Chapter 1: A Murder in the Park

At this time the birds also had their own language which everyone understood; now it only sounds like chirping, screeching, and whistling, and to some, like music without words. It came into the birds’ mind, however, that they would no longer be without a ruler, and would choose one of themselves to be their king.

--The Brothers Grimm, “The Willow-Wren”

Until her sixth year on this Earth, Grace thought everyone could talk to birds, instead of just her. She was now seven—soon to be eight—and knew better. It is important, so early on, to explain what was truly extraordinary was that the birds talked back.

You might say “Oh, that’s not so amazing. A parrot once talked to me.” Maybe Polly (there seems to be some law mandating all parrots have that name) once asked you for a cracker. But, can you honestly say you shared a conversation? Small talk, maybe, but nothing close to a discussion. The difference for Grace is that after crying “Polly want a cracker!” the parrot might then wink to her and boast “See how well I’ve trained my pet human? Now watch them clean up my droppings!”

Every call, quack, coo, or caw you might have heard out a bird’s mouth carried a secret meaning as perfectly obvious to Grace as Polly trying to shake you down for a treat. That is the way to think of it: a secret. If a secret can, in fact, be held amongst millions of creatures. From puffins at the North Pole down to penguins in Antarctica, there is nowhere birds cannot be found. This was particularly evident in the city Grace knew. Birds from every other spot in the world came there. If not by their own wings, then by boats or planes and, once, even a lawn chair supported by balloons.

Whenever it became known a girl understood them like no other human could, birds sought her out, usually to ask for things. She tried to oblige, but there were so many, and not all asked politely. There was also the issue of some requests not being very sensible. Not all bird species possessed equal intelligence. Some breeds proved incredibly stupid, with very little worth saying. Of course, they still spoke, usually much louder and more often than the intelligible birds. Chickens, for example, made poor conversationalists.

On a hot, humid day, Grace and her mother, whose name was Desdemona, were celebrating Juneteenth on a farm owned by relatives. Around lunchtime, the girl decided to scoop a few red beans off her plate to feed to some chickens. This went fine until a short (yet still very plump) hen angrily barged over demanding to know the time. “It’s of the utmost importance!” the hen said with a high-strung squawk. “I heard the sky might be falling any minute now!” 

Grace found her father, whose name was Daniel, and inspected his wristwatch. The one painted gold with all the “I’s” and “V’s” and “X’s” on it. Translating to regular numbers, she answered “It’s 12:22 P.M.”

“Oh good.” The hen sighed with relief. “That means the world hasn’t ended yet. But it still might happen soon! What time is it now?”

“Um… 12:23 P.M,” Grace mumbled. This went on for hours, and all the gathered family laughed and wondered about the chicken following the girl around so intently, long after she finished handing out beans. Grace did not at all feel bad when her hosts slaughtered, skinned, barbequed, and presented the hen for supper. The bird was just that annoying. On the plus side, she tasted delicious.

 Geese were smarter than chickens, but that hardly made them nicer. From spring to autumn, they commandeered all parks in the neighborhood, bragging about beating everyone up and complaining that their winter homes were far superior to where they presently chose to settle.

There were the birds who lived in the city year-round. While they ran the gamut from kind to cruel, same as humans, they fundamentally shared the quality of loudness. Just stepping outside her home plunged Grace in the middle of a hundred conversations all running at the same time above, below, and beside her. Little wonder, then, she had limited time to spare for other humans, especially strangers.

Though she eventually came to accept other humans did not experience the world as she did, Grace had yet to wonder why she could understand these secret conversations. No more than someone questioned why they could see colors. The language of birds was intuitive, not something which must be learned like English. There were no schools for it, least as far as Grace knew. Had they existed, she might have genuinely felt excited to attend First Grade, instead of loathing the whole idea.

 “Why couldn’t we just learn outside?” she asked her parents, “Instead of in a stuffy room.” The out-of-doors had their own issues. Occasionally, she wished for a way to turn off the constant stream of sounds, when it became too much. That, too, would have be a useful thing to learn. Brief luck she managed to put off the doubtlessly dull schooling till next autumn. The time she could spend freely with her friends turned evermore precious.

The absolute best birds to talk to were corvids. Though Grace had not met every type, this included crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, and magpies. Bluejays were the only exception, who talked at others, not with them, always about their supposed greatness. They were bullies, and generally ignored by the rest of the family. Crows, on the other wing, proved learned enough to speak on any subject, but held enough mischievousness inside not to act too pompously. 

While the girl heard the sound of the words birds used, she did not automatically understand their definitions. Grace only had to ask the crows to have any meanings patiently explained. She learned numerous big words from those scratchy voices which sounded like they all came down with colds.

