Ch. 2 - One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

I began my newfound and faithless life unburdened by the ever-amassing weight and ire of God's divine judgement. No longer held captive by the tenets that once shackled my everyday life, I trod a far more interesting and liberating path through a once meager reality. Freeing as it was, English society held a singular disdain for the occult and taboo, I however, was far more open-minded. Though despised as it was to deal with self-proclaimed spirit healers, soothsayers, witches, warlocks and magicians, their frequent comings and goings at my office on Drury Lane seemed much like any other day; nothing more than mere clients to add in the ledger books. They became my navigators in those undiscovered black waters; teachers and guides for a newfound and most enthusiastic pupil. It was earnest at first, but it had not taken long for my boundless means to fuel grand ambitions.

I had not considered so many possibilities at the beginning. After leaving the misery and grinding mendacity of the church behind, it was on those cold stone steps of Saint Paul, that came an epiphany. There was an empty, dark light glowing that morning. The burning sun was naught but a dim and anemic shadow in a gray and billowing sky. Distant thunder rumbled and rolled across the far-flung countryside as a cold morning wind bit at the exposed skin of my cheeks. On most other days, I might have cursed that weather, thinking always of the haggard crawlers beneath the windows of my office, left to shiver and sop in unrelenting hardship, but on that day those thoughts didn't come.

I was greeted on that sickly and frigid morning by a single crow perched upon the rusted wrought iron fence of the churchyard. Calm and inviting it was. It cawed at me, once, twice, thrice - a most kind and proper greeting as I strolled down those old dolomite steps. Similar in such, that Peter had denied Jesus thrice at the crowing of a rooster, now the thrice called cawing of a crow affirmed my rebirth. Thus, the satisfying face of irony offered me its most hearty greeting by way of corvid curiosity.

Unbothered by my passing it was. 'Twas most peculiar, as crows and rooks were always timid and watchful, ever unwary and untrusting of strangers. That one, however, seemed more like a familiar acquaintance. Preening and grooming itself 'twixt each slow step I took closer to his roost. I had expected it to take flight as I closed the distance, one calm step after the other, but it remained stoic and vigil only offering the politest of interests to my cautious approach. Such a deep black, smooth and silken, like ink spilled in water. Magnificent.

Each step I took, it cocked its head, silent and unafraid, inspecting my person as though judging some unforeseen worthiness. It took flight as I reached to touch it. The abrupt fluttering of its wings was a lightning bolt in my drifting, awestruck mind. A jagged, icy breath shocked its way into my lungs as I started out of my stupor. Disappointing though it was, there was a quiet solace in our humble exchange. The biting fangs of the wind had ceased as I stood there, admiring the helical fall of but a single feather. Lightning cracked across the sky, striking a fierce white light through the cold gloom of that tired, and infirm morning light as the feather came to rest in the brown, dried grass of the churchyard.

The deep, beleaguering chime of Saint George's bell rang through the pervasive rolling thunder. Each strike hung in the air, rattling my ears as the ringing ebbed like ocean waves crashing on the shore before it struck again. Startling though it was, there was a remarkable comfort in it. Bent over, the kiss of the cold dew of that morning caressed my fingertips as I pinched the feather 'twixt thumb and forefinger. I spun it back in forth in my grasp as I appreciated its simple and elegant beauty. Droning on, the warming rhythm of the church bell gonged like the heartbeat of the earth.

One for sorrow.

The saying hung in my mind like dangled from a string, twirling about like the feather in my hand. It was the beginning of an old, superstitious nursery rhyme about crows. I recalled it as I thought of the old, black-veiled gypsy woman who would recite it as she comforted babes of the working women of her family. Always she sat at the stoops of the Drury Lane workhouses, whispers and rumors blanketing her dark and unsettling mystique. Those loquacious lots of the simple masses always talked of her being a spell weaver. They always talked of her being a channeler of the things beyond.

Tucking the feather into the ribbon of my top hat, I drew in a slow and delicious breath of that icy air. I tightened my waistcoat as one drop of rain tapped upon my shoulder, then another. Settling on my new course, I strolled through the roar of stormy rains, unperturbed and unbothered by whatever misery it had meant to bring. I had my inspiration—my newfound purpose, and I had my first mountain in which to plant my flag. At each strike of the church's bell, I continued the rhyme as I strolled through those forlorn, storm-soaked streets.

Two for joy.

Three for a girl.

Four for a boy...