will, if properly encouraged,
eventually disgorge its quota of crow tales. These are normally reserved
till last, when dark skies press upon a brightly lit home and the warm,
smoky interior provides a nervous contrast with the cavernous silence
outside. In that mystical moment when the mind has been opened to
supernatural symbols and insight has been whetted by the introduction of
port, stories rise to the surface like drowned corpses.
How I smiled when first I was exposed to stories of crow cunning. In a land
where creatures are barely given credit for sentience, the crow is invested
with mythical capability. Of course, it isn't difficult to understand the
fear and loathing attributed to this intelligent bird. Any animal which can
heartlessly peck out the eyes of a lamb struggling to emerge from its
mother's womb, deserves a fearful shudder. After all, it's not as if it
depends upon that morsel for life. No, the crow is a connoisseur who plucks
out the squishy delicacy for pleasure, not necessity.
My first experience of the hatred crows inspire was delivered via a crow
feasting on a road casualty. The sight seemed harmless enough to me. What
better way to dispose of a carcass that would otherwise provide for the
breeding of flies? Apparently, my husband did not share my opinion. In an
attempt to run 'the bastard' over, he swerved off the road, snapped off a
guide post, skidded in gravel, then returned to bitumen, unsuccessful. A
hair raising manoeuvre when you're travelling at one hundred and ten.
Meanwhile, the object of this suicidal diversion hopped calmly out of reach
with a faint flick of its wing tips.
Against this mustering of suspicion and hatred, I tried to assemble my city
born scepticism. Crows were only behaving as nature intended, I tried to
reason. They are nature's euthanists. They dispose of the weak and
vulnerable leaving the fittest to continue the species. It's not that they
possess demonic intentions, they are simply taking advantage of creatures
who have lost the cunning needed for survival in the bush through centuries
of interfered breeding. The crow is not to blame but man. My logic fell on
incredulous ears.
'What the hell's she talking about?'
'City born.'
'Huh! That explains a lot.'
Seven months after we purchased 'Omaru', Ed bought eight scrawny chickens at
a local auction. He did it rather shame facedly since he'd always
maintained in the past that chickens did little except attract foxes and
spread disease. 'They were cheap,' he informed me with a shrug. I didn't
care, chickens fitted in beautifully with my dream of self sufficiency on an
Old McDonald-style farm. They also put every scrap of waste to good use.
Gleefully, I began to hoard peelings and bones, mix oil with stale bread and
bring home broken biscuits from Friday morning teas at school. Imagine my
horror when while carting a plastic bag of scrounged treasure, I surprised a
glossy feathered raider.
On my approach, he rose up lazily and lighted on one of the posts.
'Shshoo,' I sputtered, swinging the plastic bag in an attempt to appear
frightening, 'go away!' Fixing me with one red eye, he continued stripping
a bone. 'Go on, I mean business,' I shouted and hurled the bag. The bag
bounced off the wire, snagged and spilled its contents, whereupon he hopped
to the ground, fished out a slice of bread and returned to his perch. I
charged. He moved off calmly to the plum tree where he started cawing. I
hurried to the back porch to collect the shot gun Ed kept propped up in the
corner, in case of snakes. I loaded it up, the breach snapping shut with a
satisfying sound. 'This'll put the wind up you.'
I needn't have bothered. With the sixth sense of a psychic, he'd retreated
to a safe distance, his heckling continuing. I knew I didn't stand a chance
of hitting him, but I let one off regardless, as a sort of statement, but
all I managed to do was unnerve the chooks who sped off in all directions.
'Great,' I chided myself, 'now we won't have eggs for days.'
When Ed got home that night, I bombarded him with complaints. 'He'll be
back,' Ed predicted confidently, 'you should have shot him when you had the
chance.' I vehemently denied this, insisting I'd given him the fright of
his miserable life. 'Just in case,' Ed continued, 'we'll prepare a little
something for his return.'
