Eating Crow

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Colors swirled around, through, and behind his eyes. Deep indigo and gray, shot through with vibrant red, all bored into his brain coming to rest at the back of his skull where the colors exploded into hazy yellows, oranges and greens. Slowly the strange brilliance gave way to fogged images as if he were watching scenes above him from beneath an ice-covered lake.

His hands . . . were they his hands? The arms before him, seemingly of him, rose effortlessly as though they weren't of his body, but a look down at his chest gave him an uncomfortable satisfaction that they must be. The heavy brown jacket was his own, as were the worn denim cuffs of his shirt peeking out from the coat's sleeves. But his hands . . . they weren't his, he was certain. The blood dripping from them and splashing onto jacket, jeans, and hiking boots frightened him less than the feminine shape and feel of the fingers. Why was there so much blood? Was it his own? At the thought, one of the hands suddenly ripped through the rough fabric of his clothes, through his skin, and clenched his heart in an unexpectedly powerful grip. He tried to scream, but only groaned and twisted in his bed.

"Carl, lie still! It's all right. It's a dream, it's only a dream." Carl Sawyer's young wife dabbed at his brow with a cool rag.

She pulled the worn blanket back to wipe down his naked and sweating chest, but the touch of the cloth on his skin made it turn to gooseflesh. A small cry escaped her lips as she quickly pulled the covers back up. Panic had taken hold of her every action the week before when his fever had worsened. Lizzy had never seen anything like this in her life.

For the past few months, Carl had been steadily getting more and more sickly, though at first, he'd only complained of headaches. That soon gave way to fatigue and finally, he wanted to do nothing but talk about his strange dreams. He'd sit at the dinner table long after the meal had ended, and mutter incessantly, not seeming to care if he had an audience. He was lost in the dreams, and Lizzy had given up trying to talk to him, about his "visions" or anything else. Mostly she nodded and tried not to listen, instead letting her thoughts wander to a better time, before the fires swept through the mountains, before the earthquakes, and sometimes, to a time before Carl.

Gradually, a sort of madness descended upon him where all he wanted was to dream. His shoulder-length hair had matted into knots, he'd stopped shaving his face, and he'd given up washing himself, not seeming to notice or care. It was shortly afterward that the fever began. It had reached its highest point the day Brian left, and Lizzy was grateful that in the last few days, Carl seemed to be getting a little better. The fever hadn't broken yet, but it was going down a little with each passing day.

Lizzy hated his dreams. They were all the same: sinister, angry, and despite Lizzy's dislike of the connotations behind the word, the dreams were evil. Yet, Carl told them as if they were beautiful, as though a cloudless sky could not be as bright, or a child's laughter could not sound as sweet. He called them 'gifts.' "Though I don't know why I've been so gifted," he'd say with awe.

The dreams still came to him now, even in his fevered state, though now they had taken on grizzly proportions. Lizzy wanted sometimes to run screaming from the house, hands pressed to her ears and never hear of such horrors again. Other times, she wanted to do to him some of the very crimes he spoke of, if only it would shut him up, stop his incessant rambling. He talked about killing women, children, men, dogs, horses, anything that lived, and always in different ways—some of them grotesque enough to send Lizzy running to throw up what food she managed to swallow whenever she could put the horrifying tales aside long enough to eat. Her mother had been a nurse at Mason General, and often came home with macabre stories of her own, but Lizzy had never heard of an illness quite like this.

Was it simply from being out here? Would she and Brian get it too? Carl's only child could have stayed with his mother, but like Lizzy, Brian had been taken in by Carl's grandiose ideas of a life with no boundaries. Lizzy hadn't welcomed the idea of being stepmother to a child less than half her age, but as Carl's mind changed over the last few months, she was grateful to have the boy for sane company. She missed Brian now and wondered if she'd done the right thing, sending him out on his own. He'd been gone four days. He was a strong and smart boy for being only thirteen, but every night when the crows gathered and roosted on the porch, she feared for his safety—and her own. She began to wonder if the fires had been accidental, as the forestry department had claimed, or if some big cover up was behind the mass destruction that had burned out of control for weeks. Brian said she read too many horror stories and if it was something so contagious the government was trying to cover it up, surely he and Lizzy would have gotten it by now. She held to his words now as she thought about all the homes and lives destroyed, of Carl's strange sickness, and prayed Brian was right.

Several small towns had been burned beyond recognition in the fires that had swept out of control through the mountains that summer. A dry winter followed by a series of earthquakes were the primary culprits for the devastation, so that it took only a moment of carelessness for an amateur hiker to start the inferno. During the fires, there came rockslides, and places where the earth opened up and never closed again; or did, so the earth swallowed large portions of towns and roadways. It was severe enough that many of the routes back to those dead towns had been obliterated.

