The Keeper Of The Crow's.

January 3rd 4:45 pm, Crow's Crossing Road, 10 miles south of Covington near junction 38.

Present Day.

It had been raining for most of the day there on the road of crows, 42-year-old Jerry Lloyd had been a Covington resident for most of his life and was very familiar with the lore and legends that lived on Crow's Crossing Road, his companion that day-Bert Kribs however, was not from the area and knew nothing of such things, and when Jerry Lloyd related one legend in particular to him, it seemed much too  far-fetched to believe. The two had come there on this rainy afternoon to see one sight in particular, aside from the strange wildlife in the area, there was something else there that roamed the woods, something more unsettling than mere animals.

He pulled the truck to the side of the road and ignoring the rain Jerry Lloyd opened the driver's side door and stepped out onto the dirt path leading into the deep woods, Bert Kribs was at first reluctant to follow suit, and then he saw Jerry step around the front of the truck and turn to face the treeline, the trail was mostly overgrown with thick, lush wild grass and weeds, Jerry Lloyd turned to face his companion.

"This is the place." He told Bert Kribs. "Right up that trail, that's where everybody see's it. that's where we need to go."

Still not certain Bert Kribs stepped from the vehicle and turned toward the trail, one hundred yards past the treeline they saw the large murder of crows swarm the tree's surrounding a small clearing and there in its center stood a lone grim figure, an older Indian looking fellow with long black hair flowing to his shoulders, he moved the long walking stick carefully forward as his cold almost transparent lifeless eyes stared skyward. The very sight of him chilled both Jerry Lloyd and Bert Kribs to the bone. There before them stood the guardian of the woods, The keeper of Crows. 

In spite of the knowledge that the old Indian was not likely to harm them given the fact that they weren't there to do any harm themselves, both men in a state of panic turned to run away but tripped and fell into a ravine beside of the Ryepatch trail and were both were close to unconsciousness when they came to rest on the bottom. Jerry Lloyd's vision was slowly getting blurry as he struggled to stay awake, the last thing he saw was the swarm of birds in the trees above them and figure

of the old Indian staring down at him from the edge.

Common Crow.

September 30th, 1908, Copperton Rd.

It was at the time of the cold rainy season, the kind of cold that could bore its way through a man's flesh and chill him right to the bone, it seemed to always rain here, it was a dark cold and misty place, but he'd always found a reason to stay, mostly because the rain and the dense woodlands kept most folks away, until the Coverdale Lumber Mill moved in some five years ago eight miles to his south. It was on a particular Wednesday morning when the sounds of rolling thunder pulled him from his rest, as thirty nine-year-old Jackson Boone stepped out onto the front porch of his cabin, rifle in hand, he detected a sound that he was all too familiar with.

It was barely breaking dawn when he'd heard the voices accompanied by heavy footfalls lumbering their way along the Ryepatch trail, heading away from him through the woods toward the Saddlehorn river.  He turned his head away from the thunder to better focus, he detected four different voices, all male, all, very, very, angry. He followed the voice's along the Ryepatch until he reached the north fork, then he could clearly hear the sounds of the Saddlehorn river, the angry yelling turned into screams and when he'd heard a shot ring out he hurried his pace until he reached the top of a hill, he moved in behind the tall weeds and studied the four men for a time.  It appeared as though they were searching through the underbrush along the river banks for something in particular, something that had managed to elude them. He stayed hidden, and watched as the angered hunters made their way along the banks of the Saddlehorn heading south.

He sat with his back to a tree and his rifle at his side, waiting patiently as the dark slowly gave way to the light. He could make out the shadowy figure moving to the edge of a hollowed out log nearest the water's edge. he raised the rifle and leaned it against his shoulder as he stood. The figure was quite small, almost frail looking, it didn't take him long to realize that it was just a child. He watched curiously as they pawed at the ground eyes upward, roaming aimlessly, searching for what he'd guessed for something to grab onto to pull them upright. He reached out extending his hand to them, hesitantly they backed away. He studied them for a time and as it grew lighter he saw that the child was a boy. He looked up to the sky and then back.

"You really got them mill workers riled up, boy, what in tarnation did you do to them?" Jackson Boone asked.