But, they spent most of their time searching out entertainment. Together, they played all sorts of pranks on the geese. With nothing but yellow paint, a brush, and stealth, Grace convinced the obnoxious water birds that their eggs had turned to solid gold overnight.

 “We’re rich! We’re rich!” the father geese honked. “Let’s sell them and leave this dump forever! We’ll go south permanently!”

 Naturally, the mother geese were not partial to this plan. In the end, the father geese wound up with heads covered with bumps and bruises. The eggs remained unsold. Grace and her crow friends watched all this hidden in the tall branches of a copse.  Holding in their sides so as not to give themselves away with laughter, bringing the goose’s bottomless wrath on them.

Because the park was not far from the apartment her family lived in, Grace could spend a most productive morning digging up worms with an old, rusted trowel her uncle was not using anymore. This was an established part of her daily routine, and she saw no reason to alter it. Every day at the exact time, regardless of whether leaves on the trees were green, wet, flame-colored, brown, or fallen. That was how she marked the time of year. It seemed more straightforward than a calendar.

 That morning, a few already half-naked trees refused to give up the yellow-brown coverings barely preserving those last vestiges of their modesty. The majority of trees, however, had long since surrendered to fall, resulting in huge piles of leaves round-about, great for stomping through.

Content with the fullness of her shiny metal bucket, Grace decided to do just that. She pushed the drooping red kerchief out of her eyes and dusted off knees to a pair of overalls disclosing only the barest hint of once being blue. The leaves made a satisfying crunch as the girl strayed from the sidewalk. Away from aged retirees at a pond, feeding stale breadcrumbs to ducks the girl alone knew would never appreciate such generosity.

Distracted, she almost tripped over a fat tabby cat spreading out to soak up the maximum amount of sunlight. His fur: varied bands of browns, grays, silvers, creams, tawnies, and blacks, granted perfect camouflage amongst the fallen foliage. 

 “I’m sorry,” Grace said, though she doubted a cat could understand. No cat (or dog, or mouse, or fish, for that matter) ever attempted to make contact to that level. It still made for an opportunity to practice manners, something her mother always said she could improve on.

The cat did not growl, hiss, meow, or make any other form of vocal acknowledgement, merely seeming to shrug his fat shoulders. He was probably just stretching to a more comfortable position. Grace considered curtseying to the tabby, but was not entirely sure what that meant. She only ever known the word in books her grandmother provided. She figured it had something to do with bowing, but lady-like. She tried anyway.

Even the most polluted cities in the world cannot entirely stamp out the green, wild things that existed thousands of generations before humans came along. No matter how much metal, concrete, or plastic covers the land, it still finds cracks to grow up from. While some parks are well planned, kept neat by workers typically paid too little, there are also parks like where Grace’s friends lived.

City laborers repeatedly tried cutting down the feral region, but eventually gave up in frustration. The plants always grew back, taking up twice the area as before. To avoid a strike, and then a panic, the mayor declared it a “park.” It was one of those places people once called “magic,” but nowadays do not call much of anything. Each day, such places become increasingly rarer. But they can still be discovered, even if you must look very closely. Grace, though, discovered the hollow by accident. In trying to find peace from the dull chatter and gossip filling everywhere while going nowhere, she had developed the habit of seeking out small places, quiet and well-hidden.

Tightly gripping the bucket with its precious cargo, Grace weaved between the thickest, wildest trees, out of the duck pond’s sight. By experience, she avoided thorns. Whistling a nonsense tune made up on the spot, she strolled over a forgotten stone bridge so ancient that, at this point, it was mostly held together by moss. 

There, where criss-crossing branches shut out most light, Grace felt safer than anywhere else. Save for some whispers, the dark space felt so quiet you might forget you were still in a city. While she could not make out the words, she could tell the Murder felt agitated.

It always seemed harsh to Grace that a group of crows would be called something as violent as a “Murder.” While the clever black birds were, admittedly, fond of roughhousing, it was generally meant in good fun.

Ol’ Hoary, the father of the family that made this secret hollow home, explained that humans, not crows, came up with the term. In fact, it was people who tried killing crows, not the other way around. All because the birds felt it fair to share those bits of food left thoughtlessly unattended in streets and fields. The mocking appropriation of the term perfectly illustrates corvid humor.

Ol’ Hoary’s proper name was Hoarfrost, though he rarely went by it. He was not at the central tree that morning, which suited Grace fine. She liked Ol’ Hoary well enough, but he lived up to his name, being not only ancient by crow standards, but also rather grouchy.  Not how she came to expect fathers to behave.