The little something consisted of small portions of poisoned meat placed
atop the chicken coop. I expressed some concern about this technique,
citing the possibility of native fauna taking the bait, but Ed assured me
nothing but a rat or a crow would visit a hen coop and either was welcome to
it. He was right, of course, but what neither of us took into account was
the eerie intelligence of our target. When I thought about it later, it
made perfect sense that the crow would be suspicious. After all, who feeds
their chooks on the roof?
What our little thief did next, I'm not putting down to vindictiveness but
rather logic. Had that crow meant to be vindictive, he would have dropped
all of the poisoned meat into the chook yard, as it was only three hens
died. Three is a rational number. One ill chook might be a coincidence,
two, and you could feel suspicious but still remain sceptical that the deed
was done deliberately. Thrice is definitely the charm.
The sight of those three little victims to our stupidity, disturbed me, and
I felt half inclined to give revenge up, then. Course, it had to be my
fault, I'd been the one who'd refused to make use of the time honoured
method of poisoning an egg. Our chooks suffered from a problem which
produced soft tipped shells and occasionally one would make a meal of a
damaged or broken egg.
'Now we've lost three, instead of one,' Ed announced in frustration. I
didn't bother to point out that losing one or three or none did not solve
the problem. 'We'll just have to shoot him.'
'I've already tried that,' I reminded him. The look said it all.
The next morning, Ed wandered down with the scraps, shot gun tucked under
one arm. He returned shortly after, bag empty, shot gun full.
'Did you get him?' I questioned eagerly.
'Did you hear any shots?'
'No.' A long, thinking pause followed in which I scanned Ed's frowning face
for clues and he made safe his weapon. Finally, he frowned deeper still,
then observed: 'Tomorrow, you'll feed them.'
'You got a plan?'
'Maybe.'
The plan turned out to be simple. My role would be that of decoy. While I
distracted the crow's attention with a particularly delicious collection of
tidbits, Ed would sneak down the wind break, coming in from the opposite
direction. It seemed foolproof. Problem was, we were dealing with no fool.
Mr. Thomas, as I'd dubbed our egg thief, (after a form one teacher who could
not be duped) was already waiting as I ambled through the orchard, the
plastic bag crackling faintly. I pulled the wire handle and the chooks
spilled out, jostling for position, eager to pick through their breakfast.
Peripherally, I noted Mr. Thomas' interest, then, unable to resist, I looked
fully at him.
He squatted nonchalantly on his usual fence post, only a sort of keen glint
in his eyes gave away his interest. For a moment we sized each other up,
then as if an old soldier hearing a distant trumpet, he swung his attention
behind. In a flurry, he was gone. Two minutes later, Ed walked into the
yard.
'He heard you.'
'I know.' Ed stood musing a moment then jerked his head up with a sniff,
'Saw a bunny over there behind the hay shed, think I'll have a go at him.
You get ready for work.'
'O.K.' For a few moments more, I stood watching the endless peck, peck,
pecking at my feet. It'd be nice if life were so simple, I decided. A
whoosh of feathers to my left re-routed my thoughts. Mr. Thomas had
returned. I didn't know whether to admire his cheek or despise his gall;
while I was making up my mind, he cocked his clever head to one side and
began to caw in a way he'd never attempted before. The best way to describe
the noise he was making would be to liken it to a kind of tut tut tut sound,
the sort of noise made when scolding. A distant boom unnerved him and off
he went, leaving me with the distinct impression I'd just been told off.
That little experience marked a turning point for me, I couldn't rid myself
of the feeling that we were dealing with something more than a bird. I
refused to have anything more to do with the murder of that creature. Of
course, Ed persisted with various traps and springes, none of which proved
successful.
As summer, then autumn drew on and fruit ripened in stages, Mr. Thomas
turned to other treats and egg stealing ceased to be an issue. I grew used
to him and even left a part of each tree unnetted so that he could help
himself to a feed. His favourite was pear. The gluttonous way in which he
gorged himself on a ripe, and even a not so ripe pear, was a sight to see.
