I hesitated. For a moment, I didn't see a tiny white-haired lady. I saw the girl from my raven drea
m. Heard her saying to the birds, "Shoo! You aren't supposed to be here."
"They used to come around when I was little. Nasty things." She shook her fist at the raven, still climbing. "You're not supposed to be here."
A soft sob interrupted her words, and I noticed the little girl, crying and shaking in her mother's arms. I glanced around for the cat and spotted its tail peeking from under the bench. I opened the gate, went inside, and bent down. It stared out at me from the darkness. When I reached in, it rubbed against my hand but would come no farther.
"Can't say I blame you," I murmured.
I turned to the little girl. "He's okay. Just scared. Come see."
She did, and the cat craned its neck out far enough to be petted.
"I need to run," I said. "I'm late for work, but he seems fine."
They agreed, and I took off.
Matagot
The old woman scowled up at the sky. The raven was long gone. Were there more? There'd better not be. She would tell the others, though. They should know there had been a raven in Cainsville.
She walked over to where the cat was hiding. It was still there, staring balefully.
"Leaping at ravens, matagot?" she murmured. "Trying to protect the girl? Or merely getting her attention?"
The cat only lifted a black paw and began cleaning itself.
The old woman straightened. The Larsen girl had scared the bird off nicely. The others should know about that, too. They were worried about the girl. It was difficult for some, having a Bowen in town again. It had been so many years, and things had gone so badly the last time. Yet most of the elders, like Veronica herself, were excited, too. The girl gave them another chance.
Born outside Cainsville, her mother had been lost from the start. Usually the children did not stray far enough to warrant attention. With Pamela Bowen however ... They had all underestimated the danger. The chance she'd get to know Todd Larsen. That would not happen again.
Veronica went to the child and helped her mother comfort and reassure her until she stopped crying. A terrible thing for a child to see. That shouldn't happen in Cainsville.
When mother and child left, the old woman returned to her painting. Before taking the first stroke, she glanced up at the sky. After a look around, she took a plump cloth bag from her pocket, untied it, and shook a little extra powder into the paint. Then she swirled it in and resumed her work.
Chapter Twenty-five
In a town where half the population seemed old enough to collect Social Security, the diner wasn't exactly booming after dinner hour. By eight, even Patrick had gone home. After that, we had one middle-aged couple that worked in the city and got home late, and one family--the Pattersons--with two preadolescent children who'd apparently rebelled against Meatloaf Night. Otherwise, it was a slow stream of seniors coming by for a cup of tea and slice of pie.
Another problem with an elderly population? Call me ageist, but after seventy, they all start to look alike. If I wanted decent tips, I needed to be able to put names to faces ... and remember "the usual" for each. I made notes like "Bob Masters: bad dentures, black coffee, blueberry pie" and "Sue Masters: hairy moles, Earl Grey with milk, tea biscuit with honey." I kept the notes in my deepest pocket and prayed I never dropped them.
I wasn't a good server. I wasn't even an adequate one. But I tried my damnedest, and I did get tips, though I suspect they were more like doggy biscuits for the obedience class dropout--gentle encouragement that would lead to better performance in the future.
----
On my way back to the apartment for the night I turned onto the walkway to the park and heard a whoosh-whoosh ahead. I stopped. The sound came again. The beating of large wings. I hurried around a bush and saw a huge bird ripping apart something on the ground.
I ran and realized it was two huge birds. They dropped their prey and soared away, as silent as wraiths. When I saw the black bundle on the ground, my gut twisted. The cat.
I hurried forward, then slowed. The bloody mess of red and black looked ... wrong. The fur was ... Not fur. Feathers.
It was the raven. Dead. Ripped apart so badly it was only a bloody mess of feathers and entrails.
I glanced up just as a massive brown form alighted on a gatepost. The owl stared at me, unblinking. Then it settled in, talons gripping the stone, leaving bloody claw marks.
The second owl landed on the opposite gatepost.
Two huge owls perched like live gargoyles. Waiting for me to go away. To leave their prey.