A Murder of Crows

They covered the sky, allowing the sun to flash in strobe-like fashion as their wings pumped the hot afternoon air. I thought it odd that the black, cawing cloud seemed to follow a flight plan consistent with the path I took from my rectory. I looked up occasionally as I strolled through the manicured lawn and approached the fresh, sharp-cut etching of my mother’s name in the rose-colored granite nestled next to Dad’s worn, military footstone. Instinctively, I hunched my shoulders and ducked as a thunderous whoosh announced the descent of hundreds of crows lowering themselves onto the branches of an old oak tree directly above me. The tree groaned and creaked from their weight.

“Hello, Father Joe.” I turned, with a start and faced young Norman Hobbs. He sat atop a de-activated lawn mower and leaned over the steering wheel, gulping down the cold, sweet tea from Rosa’s kitchen. My housekeeper saw to it that Norman had plenty to drink during these sweltering East Texas summers.

Saint Michael the Archangel, wielding his stone sword, partially hid the church caretaker from my view. I watched a single crow descend upon the statue and settle on Michael’s winged shoulder. It cocked its head in my direction.

“Don’t recollect a planting today, Father.”

I couldn’t help but return his infectious grin. Some visiting mourners found Norman’s carefree attitude disturbing and inappropriate for such a solemn place of finality. I found his youth and inexperience about death rather refreshing and envied his innocent joy. I chuckled at his unintentional, irreverent reference to the Rite of Committal. “Hey, Norman. Didn’t see you there. No, there’s no burial today. Just came to check out Mom’s new stone.”

Norman peered from under the brim of his Dallas Cowboy's cap as his head tilted up toward the overpopulated oak tree. “Jesus...  Oh, excuse me, Father. Uh...I never seen such a big flock of black birds in one place before.”

“Murder,” I mumbled as I felt the feathered congregation overhead.

“Huh?”

“Murder, Norman.” I noticed the teen’s quizzical expression. “Those are crows, and a flock of crows is called a murder. The name is based on an old folk tale arising from a story that crows hold trials of evil doers among their flock. If convicted of their crimes, the accused is murdered by his peers.”

“Well, where’d the...uh...murder come from?” Norman asked, seemingly uncomfortable with his new vocabulary.

I looked into the branches at hundreds of black eyes focused in my direction. “I don’t know, Norman. Perhaps they have some unfinished business here.”

“Right... Well, I better get back to work. The maintenance committee don’t pay me to bird-watch. Hey, Father, I wouldn’t stand under that tree too long. It’s liable to get messy, if ya know what I mean.” Norman chuckled at his own humor and turned the key. The mower roared to life as it mulched its way over plots of land which covered the indifferent tenants.

“Yeah, see you, Norman.” I’m sure he didn’t hear me over the clattering engine as I waved in his direction and eased down on the concrete bench next to Mom’s grave. The turned earth of two months ago was just now sprouting sprigs of grass. Though unnaturally silent, I knew the crows watched from their roost above.

I glanced across the path at Saint Michael and recollected my studies as a first-year theology student. That particular archangel's job was to rescue the souls of the faithful from the power of the enemy, especially at the hour of death. The lone crow, still perched upon the statue’s shoulder, had a gnarled left foot. "So, it's you again, is it?"

I rested my elbows on my knees and stared down at the carved name before me.

Gladys Earline McKenna
1925 --- 2010
Devoted Wife and Mother

**********

Through the ice crystals outlining the big picture window in our front room, I could see the snow forming on the lawn and every second inside was torture. I was afraid I was going to miss the rare East Texas phenomena. Mama’s fingers flew over the wooden buttons of my thick car-coat, as if she could read my excitement and impatience at her persistence in layering my ten-year-old body to the point of immobility. “Everyone’s already outside,” I informed her, carefully watching my tone of voice.

“Alright, Joey, I’m almost done.” She finished the last button and pulled the hood over my curly brown hair. I was out the door and joining my friends on the deserted street before she could finish her snow-safety instructions.

The extreme cold surrounding me and the frequent blasts of snowballs bombarding my face didn’t deter my delight and amazement as I watched the fragments of white fluff silently drift to the ground. I heard the front door close and turned from my friends to see Mama, bundled in her own layers of sweaters and coats, carefully descend the icy steps of our concrete porch. She shot a playful grin at me and seemed to be as enchanted as I in this white wonderland.

Holding up an index finger, as if to say watch this, she proceeded to lie down in a clear, smooth patch of fallen snow that hadn’t been marred by our galoshes. Curious, my friends and I watched as she began to scrape both arms through the snow in an arched movement from a point at the top of her head and back down to her sides. At the same time, she moved her legs straight out and spread them as far as they would go across the snow and brought them back together again. Then she sat up and stepped away from the imprint she had made. I looked at the image and knew what she had created before Eddie Collins from next door shouted, “It’s an angel.”