When he didn't reply Jack slowly moved closer as to look him in the eye, he was an Indian, and the way he stared vacantly up Jack figured him to be blind. He looked him up and down, and then up at the gathering storm clouds.

"I ain't one of them, so you can bring yourself on up here, boy."

He waited, but the child still didn't answer.

"I don't know how you've been getting along without being able to see- but there's one nasty storm moving in, I got a cabin right down that trail there, if you can make your way along you can stay with me til your folks come looking for you."

He reached his hand down once again, and again the boy's eyes wandered aimlessly across the cloudy skies above until finally he seemed to focus on something just above the treeline, Jackson Boone watched with growing curiosity, he looked up at the top of the tree's to where he saw an unusually large black crow, just as he felt the boys hand grasp his, he slowly looked back down at him before pulling him up to the top of the trail, from above him Jack could feel the eyes watching his every move, the boys head cocked to one side, his blinking rapidly, he tugged at Jack's hand and raised a forefinger pointing through the treeline, in the distance Jack could hear the angry voices through the thunder, he knew they weren't far off.

"C'mon boy, we'd best be getting along now they're gonna be here soon."

The hurried along the Ryepatch, slowly making their way back to Jacks cabin. Behind them, the muffled cries of anger not only intensified but grew even closer. He grabbed the boy's hand and hurried him along as the rain began to lash down on them, they had just cleared the front porch of the cabin when the heavens seemed to open up with an ensuing downpour. The boy stared blankly out at the morning sky, blinking repeatedly, Jackson Boone looked down at him, a puzzled look crossed his face before he returned his attention to the now silent woods. 

"C'mon boy, we'd best be getting inside where it's warm and dry, them fellers that were looking for you more than likely turned back because of the storm, but them may come looking again."

He lit a fire and sat the boy down in the corner and returned his attention to the woods outside, there came only the sound of the down pouring rain. He turned to look down at the child, deciding that he must be hungry he prepared them a breakfast of wild goose eggs, with root potatoes, onions and left over rabbit meat from the previous evening's supper.  

"I'm Jack, by the way." he told the boy. The child stared blankly up at the ceiling, and in perfect English he said:                                                              

"My name is Crow."

He explained to Jackson Boone that his parents had both died, and he was left to fend for himself until the owner of the Mill, Landon Coverdale had taken him in, he fed the boy for a time but quickly pushed him into the milling camps along the Saddlehorn where he was bullied and abused almost daily by the workers, until he'd had enough and decided to runaway from it all. He was caught the first few times and was beaten, but the last time his friend that lived up in the trees had told him how to avoid them when they came looking again. the voice that he heard would never leave him, and he grew to trust it, it had been many days since he was in the camps.

 He placed a full plate of food down in front of him, and he could detect the faint sound of the boy's belly rumbling. He smiled to himself as young Crow quickly devoured all of it. He returned to the front stoop of the cabin, since the rain had stopped so he figured that it wouldn't be long until the hunters would return to their search, he went back inside to find the boy fast asleep.  All in all six hours had passed when he heard the angry voices return, when he looked down at the corner where the boy had once lye, there was nothing, the child had at some point got up and left, he'd guessed more likely than not he'd gone back into the woods. 

Jack grabbed the rifle and stepped back out onto the porch just as four large men stepped out from behind the trees. They explained in great detail how they had been looking for an Indian boy who they'd caught stealing food from a mill camp just to the north of the actual Coverdale Mill, and how thus far the thief had managed to elude them. When Jackson Boone explained to them that he hadn't seen anyone in three weeks time, the tone of the inquiry took a more menacing tone. If it was even vaguely suspected that Jack was hiding the boy, he knew that they would most certainly be returning later with hostile intent.  He didn't have to wait long, the returned later that night, torches in hand, as well as wooden clubs.

Before he'd even had time to react, they had kicked in the front door to the cabin, they drug Jackson Boone outside three beat him relentlessly while another three ransacked the entire cabin looking for the Indian boy.  After a full fifteen minutes the three men appeared in the doorway, Jackson Boone lye in a bloody heap on the wet ground. There was no sign of the boy but they had found two used dinner plates in the wash basin, which told them that at some point there were at least two people in the cabin. Two of the men went back inside torches in hand and set the whole cabin ablaze. Jackson Boone received yet another beating at the hands of the remaining members of the search party, the second beating would prove to be fatal. As they returned to their search with torches in hand, Jackson Boone bled to death in the clearing not more than 20 yards from his cabin.