"This is a good thing! It's a good thing for people like us. We can live life on our terms, Lizzy. We can start over where no bill collectors or my ex-wife can ever find us. Or your freakishly conservative parents. We'll live off the land. I'm betting there's at least one town that'll be habitable. All we need to do is find it."

As usual, Carl was right. It took them weeks of steady hiking, but they'd found one such a place. It was a three-day trek in from the nearest town where there was a grocery store or a doctor. A few miles outside of the place they now called home, the road that had once wend its way through the mountain pass now ended abruptly, thanks to a rockslide. One house seemed to be untouched by the fire, and another was only partly burned. The more whole of the two had some damage, but for the most part, it was good and sturdy. There was neither electricity nor running water, but Carl had expected that. There was a stream nearby, and soon, he was sure, they'd get their little homestead up and running. They'd hunt off the land, grow their own vegetables, and live the way people were made to live before technology took over the world.

"Sawyerville. Population three," Brian stated happily the night they'd arrived.

Population one if Carl doesn't make it, and if I sent Brian out to meet Death halfway, Lizzy thought now.

"Lizzy. My Liz," Carl said, seeing her worried face. "Talk to me. Please, talk to me." He sat up a little, though it clearly strained him to do it.

Lizzy nodded but didn't speak. What could she say? Carl, what's the matter with you? Why'd you bring us here? Why did I come here when I could have started a new life, a better life, without you? You're nearly twice my age! I'm too young for this, and you're too old.

"Talk!" Carl ordered, "just . . . talk. It keeps them away from me." He panted hard, and took a deep rasping breath. The effort to say just those few words was almost more than his weak body could endure. Lizzy turned toward the pan of water so that Carl couldn't see her face or the guilt written there. She was glad talking was difficult for him. Maybe it would stop him from vomiting more nightmares on her. He was getting better, but he wasn't out of danger yet, and the dreams hadn't stopped.

"I . . . don't know what to say Carl." She wrung the rag out hard, then laid it across his brow again. Her heart caught in her throat when he smiled at her; the love she remembered was there. That look was mostly gone now that his eyes were so often looking beyond her, or rather, no farther than within his own mind. She smiled back and tried not to cry for how things used to be. How could she have had such selfish thoughts just a moment before? "I love you, Carl-honey. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me. Brian's gone to get help. He'll be back in a few days. Just hang on until he gets back."

"Lizzy, I'm so hungry. Why am I so hungry? Just so . . . hungry . . ." His voice trailed away as more images flooded his mind. He was lost to her again.

"My coat's gone now, and so is . . . no," he muttered. "This isn't me. Yes. Yes, this is me . . . oh, how the knife doth glitter in the moonlight . . ."

"I can't do this," Lizzy cried. "There's no point to any of this at all. Who are you?" She hurried from the room, and called for Carl's son. She knew Brian wasn't there but just the idea that he might answer helped to calm her. She screamed his name, angry that he wasn't answering, frustrated that it was because of her that he wasn't there to help her with Carl.

"Lizzy! Lizzy I'm hungry. I'm so . . . hungry."

"No, it's not my fault. It's your fault he's not here Carl. All yours!" Lizzy covered her ears, and ran out onto the front porch, disturbing a flock of crows perching there as she did.

"Suburban vultures," Carl called them when they began to hang around on the fence outside the house more and more. "Disgusting creatures, God's test run before he got it right." From his seat on the porch swing, he reached into the bucket he'd filled with rocks specifically for scaring off the crows. He threw a rock at one but missed. "Damn disgusting. I think they are to the devil what doves are to God. I'd kill every damn one of 'em if I could."

"Yeah, and you know what you call a couple of crows?" Brian asked. He didn't wait for the other two to answer. "Unkindness. And a whole bunch of them, like here, is called a murder."

"Sounds about right," Carl said. "I'd be happy to murder the damn lot of them."

Lizzy hadn't answered when Carl gave his assessment on the birds. She considered them beautiful and mysterious. The voices, so out of keeping with their beauty, only added to their mystique. When she was a young girl, she remembered learning about legends: Greek, Norse, Roman and others she couldn't recall. One of those legends told of how one of the Gods had crows perched on his shoulders, one on each side, and they represented mind and memory. She couldn't help but think of that image when she watched the birds soar, and commune together around their home—as if they appreciated the unexpected oasis.

"They're good practice for my slingshot," Carl said, then discovering he'd emptied the bucket of rocks, suddenly jumped up from the swing and ran at them, waving his arms and screeching. They flew up to nearby trees momentarily before returning to the porch railing.

