Tuesday Tale: Carrion

Children love scary stories. Whether it's about a witch who lives in a gingerbread house or a poisoned apple that puts a princess to sleep, they crave ghastly details and a swift, happy resolution. But there are some children, like Grimelda, who know that there are no such thing as Fairy Tales.



No matter how many times her teachers, friends and even Father Gustav tried to tell her, she knew it wasn't simply make believe. One only had to speak to the crows to understand. Father Gustav said he'd remember her in his prayers, and he always crossed himself twice after their conversations. Madame Strumpf, her teacher, made her write lines over and over. Fairy tales are not real and crows cannot speak. Fairy tales are not real and crows cannot speak. 

"What did you learn at school today?" said Snick from his usual perch.

Grimelda answered him without looking up. "Nothing useful. I got more lines to write." She closed the gate behind her and trundled up the path to the house. Snick beat her to the front door. 

"You can't expect everyone to be like you, Grimelda. The world doesn't work that way." He nudged a pebble with his beak. "A present." 

She paused at the front door and saw a shiny black stone resting beside him on the windowsill. "Thank you." She pocketed it.

One thing fairy tales always got right was the degree to which step-parents were capable of being evil. Grimelda scoured her copies of the stories and found common traits: ugliness of body and mind, craftiness, clumsiness and violent outbursts. Uncle Stepan, as she was told to call him, was no exception. He earned a meagre living as a labourer and part-time carpenter; he said the latter was nice work if you could get it. He had rough hands and a smell about him that took days to wash out of her hair. What her mother saw in him, Grimelda could never tell. Besides, it was rare to see her mother beyond the confines of her bedroom. Elspeth had once trailed sparkles wherever she went; now her touch left fine soot on everything, even her daughter's cheeks. 

After washing down a hunk of bread and cheese with a beaker of water, Grimelda positioned herself at the desk in front of the open window and began to write. Fairy tales are not real and crows cannot speak. 

Snick and Bert joined her, strutting up and down the window ledge.

"Me and the boys had an idea," said Bert. 

Grimelda continued writing. "What is it this time?"

"We don't like what Stepan did to your arm over there." 

She touched the bruises before dropping her hand in her lap. She put down her pencil. "I'm listening."

*

Every Friday night Uncle Stepan joined his colleagues for a celebratory mead at the tavern. Her mother hated it when he came in smelling of a brewery, so a compromise was reached and he slept on a cot in the shed. That Friday, after sunset, Grimelda locked the shed and retreated to the kitchen. Bert, Snick and the others lined the gutter, their eyes on the road. 

It was past midnight, and her eyes were heavy. She could hear the gentle breath of her mother and rubbed her face and pinched her cheeks to stay awake. She must have dozed off because the creak of the gate woke her. In the darkness, she moved to the kitchen window, positioning herself between the pots of lavender. 

Uncle Stepan lumbered towards the shed. His shoe caught on a watering can and he swore, kicking it and almost losing his balance. Snick cawed a warning. Uncle Stepan swore at him, loudly. He continued in the direction of the shed. On finding the door locked, he kicked against it and shouted for Grimelda. She ducked behind the lavender. When it was quiet again, she saw him relieving himself against a tree. Snick called again. Uncle Stepan turned to the house, tucking himself away.

"Shut up, stupid birds."

Grimelda watched how, as one, the crows descended on Uncle Stepan. He fell back, knocking himself unconscious. His body disappeared under the oily blackness of their feathers and the moon hid its face behind the clouds. Grimelda went to bed.

It seemed as though she'd only been asleep for a few minutes when a rap at their front door jolted her awake. 

"See who that is, will you, Grimelda?" Her mother's voice was thin through the wall. 

She peered up at the uniforms. "I'm Constable Lipnicki and this is Detective Bryson. Is your mother home?"

Her mother's hands were as white as the bone China cups that Grimelda served tea in. There had been an accident, they said. A freak accident. His body had been found leaning against Farmer Caldwell's fence and it was too late to get the birds off him. There would be no inquiry, but it would be necessary to identify the body, purely for the police records, of course. They were very sorry to be the bearers of bad news, they said. But these things happen.

After closing the door to her room, Grimelda threw open the curtains and saw Snick, Bert and the others waiting on the fence across the yard. "What did you do?" Her voice was a whisper.

"Me and the boys took care of things," said Bert. "Ain't you happy?"

"Yes, but..."

"No buts. You promised." Snick flew to the window. "Pay up. First installment starts now."

Grimelda reached into her pocket and brought out a crust and half an apple she'd scavenged from the kitchen. 

"Oy, good on yer." Bert came forward and snatched a chunk of the apple. The others followed, taking bite-sized shares of the loot in her palm. 

"We'll be back tomorrow, Grimelda," said Snick. "Don't forget to do your homework." He flew off with the last of the bread in his beak. 

*

No matter where she went or how widely she travelled, Grimelda could always count on the crows finding her and claiming their reward. And, as the years passed, the original group were replaced by others who held her to her promise to repay them for their good deed. She knew was something of a spectacle in her neighbourhood: the Crazy Crow Woman, they called her, but at least they kept their distance. She stared at her reflection in her mug of tea. The years had hardened her features. There was a tap on her kitchen window. She grabbed her bag of scraps, and opened the back door. 

Snick's grandson greeted her. "Hurry up, please. It's time."