Time, and this happy compromise continued, until one day, a Saturday it
happened to be, Ed's eager face appeared at the kitchen window. 'I've got
something to show you,' he crooned. This could mean anything. I have been
treated to a pair of insect bats nesting in an old rug sack, but I have also
been horrified by a poisonous looking black spider captured in a glass jar.
The grape-sized abdomen on that arachnid makes me shiver as I remember it,
even now. Ed never tells me what it is I am about to be shown, no matter
how much I beg, it must remain a surprise.
'It's not a snake,' I pleaded.
'Use your brains, it's nearly winter.' True. I'd forgotten.
'Not another spider?'
'Wait and see.' We were heading down to the yards. While we walked in
silence, a tingle of premonition keyboarded my nerves.
'Where are we going? I hope it isn't far, I have got things to do, essays
to mark, you know.'
'We're here.' I halted, waiting for revelation. Ed was nothing if not a
showman.
'You can't guess, can you?'
'No,' I replied sulkily, 'I can't guess.'
'Look.'
I looked. There, from the electric fence Ed had recently installed to 'stop
the cows ruining the fences' hung a ragged, black shape. Its claws were
tightly wrapped around the cause of its death, allowing it to swing in a
spooky parody of life, except that it was upside down.
'How'd it happen?'
'Oh, they often get caught that way. Land on a hot wire, then when they
stretch out to take off, zap!' I shuddered, I couldn't imagine how clever
MrThomas had electrocuted himself. Impossible, he was too observant. He'd
have watched Ed putting up the fence and even if he'd never had the
experience of a fence of that kind before (and that was hard to believe)
he'd have concluded Ed was up to his old tricks and avoided it on principle.
No, there had to be another interpretation. Something more rational.
An explanation glided into my consciousness as I returned to the house.
What if Mr Thomas had wanted to die? No, that was ridiculous, only humans
chose suicide, animals were programmed for survival. Still, the mystery
encouraged strange thoughts and these continued to circle silently as the
day proceeded.
At dusk, Ed asked me to put the chooks away as he had turned off the
electric fence and forgotten to switch it back on again.
'Why didn't you turn it back on before?'
'I forgot, I only just remembered. Anyway, I'm giving you the better job.
I'm the one who has to open up the shed just to throw a switch, then lock it
up again.'
'Typical,' I muttered, pulling on boots, forgetting to check for spiders.
The air outside was unusually wintry, with an almost arctic bite. Fumbling
with the gate chain, I stomped my feet, too irritated to return and fetch a
coat. Smoke from burn offs in the surrounding national forests hazed stars
and bloodied the moon. Peppercorns creaked and nervous birds fluttered, not
yet settled. I hugged myself and hurried.
Unbolting the chook shed door, I stepped into the fuggy stink, soothing the
hens with, 'It's only me chookies, it's all right.' I pushed close their
escape catch to foil any lurking foxes, collected three eggs and stepped out
again, more appreciative of the night's freshness. How do chooks put up
with themselves? I wondered, forcing air through my nose. There was no time
to formulate any theories, for as I stood there snorting their stench out of
my nostrils, a tremor of unease started at the base of my spine and began
slowly to travel to the base of my skull. Turning slowly to the right, I
faced the epicentre of my growing discomfort.
There, hanging by a length of baling twine, flapped Mr Thomas. His eye
sockets were empty, ants had probably seen to that. His beak, that long,
wicked nib that had so reminded me of my old teacher, was ajar. As I
watched, a small moth landed and crept inside for comfort. A wet patter
made me look down. The eggs. I'd crushed them. Shit! From the corner of
one eye, I saw a stray wisp of breeze lift the black shape up and flip it
over. In my mind, I heard tut, tut, tut. It was enough for me, I sprinted.
Try explaining to a practical husband why you were frightened by a dead crow.
'I put it there to frighten off other crows. Don't see why it scared you.
And even if it did, did you have to break the eggs? It's coming on to
winter, we won't get many from now on. Why waste the few we get?'
How do you explain to a practical husband the terror of imagination?
There's something about crows that justifies all that poetry and literature
have attributed to them, I've learnt that lesson now. Why then does he
still come flapping in my dreams?
