would have told you the same. It is the crow feral’s burden. Take it somewhere where no one can ever find it again, and please … I beg you … keep it away from me.”
He turned and ran, darting away between the trees.
“Wait!” said Caw. “I need your help!”
But Quaker was gone.
There’s no pleasing some people, said Shimmer. Her voice seemed distant and muffled. Caw shook his head. Perhaps he’d fallen harder than he thought on the road.
“I’ve found footprints!” shouted one of the police.
A bird squawked from a distance, and Caw saw it was Glum, perched on a branch twenty feet away. “What did you say?” said Caw.
This way! said Glum. I’ll get us out of here.
Caw ran after him, ankle throbbing. With every step, he could feel the stone bouncing against his side.
They’ve made a bit of an effort, haven’t they? said Glum.
Crumb had combed his hair and shaved. He was wearing his best pair of shoes – or perhaps he’d just put new tape around the old ones. Pip wore a crumpled black dinner suit, the jacket baggy over his shoulders, and he’d even found a bow tie from somewhere. Caw suddenly felt self-conscious about his own torn coat and scruffy boots.
The pigeon feral grunted. “So you decided to show up at last. Where’ve you been all day?”
“Sorry,” said Caw. “I lost track of time.”
“Hmm,” said Crumb. “Come on, the service is about to start.”
Caw trudged along the path after Crumb and Pip, while his crows flapped up and landed above the chapel door. His ankle still ached a little, but he was hardly limping now.
Like the ruined Church of St Francis, this place was long abandoned and the graveyard mostly untended. It felt strange being back here – the place where his own parents were buried. Crumb led them around the other side of the church where Caw saw a small gathering of people around a freshly dug grave. A mound of soil stood at the graveside waiting to be piled into the hole in the ground.
There were about a dozen people present besides Crumb, himself and Pip. Caw recognised a few of the other ferals. There was Ali, dressed in a slim-fitting black suit and still clutching his briefcase, which buzzed softly with the swarm of bees held inside. Racklen, the hulking wolf feral, stood at his side. Caw was disappointed not to see Madeleine, the raven-haired girl in the wheelchair, but he saw two of her squirrels perched in the branches at the edge of the graveyard.
He tried to scan the other faces without staring. There were people of every age. A girl of maybe four or five had a huge Dobermann sitting patiently at her side. An old man was leaning on a stick, though he didn’t seem to be accompanied by any creature. Two boys, who looked identical, stood on either side of a large, floppy-eared hare, its nose twitching. At the back stood a youngish couple with a baby in a pram. A hawk sat perched on the pram’s rim, and beside it, strangely, was a raccoon. Were both parents ferals?
At the head of the grave stood a figure Caw knew very well indeed. Mrs Strickham was dressed in a long black coat with pale gleaming buttons. She looked more severe than he remembered her from two months ago, the lines of her face taut. She acknowledged Caw with a brief nod and a smile that softened her features. She was holding a white rose. “Please, everyone, gather around,” she said.
Caw joined the group, which formed a ring around the empty grave.
No one spoke for several seconds. Caw had never been to a funeral before, let alone a feral one. He wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. Then he noticed that, one by one, the crowd were turning towards the church. He followed their gaze, up the path, and his eyes fell on the strangest thing.
Not the coffin itself – that was a simple casket, made of tightly woven wicker – but the fact that it was moving, gliding across the uneven ground as if on a cushion of air. Caw suddenly realised what he was seeing. There were centipedes under the coffin, thousands of them, their tiny legs scurrying along.
“They’re carrying her!” he murmured.
“It’s their final duty,” said Crumb.
When they reached the graveside, the centipedes descended the slope down into the earth, taking the coffin with them. As it came to rest at the bottom, Mrs Strickham cleared her throat.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said, speaking over the grave. “Emily would have been honoured to see you here.” Several heads bobbed in acknowledgement. Not for the first time, Caw felt a stranger in the company of the ferals and the history they shared.
“I first met Emily fifteen years ago,” Velma Strickham continued. “Some of you are too young to remember a time before the Dark Summer, when many of our kind were known to one another.” A smile crept over Mrs Strickham’s face as she said the words. “Emily ran a ferals group under the guise of a knitting circle, and many struggling with their powers benefited from her kindness and advice. She was a loving mother to her three girls as well. I say this from personal experience, but it is always hard to know when as a feral parent you should tell your children.” She paused. “When to burden them with their destiny.”
Caw swallowed as a fresh pang of grief rose from his heart. His mother was snatched away before she ever had the chance to speak with him.
His hand stroked the stone in his pocket again and he felt suddenly empty. There was a lot his mother hadn’t told him. He looked around the assembled faces. Surely someone here must know about the stone? But could he really trust them? The words of Quaker flashed through his mind.
Tell no one you have it. Not Crumb, not Lydia, not Velma – no one.
Crumb put his arm around Caw’s shoulder, as if he sensed his discomfort, and Caw let his fingers release the stone.
“Emily was preparing to tell her children about her powers when the Dark Summer fell upon us,” said Mrs Strickham. “You all suffered in those months. We lost many. But few suffered as Emily did.”
The air seemed to have become chillier as a light wind picked up, ruffling the treetops and blowing leaves across the graveyard. Caw saw more birds gathered in the branches – thrushes, woodpeckers, and an owl. All seemed to be watching intently. The old man with the stick shifted a little, and a ferret poked its head from the bottom of his trouser leg.
“Mamba’s snakes were trying to find Emily herself, but instead they found her daughters,” Mrs Strickham said, her voice close to cracking. “Their deaths were quick and that was a small mercy. After that Emily fought on, somehow. Without her, we could never