The six siblings still living at home were, from oldest to youngest, Albumen, who shared their father’s albinism; Dusky, who spent all his time sunbathing; Waif, the largest in the family, but was not always that way; Jackanapes, who liked nothing more than stealing baubles; Offal, who so far had eaten everything placed in front of him; and Ragamuffin, the only daughter. Grace received the honor of naming her last spring, from a word which sounded funny in a book she read.

Finally, there was the mother of the Murder, and Grace’s favorite bird in the world. Her full name was Tatterdemalion, but everyone—even her husband—called her Mrs. Tatters. It was less of a beakful. If Ol’ Hoary was the opposite of Grace’s father, Mrs. Tatters was much like her mother. Only, the crow never told Grace to do chores or keep clean. While human mothers had to work, crows had no need for money, though some admired shiny objects for beauty’s sake. 

Mrs. Tatters was perching on a tree apart from where her chicks conspired, staring off into the sky when Grace proudly approached.

“Good morning, Mrs. Tatters.” Grace held up her bucket. “I’ve got plenty of juicy, delicious worms for you and your babies!” She hoped hunger was the sole issue bothering her friends. “Well, I think they might be delicious. I’ve never eaten any, so…”

The mother crow startled from her perch, but quickly composed herself. “Lower your voice, child. We crows must stay alert, for a fight might ensue at any time. Take yourself home, dear, where it’s no doubt safer. This is no business for humans.” Mrs. Tatters resumed her lookout.

Grace tried following the crow’s line-of-sight, and hurt her neck bending back so far. If she had returned home as the mother bird advised, the rest of her life would doubtlessly have turned out happier. But significantly less exciting.

As is, the girl stayed, putting down her bucket. “If your family’s in danger, Mrs. Tatters, I want to help. I’m bigger and stronger than any bird! Like in the war we had with the geese last year.” To emphasis her strength, Grace put hands to hips and puffed out her chest as far as it would go.   

Mrs. Tatters shook her head. “This is not a matter of mere force, dear. It entails cunning, vigilance. The borders of our—I mean specifically the Murder’s—territory might be breached. Even now, my husband’s on a spying mission.”

“Was,” said a low-pitched voice. Ol’ Hoary had returned. Wife and husband were markedly different in appearance. In coloration, Mrs. Tatters’ feathers were black except the tips, which were brown. Ol’ Hoary’s plumage was stubbornly white. While she always looked a bit disheveled, taking care of so many chicks, he always stayed prim and sleek, helping him fly from any predator that spotted him while he foraged. Her beak was so black it almost turned blue. His beak was faded pink. Her eyes were large, dark, and warm. His eyes were a bloody red, making him near blind in bright sunlight. Finally, his body was longer, but she was wider.

“There’s no mistaking,” the father crow continued, “A raven has invaded our park. A huge, ancient one other birds call ‘Chiaroscuro’.”

“Husband, we can’t be certain he’s specifically here to pillage us.” Mrs. Tatters sidled to Ol’ Hoary and used her beak to comb the back of his neck.

They seemed to have forgotten Grace’s presence. The worm-bucket lay at her feet, but she nervously fiddled with the trowel in her front pocket. She had to do this sometimes if she wanted to pay attention. Now, the girl did not want to miss any information about this potential threat to her friends.

“We also can’t risk it. As a chick, I lost many siblings to the gluttony of ravens.” Ol’ Hoary turned his red eyes in the direction of where the crow kids gathered. “Some even before they hatched!”

“But this is well past the laying season, husband,” Mrs. Tatters pointed out, “and our chicks are too big to simply snatch up.”

Even Ragamuffin, whom Grace knew from an egg, would be hard to carry off in one piece. Waif or Offal would prove impossible.

“Well, I suppose they’re strong fledglings that take care of each…” Ol’ Hoary began. Then, their oldest son sprang into the air.

“It’s here, it’s here!” Albumen let out the alarm. “The raven’s here!” With each frantic leap he landed on a higher branch, till his white feathers glinted in the sun.

“Everybody hide!” yelped Dusky. He rarely panicked, so the few times he did made up for lost times.

“I’m no coward,” rebuffed Waif. The large crow pulled his wings back to showcase his chest. “I’ll stay and defend my home!”

“Nuts to that,” Jackanapes said with an uneven laugh. “I call the spot under the bridge.”

Offal said nothing, but dropped the worm he had picked out of Grace’s bucket. She had not even realized he had gotten so close to her. She had only concentrated on Mrs. Tatters and her husband.

“What’ll we do, Gracie?” Ragamuffin flew to Grace’s shoulder, digging her claws in, but not deep enough to leave scratches.

“You’ll do exactly as your parents tell you,” blasted Ol’ Hoary.

“And we say find a safe place to hold up,” finished Mrs. Tatters.

