Sometimes the song of the lapwing and the bruised sky spilling sunshine like a rusty watering can unsettled him. It could be eerie up there away from the buzz of the radio and sanctuary of a pair of heavy curtains. His body sang in harmony with the eeriness. Here he was facing dangers that were elemental. There was none of the gnaw of the everyday up here. No credit card statements. No pressure to succeed. No wife belittling him.
He breathed in deep and tasted the soar of the buzzard, the whisper between the sycamore branches, the brackish, black water that seeped into each deserted, boggy footstep, and he felt free.
Sometimes the wind resented his intrusion and would try and push him back into the rows of white houses below. He liked to struggle against each buffet and blow. He liked the wind's ammunition of rain and hail aimed in his face, numbing his cheeks, narrowing his eyes.
He would get to the top of the ridge, amongst the gnarled, black trunks of the copse, and look down at the life below.
From here, the lights shone out of windows like precious crystals, or embers raked at the bottom of a fire.
From here it looked beautiful. From here he couldn't see where the gnaw came from.
Most days he made the same pilgrimage.
On this evening, in a petulant February that wouldn't quite let Spring arrive, he had to cup his hand around his rollie and his lighter to get it lit.
He sucked deep and the sweet tobacco smoke filled his throat and his lungs. There was no better smoke than the smoke he smoked up here.
A crow cleared its throat. Other than the white tails of rabbits, they were the only inhabitants of the copse. They were the ragged kings that looked down on him looking down.
He peered up at the impenetrable confusion of branches silhouetted against the sky.
In amongst the tangle were tighter tangles, places that the crows knew as home.
Another crow cawed. Dewi had once imagined biting down on a length of rusty barbed wire. The crow's voice sounded like that felt. Another caw sounded from just above him and he flinched. The rollie fell in amongst the twigs and the tufts of wool at his feet.
He could see it simultaneously glowing and fading and reached for it.
The first crow came with a great, loose flapping of wings and a beak of iron that punctured the side of his head like a chisel splitting grapefruit.
"Ah!" he cawed, standing up into the confusion of black feathers and claws.
The next crow burst his left eye with a talon so sharp there was no resistance or immediate pain.
He fell on his knees. Blood and jelly seeped into the back of his nose and his throat and he coughed.
The third crow, the final crow, and the one that did for him; the one that stole the gnaw with a peck, ripped his throat out like it had done a dozen lambs the spring before.
They rarely killed men, if ever.
©Adam Walton
2010
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