Lizzy watched them without really seeing as she sat on the top step of the porch, her feet planted on the next step so that her knees were a comfortable spot to lay her arms and rest her cheek. Where had that Carl gone? He had been so vibrant, so alive, even if she hadn't shared his views. She'd never liked it much when he got pompous, acting as though his opinions were fact, but now she missed even that.

Night was beginning to fall and Carl's demands for her to talk had grown weaker. A small part of her hoped it meant he was near death. She felt guilty for her cruel thoughts, and hoped God would forgive her, but had she known that being Carl's wife would lead to this, she would never have taken vows to stay for better or worse. Lizzy couldn't have imagined her life would be so hard. Gazing at the mountains beyond the fence, and seeing evidence of the world renewing itself, she realized that aside from infrequent trips to the outhouse, this was the first time she'd been outside since Brian left.

She breathed deeply, her senses acclimatized to the slightly burnt stench of the air.Carl had told her the odor would linger awhile, but after some time had passed, it would fade away and one day she'd be saying "Remember how it used to smell when we first moved up here?" and shake her head at how long ago that seemed. Animals would return, the grass would grow again, new trees would work their way up through the soil, others with the same wild spirit would find their way to the newly named town of Sawyerville, and the Sawyer home would be a splendor to behold.

"Kind of like a fixer-upper," Brian had said contemplating the desolate town. "Only on a macrocosmic scale if we're gonna build the whole town back up. I might even open a general store."

She missed Carl's words of wisdom, and Brian's wry humor. She missed a lot of things from her old life too, but she didn't let her mind linger there long. She'd run through all the good memories of the middle-suburban life she'd left behind. Lizzy and her friends, newly graduated from college, and missing the camaraderie of those years, were planning a trip to Europe when she'd met Carl and everything changed. He promised her adventures and she'd chosen a life with him over a trek through Europe. The memories, instead of giving her comfort as they used to, now only made her long for what she'd lost. Through the screen door, she could hear Carl calling again and with a sigh, and a petulant moan, Lizzy got up to resume taking care of her husband. She considered what was left in the cupboards and wondered if Carl was getting tired of the canned vegetables she'd been feeding him the last few days. He kept saying how hungry he was.

Biting her lower lip, Lizzy regarded the row of crows perched on the railing of the veranda. Should she do it? She remembered the first time she'd served crow for dinner. Carl and Brian had gone on a scouting mission for animals.

"The rabbits must be back around here by now anyway."

"And there's the stream," Brian added. "Maybe a deer will wander down."

They'd come home empty-handed that evening, as they had every night for two weeks straight afterward, until finally deciding to wait until the animals came to them. The fire and slide were too much for any creature to brave coming this far down the side of the mountain just yet. The yellow stench still hung on the air more thickly then, and despite their hopefulness, it was too soon for anything to have returned to normal.

While they were gone, Lizzy tried to work a patch of ground to get a garden started. Her efforts were useless and the crows that gathered to watch her seemed to take great joy in her plight. "Quit it," Lizzy yelled at the nearest cawing crow, and threw a rock at him in frustration. She meant to hit the fence and scare him off, never expecting to hit the bird dead-on, but the crow fell off the fence and landed with a muted thud on the ashy ground. The other crows fled, and Lizzy approached the crow slowly. Maybe I just stunned it, she thought. She nudged it with her toe and still it lay motionless. Once she was certain it was dead, she picked it up and turning away so as not to witness her deed, she wrung its neck just to be sure.

By the time Carl and Brian returned home that night, the bird was cooked in a stew and all traces of its telltale feathers and beak had been buried in the garden.

"I've never had pheasant before," Carl remarked that night after a second helping of stew. "It tastes better than I thought it would. Why don't you have some?"

"Oh, I had it as a kid, and hated it," Lizzy lied. The thought of eating a bird she thought beautiful made her stomach turn. With Carl's hatred of them, she didn't dare tell him the truth that no birds other than crows had come back to the area.

"I don't really like it either," Brian said with a grimace, pushing the bowl of stew away. "Pass more of that applesauce, please."

Lizzy was still staring at the crows on the rail. She'd been too afraid to leave Carl's side since Brian had left, so she hadn't been able to get him any of the 'pheasant' he loved so much. Maybe now that his fever was coming down, she could boil up a bird and give him soup tonight. He was hungry and the protein would do him good, and she needed a break from sitting vigil by his bed through endless hours. Before Carl took sick, she'd found a slingshot in one the upstairs bedrooms. She hadn't shown it to anyone else, afraid that Carl or Brian would take it from her. What did she need a slingshot for, after all? Lizzy took it now from its hiding place under the porch, but before she turned to face the crows, she hesitated. What if it was the crow's meat making him so ill? She glanced at the birds, some were watching her, others were picking at the lice and other minute creatures that roosted in the blue-back feathers of their hosts. They were so beautiful though, like little pieces of moonlit night brought to life. Shaking her head, she decided Brian was right—she had a penchant for the dramatic. People got stomachaches or nausea from eating bad food, not nightmares. She gave a resolute shake of her head. "It can't be that," she decided.