Crows and ravens are often mistaken for each other. This is not unreasonable, as the species are closely related. There are several differences to distinguish them, however. The average raven is much bigger than an average crow. A raven’s beak is thick and block-shaped while a crow’s forms a sharp triangle. Additionally, raven’s tails come to a diamond tip, while crow tail feathers round off.

Beyond physical details, the two species hold equal intelligence, but generally different lifestyles. Ravens traverse a wide territory while freely joining and leaving groups of up to thousands of their fellows. While young crows also wander, mated adults have specific territories. These are limited in scope, and crow lives are centered around family. Crows were more practical…at least by the loose standards among corvids. Grace had met one or two ravens before, but never in close proximity to crows.

From above, this raven called Chiaroscuro shot into the hollow. Though large, he moved with such agility he avoided any of a hundred tree branches which formed a natural roof over the hollow. Never moving in a straight line, he eventually came to stop at the mossy stone bridge. His larger body was supported on bony legs marred with scars. Some wounds were white and faded, others fresh and pink. He gripped the bridge’s post with callused feet, their toes ending in jagged claws coated in dirt, grime, and what Grace hoped was something other than blood.

Most of his plumage looked so black it never seemed to reflect light, but inevitable, creeping age sprouted bristly white feathers around his eyes. More of the same surrounded his neck, like a mane down to his breast. The intense white of these markings only made the black feathers seem darker by contrast. One eye was taken over by sour, milky cataracts. The other could be called normal if it ever stopped glaring at anything which crossed into its view.

(An “evil eye,” as Grace’s superstitious next-door neighbor would have put it.) 

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Altogether, this seemed like the type of bird best supplied a wide berth. Ol’ Hoary flew over anyway, landing on the next post over. As an albino, the father crow had been born with all-white plumage. Grace once heard, on a cold, dark day fit for cautionary tales, details of his chickhood, when he was still called “Hoarfrost.” His unusual coloring drove him to stand out, not just among other crows, but to predators.

There are almost as many things that eat corvids as corvids eat themselves, which is an ever-lengthening list. Three quarters of the year Hoarfrost proved temptingly easy to track. Even in winter, he still had to deal with vision troubles. That he lived now to seven, an overripe age for a wild crow, illustrates what is needed to know about the father crow’s survival skills.

Ol’ Hoary turned and, gesturing with his beak the same way a human would point with their finger, directed the rest of the Murder to stay back. For the moment. “You there,” he addressed the newcomer evenly, “this hollow is already occupied, and well-guarded by me and my kin.”

Chiaroscuro glared in random directions. Making no acknowledgment he was listening.

“Did you hear me?” asked Ol’ Hoary, “leave immediately, or we might have some conflict.”

The raven remained silent. He made no move to leave. Or any move at all, save his roving eye. The hateful organ fell on many places before resting on the Murder huddled in a tree. Offal nearly fell off his branch. 

Ol’ Hoary saw this, and moved to block Chiaroscuro’s view. Without so much as turning to face the crow, the raven quickly dodged and flew to a leafless branch on a tree across the way. The father crow followed, but again, the raven hopped out of the way at the last second. Ol’ Hoary crashed head-first into the trunk. Chiaroscuro let out a deep laugh, one which rattled his entire body.

“Husband, are you okay?” Among the other crows, Mrs. Tatters made the first gesture to cross the distance. But she remained before her chicks. Tried keeping them behind with her fully-spread wings. 

Chiaroscuro’s glare continued roaming. Grace shuddered when it fell on her. But in a moment, it was back on the move.

Then, Albumen broke from his mother and came to Ol’ Hoary. The father crow brushed him aside while finding a new perch. “Dad, you okay?”

“Everywhere except my skull, son.”

Waif grumbled. “Is no one else going to do anything?” He also pushed free of his mother’s wings, and headed right for the invading raven.

“Boy, come back here!” Mrs. Tatter’s speech turned to a series of cawing.

Waif crashed into Chiaroscuro, and they started grappling. Considering how fast the raven already proved himself, he must have let Waif make contact on purpose.

 “Ugh, this is boring,” the raven soon said with a croak. His voice was deeper than the comparatively shrill crows. Rough, like someone who smoked cigarettes with broken glass in them. With a casual sigh, Chiaroscuro kicked Waif away.

In following moments, everyone except Grace went mad. The Murder began mobbing Chiaroscuro. Mrs. Tatters crossed to Waif first, followed by Ol’ Hoary, then the rest. Grace stuck out a hand to keep Ragamuffin from joining in, but that did nothing to stop the fighting, and Ragamuffin got past, anyway.

