘The parish records have every birth, marriage and death in this village since the year fifteen-something-or-other. She’ll be in there, we’ll find her.’

  ‘Very good,’ Charlotte said with a grin. ‘I quite enjoy putting the willies up Reverend Jacobs. He fondles his cross whenever he sees me.’ Charlotte increased her pace and overtook Faye. She strode along the gravel path to the front door of the cottage and knocked like a debt collector.

  As they waited, Charlotte stuffed her clay pipe with tobacco and struck a match to light it, puffing it into life.

  ‘A pipe?’ Faye frowned. ‘Now? Bit rude, ain’t it?’

  Charlotte gave her a wink as she lit and sucked. She raised an impatient fist to knock on the cottage door again when it swung open. Reverend Jacobs’ smile vanished immediately and, as predicted, his hand darted to the silver cross around his neck.

  ‘M-miss Charlotte.’ He forced a grin, looking to Faye and wondering what devilry had brought these two together. ‘How can I help you on this fine—’

  ‘We need to see the parish records,’ Charlotte demanded between sucks of her pipe.

  ‘Please,’ added Faye, giving Charlotte a glare of disapproval. ‘Where are your manners? Sorry, Reverend. I think they’re in the vestry. Would it be possible to—’

  ‘Ah.’ The vicar stretched his lips. ‘Technically you need to make an appointment with the sexton and that would be for Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays between the hours of—’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Charlotte snapped, getting another look from Faye. ‘We need to see them now.’

  ‘Really.’ Faye shook her head. ‘What are you like? My dad always told me that good manners cost nothing. How did your parents bring you up?’

  ‘My mother drowned not long after I was born and my father died in agony when I was four.’

  ‘Well…’ Faye faltered. ‘That’s still no excuse for rudeness.’ She turned back to the reverend. ‘Would it be possible to quickly let us in now?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m rather busy,’ he said, moving to close his door. ‘Frightfully sorry, but I have to—’

  He found Charlotte’s gumboot jammed between the door and the frame. She took a long drag on her pipe, the tobacco embers glowing red and white. Slowly and deliberately, she exhaled smoke over the vicar’s face. Faye stiffened, recognising the warm and sweet honey scent of Charlotte’s tobacco. It was the same blend that had made her feel so woozy in the Green Man the other night.

  ‘Good Reverend,’ Charlotte said, nice as pie. ‘I wonder if you could kindly spare just a few minutes of your precious time to open up the vestry and leave us to look through the records? We should be forever in your debt and your place among the angels would surely be assured.’ She turned to a stunned Faye. ‘Polite enough?’

  ‘Just a few minutes, you say?’ Reverend Jacobs’ words slurred into one another and his eyelids were heavy. ‘I’m-I’m-I’m sure that won’t be a…’ He trailed off and looked around as if surprised to be there. ‘I say. What was I—’

  ‘The keys, Reverend, if you please.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, of course, keys, keys, keys,’ he said, and ambled back into the cottage to find them.

  Faye drew closer to Charlotte and hissed in her ear, ‘What the hell are you doing? What’s in that pipe?’

  ‘My own special blend.’

  ‘I bet it is. You used it on me at the pub the other night, didn’t you? What is it? Some sort of magic baccy? You can’t do that to people.’

  Charlotte said nothing, blowing more smoke over Faye’s face.

  ‘Stop it.’ Faye recoiled and waved it away.

  The jingle of keys came from inside the cottage and Charlotte raised a finger. Shh.

  ‘Here we are,’ Reverend
Jacobs said, holding a ring of half a dozen black iron keys aloft and sliding them around one by one. ‘Now, which one is for the vestry?’

  ‘This one.’ Charlotte snatched the keys from him.

  ‘Ah, splendid. Do you need me to open up for you?’ the vicar asked.

  ‘We’ll take it from here, thank you, Reverend. You’re too kind.’ Charlotte gave him a wink and reached for the door. The vicar stepped back, clutching his cross again as she pulled the door shut.

  ‘Just pop them through the letter box when you’re done,’ he called from inside, but Charlotte was already striding back towards the church.

  ‘You can’t go around messing with people’s minds with your strange tobaccy,’ Faye insisted as she caught up with Charlotte.

  ‘No? I promise never to do it again.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ Charlotte said, pipe clenched between her teeth as they came to the vestry door around the back of the church. She slipped in the old iron key, unlocking the door. ‘I do.’

  * * *

  The vestry, also known as the sacristy, was a dark and chilly room all year round. Located to the rear of the main altar, it was where the candles, vestments, holy oils, hangings and altar linens were stored on teetering shelves. As Charlotte and Faye stepped in, a shaft of daylight revealed a stone washbasin for the linens against one wall and, at the back of the room, an oak trunk the size of a child’s cot. The parish chest.

  ‘Hold this.’ Charlotte handed Faye the still-smoking pipe. The girl held it at arm’s length as Charlotte picked another key and crouched down to open the padlock.

  ‘Where do we start?’ Faye asked.

  ‘The headstone said Suky was born in 1868 and died 1890, yes?’ Charlotte tossed away the padlock and flipped up the lid.