Picking up a stone, and fitting it into the leather pocket of the slingshot, she marked the largest crow on the rail, and with practiced skill, hit her intended target. The others cawed, and several flew away, only to return a moment later to witness the murder of one of their brethren, their black eyes shining as they bobbed their heads and cawed in low voices to one another. As she always did after wringing the bird's neck, Lizzy said a quick prayer of thanks and apologized to the bird for taking its life.

Soon, Lizzy was back in the living room turned kitchen, with a good fire burning in the fireplace, and a frying pan slowly warming atop the flames. She stood at the table plucking the bird clean of feathers, feeling her own stomach rumble as she worked. Maybe, she thought, maybe it wouldn't hurt to try it just this once.

"Lizzy?"

She looked up startled to see Carl out of bed.

"I thought something had happened to you," he said quietly. Lying in bed as long as he had been, she hadn't noticed just how much weight he'd lost over the last few weeks. Standing in the doorway, his arms up and braced on the frame, and his ribbed body naked to his underwear, Lizzy got an eerie chill up her spine. He looks like Jesus on the cross.

She fought the urge to sign the cross but the desire to run to him, to kiss his feet, and beg his mercy was strong. Forgive me Jesus for I have sinned and come short of the glory of God. Save my sinner's soul. Every Sunday sermon she'd sighed and suffered through as a little girl came back now in one swift rush, leaving her feeling small, weak, and filled with shame.

"Lizzy, what are you doing?" Carl asked, his voice hoarse from nights of constant dream-talk and a fevered body.

Lizzy looked down at her bloodied hands.

"Look at me Elizabeth."

She couldn't do it. She couldn't look him in the eyes and see the pain she knew would be there, the anger and accusations she deserved for the lie she'd held to all these months.

"You've been feeding me crows."

Lizzy's lip trembled and she closed her eyes to stop herself from crying. She looked up sharply when she heard him staggering towards her.

"Carl, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have told you, I know that."

"You fed me souls of the unrighteous, Lizzy. You fed me murder, and decadence, and bloodshed."

"No, Carl, no. I just—you don't know what you're saying." She set the bloodied knife on the table and looked around for the cloth she kept nearby. She'd go to him and help him back to bed. He was out of bed, but clearly, no better. "You need to lay down and--" her words cut off as she drew in a quick breath when Carl lurched closer.

"Murderess!" he cried. Lizzy backed away from the table and Carl came nearer. Lizzy knew he was weaker than she, but in the glow of the kerosene lamp and the light from the fireplace, she wasn't sure just what she was seeing any longer. He seemed larger than life, despite his emaciation. It was enough to scare her into numb submission. What could she say to him that he would understand? The madness of the fever still held him.

"You fed me vileness, and disease, and horrors you can't imagine. Atrocities I can never erase from my mind. Lizzy, you fed me the very soul of evil. You fed me death." His words came out on labored breaths that surely hurt him. His chest heaved with every utterance.

"Carl, you're sick. It isn't the crows, I'm sure of it. It's the fever. It's the fever, Carl."

He picked up the carving knife she'd left on the table and continued toward her, bracing himself on chairs, on the wall, on any surface at hand.

"Please, Carl, no." She'd backed herself into a corner and there was nowhere for escape. She couldn't tell if it was the trick of firelight, or maybe even a longing for the strong, powerful man Carl had once been, but she was afraid to touch him. He loomed above her, reminding her of pictures of the Devil she knew from her childhood. If she pushed him, would he crumble and fall, or would he grow angier and more powerful? Maybe, this was the only way their new life could end. Maybe, it was what she deserved for choosing this life, for leaving behind the one her parents wanted for her. In a small way, Lizzy welcomed what would come next and she braced for it.

"You murdered me, Lizzy, my beloved wife." The sound of his voice, rasping and filled with hurt and anger, scared her almost as much as the bloodied knife he wielded. "You've murdered me."

He brought the knife down swiftly so that the blade sunk into its intended target with bone crunching accuracy. Lizzy screamed as Carl staggered backward, his eyes wide with shock at what he had done. He lurched and swayed, trying to stay on his feet, then fell suddenly forward, his body crashing to the floor as if in slow motion. The knife in his heart wrenched through his body, barely breaking the skin on his back, now tented grotesquely over the knifepoint. A droplet of blood oozed from the small puncture. Lizzy screamed.

Outside, another crow flew to join the congregation, a stone's throw away.