The Murder surrounded Chiaroscuro, clawing and pecking in only the loosest possible formation. Going by his insane cackling, the raven seemed more entertained than bothered. Chiaroscuro regularly somersaulted out of his opponents’ grasps. Any crows deemed too close were sent away by powerful kicks. But he never seemed to dig in his talons. Not like the crow mob, who also tried stabbing with their beaks.

In all Grace’s years knowing this Murder—going back to the time she first toddled—she never witnessed them behave in a way which justified the brutality of that term. With the evidence before her, it now felt painfully clear, even though she was not being clawed and pecked herself. Whether exploiting his claws or hammerhead beak or not, Chiaroscuro was still much larger than any of Grace’s friends. The raven could crush them if the fight turned just a bit uglier. In just these few minutes of the fray, no bird could claim to come out of the struggle uninjured.

“Wait, wait, stop!” Grace furiously waved her hands to get everyone’s attention. There was a pause of a few seconds. Now, she thought, just turn that into minutes. “Mrs. Tatters, let me try to convince the raven to leave.”

This was far from the first time the girl has sent foreign birds away peacefully. Out of respect to Grace’s skills of persuasion, Ol’ Hoary and Mrs. Tatters called their children back to the central tree. They silently tended each other, except Waif, who pushed anyone away. They perched close enough to swoop back within moments.

“A real diplomat, then.” It was the first time Chiaroscuro addressed Grace personally. He sat on a branch the same height as her face. He inspected her first with his evil eye, then the one with cataracts, even though that one was probably blind. “Fascinating.” On his breath was a sampling of rotten animal carcasses from any number of roadsides. “I’ve heard many humans talk—insults and commands—but you’re the first to communicate on my terms. Where, pray tell, did you pick up that most useful skill?”

“I don’t understand the question,” admitted Grace. Then, with all the sternness she could draw from, asked “But why do you stay here? Ol’ Hoary already said this territory’s taken, and that’s the truth.” In her hands, she twisted the handle of her trowel.

For a time, girl and raven stared at each other, neither backing down. Finally, Chiaroscuro turned his attention to the wounds on his legs and sides. “If I didn’t before, I do now. But I’m not here to stay. I arrived for the storm and stress.”

Though low branches blocked a clear view of sky, Grace knew it to be a sunny, cloudless day. “There’s no storm here.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean a literal storm.” The raven tilted back his rectangular beak the same way snobby humans turn up their noses. “Nothing with rain, lightning, hail, or frogs. No, human chick, I meant a metaphorical storm.”

“A metaphor.” Grace felt she knew the word. “Like, words that aren’t lies, but mean something more than the truth?”

Chiaroscuro tossed his head. “That’s as good a way to define it as any. But there’s also a matter of reparations. Remember, I was assaulted, and only just defended my person.”

“Why you!” Ol’ Hoary’s claws snapped the branch he was sitting on. He found another perch by Mrs. Tatters. “We were defended our territory. If anything, you were the aggressor.”

“Uh-huh?” Chiaroscuro’s voice rattled. “An interloper for sure, but hardly an aggressor. You ganged up on me. That’s not fair.”

“Yeah,” Waif burst out, “I could’ve handled it on my own, without the rest a’ you barging in.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could,” said Chiaroscuro. His tone sounded neutral, but Grace could easily tell he was being sarcastic, even though she typically had difficulty noticing those things.

“That doesn’t alter my thirst for restitution.” Some passion creeped into Chiaroscuro’s voice, though it was unclear how serious it was.

“That means you want something?” Grace asked. She thought quickly while reaching to the ground. “I have this bucket full of yummy worms. I’ll give you all of them now if you promise to leave and not cause any more trouble in this park!” She lifting the bucket onehanded, and tried to smile.

“With almost no exception have I ever turned down a free meal. Not since I began to roam this free land. But I promise, I’m not here to eat anything. Including chicks!” Chiaroscuro spoke this last part while looking in the direction of Mrs. Tatters and Ol’ Hoary. “Far too excited for even a snack.”

“About this…metaphorical storm?” asked Mrs. Tatters. The mother crow paced her branch. “What does that mean?”

 “Ah yes, explanations.” Chiaroscuro’s tone nearly turned friendly. “That might kill some time. You see, on a night I found myself quite bored, a banshee—calling herself lady something or other—unexpectedly appeared. Now, I don’t think she was looking for me, specifically. She just needed someone to get the word out.” The raven paused, as if expected someone to ask what that word was.

When no one responded to the obvious bait, the raven sighed and continued. “Couldn’t understand most of what the ghostly creature said, but I made out something like a riddle going ‘Find the park where the cuckoo bird lives and plays.’ As I was flying through the city, I got this spooky feeling this was the place. It’s so…apart from everything else. Cut off, I mean. If some event best kept secret were to happen anywhere, this would be the perfect setting. You should thank me for letting you know something big—much bigger than I—is going to happen here. Now!”

