Tales From The Town #32: A Gathering Of Crows

The crows gathered on the roof of the house. A hundred of them or more, all in a row, a cacophony of caws as they jostled for position amongst the crowd. On observing this event, many of the wisest sages and scholars from the town pondered the exact meaning of such an occurrence.

“Look at all the crows!” said Ethel. “I wonder what they’re all doing up there?” “I bet they’re hungry,” said Tina. “And now they’re looking for food.” “Crows eat eyeballs,” Daniel said seriously. “Dead eyeballs.” That was all he knew about crows. “Our house must smell of rotting meat then,” Claire said. “We must live in a house of dead flesh!”

“A gathering of crows like that means there’s going to be a storm,” Agnes called out to the children as they played on the swing. “You better all come inside before you get wet. I’ll make some hot chocolate and we can watch the lightning through the window.”

“An ominous warning,” the witch said, as she watched through her telescope from afar, in the comfort of her cottage, in the safety of the woods. “A portent for the horrors to come.” She cackled so gleefully the dolls covered their ears.

Back at the house, the crows, unaware of the speculation over the purpose of their existence, slid one by one down the icy gutter as if it was a slide, then joined the back of the queue to wait for another go.



1. Written between May 12th, 2021 and May 21st, 2021
2. I love crows
3. And wish of course to be one

The Hunter, The Crow


They brought her body down from the woods today and left it in the square, that curved mask still covering her face, those black feathers still hanging from her arms. A small crowd watches. They know no better. They do not avert their eyes.

The blood that spills from her robes and runs along the cobblestones is not hers but ours, yours, theirs.


There are always those for whom the occurrence of this spectacle was their first time. Those that do not recognise who this figure is, this hunter, this crow. Who do not know how many times she has been caught, been killed, been left here to rot on the stone steps of the court.


In the woods in the winter, in the years she is alive, she leaves no footsteps in the snow, casts no shadow beneath the sun, makes no sound beneath the moon. Only by the bounties that she claims do we know that she is there.

In the summer she stands upon the hill and is not seen to move. But move she must, for never does she stop. There are always those among us ready to atone.


We spoke once, this hunter and I, this crow, here in this very room, her mask pulled up enough to reveal her mouth, her lips, her bloodstained teeth. I cannot recall her words, though even if I did I know better than to repeat them. She deserves her privacy as we deserve our own.


I can see them out there still, the crowd in the square. Her killer plucks a feather from her wings, holds it up to the sky.

I could not tell you what they hope to gain.


The hunter is always young, always fast, always alone. The crow is always old, always slow, always on her own. The hunter is the crow, the crow is the hunter. There is no distinction between the two.

She is always a woman, even when she is a man. She could be any one of us, but is always no one we know.


I remember the crackle of the fire, the steam rising from the cup in her hands, a glimpse of her tongue with every word that she spoke. I remember the caress of her fingers through my hair, the cold of her claws against my scalp, the trickle of blood as each fresh drop rolled down my cheeks like tears.


I killed the hunter once. I killed the crow. I was young enough then I think I expected praise. I was certainly not then old enough to understand the shame.


They say that those who kill the hunter, those that kill the crow, cannot themselves be killed. They say those that kill the hunter, those that kill the crow, can never themselves become the hunter, can never themselves become the crow. No matter how much they might wish themselves to be.


I still have the feather I plucked from her wing. It is older than this house. It is older than this town. It is older than the woods in which she walks even now.



1. Written on November 16th, 2021