Joy

"People once believed that when a person died, a crow carried their
soul to the land of the dead.
But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is
carried with it; and the soul can't rest.
Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to
make the wrong things right."

The stinging autumn rain canvassed the city in liquid veils. It bled
from gutters and rooftops and kaleidoscoped into drains. The thunder
prowled in the background like the revving of some giant airborne
hotrod. Then all grew still for the smallest moment before the scene
was ripped in two by a single shard of white-hot lightning. The entire
spectacle lasted less than a second but that was
enough&;#8230;
The figure on top of the mausoleum was blasted into a stark silhouette
by the lightning, hair flailing wildly in the breeze that followed. All
had been darkness and oblivion a few seconds ago but this one light had
shown the way. He dropped onto the damp soil of the cemetery and
crouched, poised cat-like on all fours. Then straightening his legs as
if waiting for a starting pistol he was gone into the void of the
storm. As he ran memories flooded his clouded mind just as the rain
threatened to flood the entire city and wash away all of the bad within
it.
He remembered a house, a room, a woman. She sat on the edge of a bed
peering at the door as if waiting for something. The beating of wings
somewhere disrupted the quiet scene and then there was only the night
and the rain again. He looked skyward at the top of a lamppost and saw
a huge carrion crow perched on top. Then another flash of lightning
burned the hideous bird onto the screen of his mind and he heard a
voice say,
"Come Brandon, there's much to be done."
One hour earlier&;#8230;
The darkness was ripped from his eyes like pulling of a band-aid.
Light and sound fought to make order from the chaos and soon his vision
righted itself.
He was lying on top of a dark mountain surrounded by others of similar
size forming a small range. At one end of this stood a sign but he
couldn't make it out. Then the stench hit him, like used prophylactics
and bad whisky. Looking down he realised they weren't mountains after
all, he was on a refuse tip in the old garbage yard just outside the
city. The city! He'd been there before to see someone, a woman, and he
had a name, Angel. There was more but it wouldn't come out of his
blurred memory. The squawking of a bird close by interrupted his
recollection, he turned to face the creature,
"Don't worry, the rest will come in time."
Brandon flowed along alleys and backstreets, his bare feet slapping on
the soaked sidewalk and crashing through glass panes of puddles. He
knew where he was going but was not yet sure why, though he had an
unnerving compulsion to follow the bird as it soared above and ahead of
him. The pouring rain and pallor of death that had set upon him made
his skin the colour of porcelain and he became aware that he was
wearing only a pair of trousers. Craning his neck he yelled at the
bird,
"Where are you taking me?"
"I think you already know where Brandon, and there's no need to yell.
Reach out to me as I do to you."
Reach out? What did the ominous bird mean by reach out? Surely not
with his mind? That was ridiculous.
"I assure you it's not ridiculous, otherwise explain how you can hear
me."
"I suppose you have a point, wait a minute! I didn't speak, I'm still
not speaking and yet I hear myself. What's going on?"
"Patience Brandon, all shall be made clear soon enough. Now how about
we take a quick detour to get you something a little more suitable to
wear? Can't have you running around half naked, you'll catch your
death, if you'll pardon the expression. Come, this way." And with that
the crow nose-dived into an open window a few floors above. Brandon
entered through the door of the dilapidated warehouse.
Inside all was dust, it settled on floors and tables and danced in the
beams of streetlights that shone through broken windows. The bird
settled on a beam below the remnants of a shattered skylight, eclipsing
the moon and blanketing the scene in shadow.
"So why are we here?"
"Take a look over there, those boxes."
Brandon clambered over furniture and rubble, surprised at the ease
with which he moved the piled items aside. He scooped a filing cabinet
up over his head and tossed it through a window bringing icicles of
glass and wood showering down.
"I'm stronger."
"Indeed you are, but don't go pulling too many stuns like that. We
don't want to attract attention."
"Sorry, this is taking some getting used to."
"Of course it is."
Tearing open the first box Brandon found an abundance of sweaters and
shirts, in another trousers and in one more shoes. They were all
black.
"Nice wardrobe you've got here, not too sure I like the colour
though."
"It's your colour now, this place used to belong to an old mime
troupe. All very arty, but they're long gone and left all this behind,
take what you want."
They really had everything, from rollnecks to vests, jogging pants to
slacks. Sifting through piles of garments he finally opted for a
sleeveless shirt and a pair of leather trousers. The ensemble was
completed with some heavy-duty boots.
"Now, the mark", echoed the squaw in his mind.
"The mark?"
"Yes, each one must bear a mark, choose yours."
Breaking open a final box revealed grease paint and make-up. Brandon
covered his face in white and painted a black wing over one eye, black
lipstick and he was finished.
"Alright, now I'm ready."
"That you are my boy, that you are."

TO BE CONTINUED...