THE SHADOW OF A WING OVER THE OLD HOUSE
Moving into the weathered cottage on the outskirts of York swept us into a whirl of new experiences. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the odd, almost mystical encounter that waited beyond the threshold.
One crisp morning, just as the sun broke through the clouds, a knock came at the door leading to the backyard. I froze. The back door? Who could be knocking there? My heart skipped with vague foreboding, and holding my breath, I slowly turned the handle. Before me, strutting purposefully across the porch, stood an enormous raven. Its black eyes bored into me with such certainty, as though it were the rightful owner of this house—and I the intruder.
“Good morning,” I blurted, “are you here for me?”
“For you, for you—who else? The King of Cockaigne?” The raven’s voice was hoarse but commanding, as if accustomed to giving orders.
“Well… the King of Cockaigne certainly doesn’t live here,” I muttered, feeling confusion rise like a tide.
“So you’re the new tenants, then?” The raven tilted its head, scrutinising me from head to toe, as though deciding if I warranted its attention.
“Yes, we… just moved in,” I nodded, still struggling to grasp the situation.
“Oh, very grand! A regular debating society we’ve got here!” it scoffed. “A schoolmistress, are you?”
“No, nothing like—” I faltered, feeling like a child caught mid-mischief. “Sorry…”
“Never mind that,” it snapped. “Have you got a cat?”
“Not yet… why?”
“Then you’re in charge. You’ll do. Understood?”
“Uh… right,” I managed.
“Not ‘right’—‘understood’!” it barked.
“Understood,” I corrected, flushing. “Thank you…”
“Listen sharp, then. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, sizing you up. Now, about those dogs of yours. The black one—proper chap. Pinched a bone from him this morning, not a peep! Clever lad. But that ginger bitch,” it narrowed its eyes, “thinks she’s a wolfhound. One more yap and she’ll get a beak to the skull. Clear?”
“Clear,” I said, a chill creeping down my spine. “Please forgive her—she’s a rescue, has a bit of… well, trauma.”
“A rescue, eh?” The raven snorted. “Left her wits at the shelter, did she? All brawn, no brain. Bit slow, bless her.”
“She is, a little,” I admitted. “But I’m training her—she’s sweet, really!”
“Anyway, consider yourselves warned,” it cut in. “Now, your children.”
“Oh, they’re wonderful!” I babbled, scrambling to soften its tone. “They adore nature—my daughter rescues spiders, moves them to safe spots! And my son’s freed so many lizards! Even saved turtles from roads…”
“Did they now?” The raven eyed me suspiciously. “Bit fixated on the creeping sorts, aren’t they? Reptilian sympathisers?”
“No, of course not!” I nearly choked. “Just normal, human children! I’d never even thought—”
“Thinking’s not the point. Watching is. Listening. Noticing everything,” it raised a wing sternly. “Got it?”
“Got it,” I nodded, pinned under its gaze.
“Right then. Since you’re in charge, mark this. We watch these parts—so put up some shade, it’s sweltering. Set water over there, high up, with ice—we like it cold. And none of that dog-bowl business, mind. Leave out treats, nothing fancy, but tasty. Come winter, light a bonfire—we’ll stop by for warmth. Harsh one coming, they say. Keep things tidy! This is a quiet neighbourhood. Old oaks, strong roots. Understood?”
“Yes, absolutely! Clear! Thank you!” I nodded, spellbound.
“Here—a feather.” It plucked a gleaming black quill and shoved it into my hand. “Stick it in your hat. Shows you’re under our wing. That’s all.”
With a sweep of its wings, it vanished into the branches of the ancient oak, leaving me clutching the feather, questions whirling. What do ravens eat? What treats would suit? And how, in heaven’s name, had I ended up under their “protection”?
I stood on the porch, staring into nothing. The wind rustled the leaves, and from deep in the garden came a croak—approving or mocking, I couldn’t tell.
Later, I learned ravens favour walnuts, cheddar, even crusts. I set a water bowl on the old bench, added ice as instructed. A canvas awning appeared for shade, and come winter, I lit a fire. True to its word, they came, eyes glinting in the flames.
But the truelesson was this: with locals—be they folk or ravens—it’s wise to find common ground. They guard the peace of this house, these oaks, this garden. And perhaps, in their knowing eyes, lies far more than first meets ours.