Except for Offal almost falling off his branch, nothing happened. Chiaroscuro chuckled. “Whoops, I guess not quite yet.”

“My family and I know every inch of this park.” Ol’ Hoary flew to Grace’s shoulder. “There are no cuckoos here.”

 “Now…sir, I really think it’s time for you to go.” Mrs. Tatters alighted on Grace’s other shoulder.

Grace felt sure another fight was about to break out. She was right, but not in any way she might have predicted given what she knew then.

“Anyone else smell smoke?” Ragamuffin broke in. Before anyone could answer, a shooting star—or something doing a passable imitation of one—crashed through the high branches onto the ground.

Hard.

Out of a newly-made crater came two birds, neither resembling anything Grace had seen before. While both were larger than any eagle or vulture she saw at the zoo, one was slightly shorter, and had a face that was mostly beak. It also stunk of sewers and mildew.

The thing that stood out most about this bird, however, was it appeared to be made out of metal. No, made was not the right word. More like grown out of metal. Grace knew right away this was no robot, as in something out of a Saturday afternoon serial. Its form was no clunky box, with visible wires or gears. Everything looked organic—living, breathing iron. 

Disregarding the awful smell, the metal bird might have seemed majestic but for two things. One was that it had to compete with the larger bird, who had a body covered in purple feathers, along with a rainbow crest and tail, the latter sticking out several feet. The violet plumage literally glowed, emitting a pleasant warmth along with the subtle whiff of, of all things, cinnamon. The second thing was the vicious manner which the metal bird tore into its rival. Cruelly curved talons mauled the purple bird’s golden leg.

Wait, not the leg itself, but something tied to the limb. They chased and hurtled about the hollow too fast for Grace to identify the object. Whatever they were fighting over, the metal bird clearly had the advantage. Its jagged, downturned beak sawed the purple bird’s neck, which was not only very long but also very thin. Iron pinions wrapped tight around the glowing bird’s wings, suspending his struggle to get free.

Grace knew the purple bird was a he. Unlike the metal bird, which appeared genderless. Something about how the most beautiful birds were male—compare the peacock to the peahen. 

To be sure, the larger bird tried fighting back, but was ill-equipped with his small beak and claws. While his lean body would no doubt make him a fast flyer, at present he was mortally vulnerable.

“Stop, please…” Grace began, but clearly neither was listening. The bucket she offered to Chiaroscuro fell out of one sweaty hand, as did the trowel from the other. Ol’ Hoary rushed from her shoulder. Any pain left by the scratch marks was eclipsed by shock. 

Ol’ Hoary headed straight for Chiaroscuro. “You brought all this with you, raven,” he charged. “If my chicks get caught in this, you’ll be the only one paying reparations!”

“I’m afraid I can’t take credit for this fantastic fiasco, dear boy.” Chiaroscuro’s voice was cool, but he hopped up and down on his perch. “I just came where the banshee marked as a place of death. Now, you said you guard this place. Are you so tough now you have much worse than me to contend with?”

“You say a place of death,” Ol’ Hoary responded tersely, “Does that specify whose? It won’t be my family if I can help it!”

“Okay.” Given the violence breaking out nearby, Chiaroscuro spoke far too conversationally. “Which should we aim for? Best bet’s on that metal bird being the true aggressor. The purple one is only acting defensively.”

“Wha…?” Ol’ Hoary’s words were lost in a hiss, “You would help drive that monster out of my family’s hollow? Why?” 

“I can’t let you have all the fun!” Chiaroscuro laughed, and skipped into the battle which had never stopped since the metal and purple birds appeared. 

Ol’ Hoary swore under his breath, but followed the raven’s lead. The two struck the same spot in the metal bird’s back. Partially from the impact, but mostly out of surprise, it clumsily fell to the ground. The purple bird went free, and glowed brighter.

“Thank you, new friends. Hello, but goodbye. I shall lead my archenemy away somewhere safe…” The purple bird failed to get another word in, as the metal monster lunged back at him, scissoring its beak on the object tied to his thin leg.

Close up, Grace could see it was a cylinder. A canister? It was made of gold, or painted gold, anyway.  

“This really isn’t the sort of thing for children to see,” Mrs. Tatters fluttered her wings about Grace’s head. “Why are you still here, Gracie? Go home to your family, as I told you before. You might not get a third opportunity to leave.” The mother crow left her shoulder.

“But…what about you and the chicks?” Grace was crying, but not from sadness. From anger.