“A snow angel,” Mama declared and laughed as she admired her work. We all threw ourselves down in the wet snow and proceeded to make our own little snow angels, giggling as our faces filled with the fluff from the sky.

Movement caught my eye from the tree in my yard. I stood and slid my hooded head to the left as the snow crunched under me. A single crow, its bluish-black sheen out of place on the white tree branch, tilted its head from side to side like an inquisitive puppy. The curious bird hobbled on one right foot, the other was gnarled and bent. Its black eyes stared at me, through me, and blinked. Just then, I heard the phone ring in the house, a call which introduced me to death and sadness. The icy roads caused the crash. My father was dead.

**********

The drone of Norman’s mower jarred me back across half a century of time. The snowflakes and Mama’s laughter melted into hot tears sliding down my face. I quickly wiped them away before Norman completed another circle in his self-designed track around the cemetery. I looked up to see the murder, steadfast at their post, covering the branches of the tree. Across the path, the familiar one-legged harbinger stood watch from Saint Michael’s wing. 

Turning my attention to the church grounds surrounding me, I recalled my joy at being awarded the pastoral position at Saint Michael's, my old childhood-parish a few years ago so I could be close to my ailing mother. I looked up at the steeple high atop the white, wood-framed church nestled between two ancient oak trees down the path from where I sat. If the worn, steel cross possessed attributes of knowing, I wondered what secrets it protected as it had watched over the little country town of Elkhart for the past century. 

A simple brick school building, erected in the mid-40s, stood next to the church. The children’s squealing expressions of life’s excitement were hushed for the summer. I walked its halls as a fifth grader in 1955 where I journeyed from a playful, carefree boy to a young mourner on that rare snowy day so long ago.

Now, all I possessed in the way of kith and kin lay before me in the ground.

**********

“The left side of her body is paralyzed and she is struggling to breathe. The stroke produced an increase in the ischemic lesions and the lacunar infarcts which were already present from the vascular dementia.” Doctor Daniel Murphy leaned against the doorjamb just outside Mom’s hospital room and placed a caring hand on my shoulder. Dan and I had been classmates at Saint Michael’s and spent many a sunny Saturday afternoon together in detention under the watchful eye of Sister Immaculata and her ruler.

“I told you to be straightforward with me, Danny, but I didn’t say you could speak in tongues. What the hell are you saying?” I knew it was bad. I looked over at Mom through the open door. The dementia left her confused and lost sometimes, but never had I seen her like this. Is she ready to go? I wondered.

“What I’m saying, Joe, is your mother has suffered severe, irreparable brain damage. We will keep her comfortable, of course, but there is not much more we can do. I’m sorry, Joe.”

“Can she hear me?” I asked even though I knew the answer. I had been in enough hospitals, easing my parishioners through the transition from life to death. The doctors always say the dying can hear you, but they don’t really know.

“Yes, Joe. Talk to her. She can hear you.”

Dan walked off. I looked back at him. I didn’t doubt that he was doing everything that could be done. I ran my hands through my graying curly hair and stepped into the room. My fists tightened with every beep of the monitors and every rhythmic pulse of the respirator. I sat in one of those hospital recliner type chairs and leaned over to take her warm hand. She didn’t respond. Even though the machines indicated life, there was no quality in the breathing. I grieved her last few years of suffering more than her impending death.

A shadow streaked across the room and I turned to the window to see a black bird land on the ledge outside. The malevolent eyes assessed us as it dangled a deformed left foot in the air. “So, it’s you. This time, I accept your dark portent as a gift, not a curse. Take her—”

Suddenly, the monitors hooked up to my mother’s body began a steady, high-pitched tone. I held her hand until it grew cold and pondered my black prayer.

**********

The sun had descended in the west in alignment with the top of Saint Michael’s head, casting a halo-like backdrop behind the statue, the crippled bird still perched upon the concrete wing. Norman must have finished his landscaping duties for the day, for the valley was quiet except for the rustling of the crows roosting in the tree. I breathed in the East Texas air and the smell of freshly cut grass.

The pain started in the top of my left arm and traveled like cutting glass down my chest as I clutched at my clerical collar for air. I slipped off the bench and landed on the ground between Mom and Dad. Above me, I peered into the black eyes of the crippled crow atop the archangel’s wing. The last thing I heard was the flapping of hundreds of wings as they rose into the hot air.

I awoke just as the sun was setting, leaving traces of orange and purple hues throughout the little valley of my church. All was quiet, and an unexpected peace overcame me. As I sat up, I realized the pain was gone and the sky was free of black birds. I chanced a look at Saint Michael. At the foot of his mighty pedestal lay a pile of bloody feathers and one gnarled crow’s foot.


[1st Place Winner of the Aug/Sept. 2017 "Spiritual Fiction Writing Contest-CLOSED" ]