The purple bird and his metal enemy ranged back and forth through the hollow, sometimes getting very close to the huddled younger crows. In flight, Mrs. Tatters nodded to Ol’ Hoary, and the white crow again slammed into the one reeking of mildew. Though just minutes ago they were intent on injuring each other, Chiaroscuro helped the other corvid. Together they opened an unobstructed path for the Murder siblings to flee the center tree.

“See, guys,” Jackanapes crowed (a generally appropriate thing for him to do, but perhaps not in that exact moment), “Told you the bridge would be the best hiding spot!” He attempted to lead the others under the mossy structure. Offal followed right away. Most siblings came willingly, but Albumen had to physically restrain Waif to keep him from entering the battle.

“Lemme go, I can help!” Waif slammed the back of his head into his older brother’s face.

“No,” said Mrs. Tatters, angrier than Grace ever heard her. “You will hide with your siblings. Look after each other.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The fight went out of Waif.  

“What’ll you do, mom?” asked Dusky.

“I will stand by my mate, and protect our home, too.” Without another word, Mrs. Tatters did just that. With no more than a couple muttered suggestions between them, the two crows and raven coordinated an attack, as if they had always flown together. They focused solely on the metal creature, leaving the purple bird unbothered. Truthfully, the metal bird was clearly more annoyed than hurt. Its focus always stayed on its original quarry.

Probably deciding enough was enough, the purple bird went on the offensive. Surpassing the train of any peacock, his rainbow tail fanned in a vaguely threatening gesture. His opponent, though, was hardly intimidated for—quicker than Grace’s eye could follow—a punishing iron embrace had its captive. The snap of bone sounded through the dark woods. The purple bird struggled less and less, going slack. But the glow and heat off him only intensified.

For all her blustering to Mrs. Tatters about being big and strong, Grace had done nothing to help. As predicted by the banshee, a bird was nearly dead. The girl sank to the earth, falling on the metal bucket she had been happily filling with worms only an hour ago. 

“Ow,” she said, more from reflex than actual pain. She scrambled up, and a sweaty hand rested on her trowel. Mostly thinking to ward it away, Grace tossed the small shovel directly at the metal bird’s head.

 The sharp sound of metal scraping metal cut through the din. Sparks flew. Some landed on the purple bird, and the eyes he had previously closing snapped opened. He struggled to escape once more, shifting under the grip of a foe that, while no doubt heavier, was also quite a bit smaller. To the vocal shock of both Grace and the corvids, not only did he keep glowing, he

actually caught fire!

The strange thing was, thought his body became wreathed in flames—so hot Mrs. Tatters, Ol’ Hoary, and Chiaroscuro were compelled to flock some distance away—they did not engulf him. He never burned. The bird grown from iron was a different matter. Bits of its body bubbled and melted. It even began screeching, the first sounds it had made so far. Likely, its last.

The flaming, purple bird spoke a second time. And what he said was “Fire in the hole! Everyone skedaddle.”

Grace had already started edging away from these two strangest birds, right after the larger one caught fire. Unable to entirely turn from the transfixing sight, she wound up stumbling backwards. She felt awful for starting a blaze that would probably destroy her friends’ hollow.

The feathers in the metal bird’s wings became loose at the quills. Plummeting to the ground, they struck like daggers into logs, grass, even cutting clear through stones.

Before leaving to find mates, grown male crows often stay at home to learn how to properly raise chicks by caring for young siblings. Like Ol’ Hoary and Mrs. Tatters would have done, Albumen and Dusky shepherded their siblings under the stone bridge.

While moving backwards, Grace bumped into Ragamuffin, who had strayed from the bridge and now lay trembling on the ground. The barely-fledged bird covered her face with her wings, as if not seeing the expanding fire would keep it from touching her. The brothers called to her, and Waif started stalking out. Most, though, seemed frozen in fear.

Grace wound up being the closest to lead Ragamuffin away, but the girl did not stop at the bridge. It looked too small to also cover her, so only thinking to get away, she wound up fleeing with the youngest chick.

The fire kept building, and the hotter it got, the farther it spread. Grace had to continually sprint beyond its radius.

Blood rushed in the girl’s ears, but she could not hear that over her pounding heart. She fled the hollow, scratching up her arms and tearing at her overalls in the frantic effort of pushing past the tight-knit branches. In the open, she tripped and crashed right where the tabby had lain before. Thankfully, the cat had already left. Otherwise, Grace would have crushed him. No amount of curtsies could apologize for that.

Autumn leaves did a fine job cushioning her fall. Though Ragamuffin fell from Grace’s hands and onto her head, the young crow seemed physically fine. For a moment that deserved to last longer, Grace rested with her eyes closed. She breathed in the not-entirely-unpleasant smell of moist earth while sucking in the air her burning lungs demanded right now. In the dark under her eyelids, the world existed in perfect peace. 

Then, her ears picked up a yell that must have been the firebird. There came a terribly strong light, followed by a boom. To her own regret, her eyes opened. In the heat, brightness, and potent aroma of cinnamon which thundered from the hollow—presumably into the rest of the park—every one of Grace’s senses exploded inside. Her brain simply could not manage the storm and stress. For a minute, hour, or year, the girl’s conscious mind shut down.

After that minute, hour, or year, Ragamuffin was nudging her. “Gracie, are you okay?”

Grace was stuck with moaning until her mind remembered how to speak. By muscle memory, her hand came to stroke the sleek back of her crow friend’s head. Ragamuffin nuzzled beside her, in turn. Though the day had turned very hot, both shivered.

“Do you think they’re…d…dead, Gracie?” Ragamuffin tried to control her stammering. “Ar…are my parents and brothers burnt up?”

“I don’t know, ’Muffin,” Grace responded without thinking. “I was out here with you when the explosion went off.” She lifted her head from her leafy pillow. Her red kerchief—turned burgundy from sweat—had fallen low enough to ring her neck. She pushed it up to her forehead and saw the space between the trees glowing with fire. It was no optical illusion, for its warmth could be felt well enough. Yet, miraculously, it kept from spreading to the rest of the park. Grace still considered the importance of warning anyone nearby. The smell of cinnamon got stronger, sending her into a coughing fit.

The chick started crying. Grace eventually realized it was caused by her answer. “No, I’m sure your parents got under the bridge in time, and the bridge was enough to keep your brothers from also frying into crisps…”

Ragamuffin continued crying, and shaking, as well. Nothing Grace said could calm her. Then, a hum came out of the hollow. At least one being was alive in there. It was a tune that had words, but proved impossible for either to understand while they were still awake.

Despite the unkindness she witnessed (all before lunchtime) the song filled Grace with happiness and calm. The positive effect was even stronger on Ragamuffin. The crow chick sat silent now, determined to drink in the sound. Slowly, steadily, the music got louder, rising into a marching song declaring victory. The fires Grace spotted within the trees were scarlet, but now they drifted into orange, which then muted to yellow. Eventually, she could not see so much as an ember. Heat, too, was no longer a danger.

Grace squinted, but, no, trees were not so much as singed, even down to the last straggling leaf. A nasty charred smell should have filled the air, but instead there was only cinnamon. With noise and light easily rivaling a Fourth of July celebration, the girl would have expected lots of firefighters, or police officers come to investigate. Nothing of the sort came by.

The song died down, and Ragamuffin moved from her human friend. After a few practice flaps, the crow lifted into the air. “Let’s see how my family’s doing!” All worry had left her voice.

“No…” Grace started, “it’s probably still dangerous.” With the song ended, Grace did not feel quite as brave as she might have otherwise. Ragamuffin never looked back as she flew into the trees. Grace tried standing. Once her knees finally stopped wobbling, she thought to follow. But the same fear which had frozen the chick in the path of fire now affected the girl. Such paralysis did not keep her from retreating into the main park, however.

The most noticeable thing about the place was how nothing had noticeably changed. Old retirees still shared bread with ducks, and one waterfowl complained to another “Ugh, why is it so stale?”

Another duck sniffed. “It’s always the same here. We should go to the east side of town. Humans there only give out fresh bread.”

“Yes, let’s go now.” Both ducks remained in the pond.

Grace carefully trekked to the eight wide steps of her apartment building’s front porch. She needed both hands on the railing to keep from falling. Pigeons on the stoops above passed along directions to local mailing routes, and told the same war stories about secret spy missions. For once, she was not interested. When she finally got home, her grandmother was waiting. After forcing the messy girl into a bath, where stinging soap got right in her eyes, they had lunch.

Grace’s mother got home some hours later, and there was some fussing about the scratches on her arms and bruises on her legs. But the issue was settled with a few bandages. Grace’s father got home last and, patting her head, asked what she did that day.

Grace admitted she left the bucket and trowel in the park, but promised to get the items back tomorrow. Not much was made of this. They ate supper—she could not be bothered to recall what. In the bedroom they shared, her grandmother offered to read a story. The girl preferred to go to sleep right away. She had done a good job forgetting the impossible events of that morning, and it was tiring work. To spoil all that, in the hazy moment when she was certainly not awake, but still seconds from pure, true sleep, she understood the lyrics to the song that kept the fires from spreading. It could only have originated from the firebird himself, as the metal bird had melted and crows always sing out-of-tune.

Then, the moment passed. Once asleep, Grace forgot the song’s meaning.