"Your anger, fuels your desire for revenge, but be mindfull young Crow, given power, the fires of your anger will consume your very soul if you allow it."

Not more than sixty yards into the trees unseeing eyes scanned the entire area, hidden completely from view the young Indian known only as Crow, didn't have to see what was going on to know that the only friend that he'd had in the whole world was now more than likely dead. he sat in silence listening to the angry voices as they slowly turned away and headed back toward the milling camps, it was then, at that very moment that young Crow decided that he had absolutely had enough of being the victim and as the fear that had  relentlessly haunted him throughout most of his young life, began to disappear,  it slowly but surely gave way to anger. He kept at a safe distance as he followed the voices back to the main milling camp, he could hear faint echoes of wicked laughter as they would brag about their deeds of the previous evening. but the laughter ceased when they saw young Crow step into the firelight at the very edge of the camp.

The first mill worker stepped out from the tent and began cursing loudly at him and called for the others to come out and join him. But Crow didn't move, he didn't run away, not this time, this time things were going to be different. They watched him curiously as his slowly extended both arms straight out at his sides with his palms up, they heard the fluttering of wings beating against the night sky, softly at first, but growing quickly in intensity, and as the first swarm of crows came at them they tried desperately to retreat into their cabins and tents, many in a panic tripped and fell one knocked over a kerosine lantern that ignited the floor of the largest of the work cabins, the fire quickly spread and burnt the entire camp to the ground, the workers that weren't burnt alive were clawed to death by the angry swarm of crows.

And so it began, he would move from one camp to the next leaving each in ash in his wake until finally he ended up at the Coverdale Mill itself, he walked calmly in the front door, knew right where the kerosine lantern was kept, knew right where the matches were kept, and as he heard more angry paniced voices from behind him outside, he smashed the lantern onto the wooden floor and lit the final fire. He stepped outside and he could almost see the horrified face of Landon Coverdale as he watched his lifes work going up in flames at the hands of a mere boy. Angrily, he started yelling at the boy, he had taken two whole steps before the swarm of crows swooped down from the night sky and took him, his screams from that night would echo and haunt the woodlands surrounding the old Coverdale Mill for an eternity . 

Present Day.

The first raindrops fell onto his face and it stirred him, he was on the ground lying in the grass just off the shoulder of Crows Crossing Road, just off to his right Bert Kribs was starting to come to, he rolled over on his side and looked over at Jerry Lloyd in stunned disbelief, they were now just twenty feet or so from where they had parked the truck. Jerry Lloyd and Bert Kribs both slowly struggled to their feet, neither of them spoke a word as they stood dumbfounded watching the soft glowing spectre of the old indian as it stood at the edge of the tree's eyes staring skyward as the swarm of crows sat watching above him. They got in the truck as Jerry Lloyd started the engine and put it in gear but paused ever so slightly to watch the soft glowing figure slowly fade from view. They both knew as hard as it was to believe what they saw with their own eyes, people would believe them, it would be just another story in the growing legend of Crows Crossing Road.

~fin~

~Scratch.. A.B.T. Copyright © 2019~

The Order of Crow's...

 The Order.

The rain had begun to bead up on the windshield of the dark blue sedan before Noah Maxwell turned on the windshield wipers, casting sideways glances at his passenger William Crowler suspiciously. The pair rode in silence for much of the drive to Asheville from the airport. As soon as they turned onto Crow's Crossing Road, Noah's mood had become a bit more somber. He slowed down and came to a full stop at turn 23 near the Amherst woods and pulled over to the shoulder. William Crowler eyed him curiously, then almost hesitant to talk. He leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath carefully watching everything around him, and even though William was from the big city and had never step foot on Crow's Crossing Road he was at the very least vaguely familiar with the local lore surrounding this place.

"So, why are we stopping Noah?" He asked.      

Noah smiled.

"Because there's someone here that I think you should meet, William."

William chuckled.

"How do you know they're going to be here?"

Noah Maxwell stared at him blankly.

"Because he's always here."

Both men got out of the car and slowly made their way down a winding trail to the treeline. Noah stopped them within twenty feet from the first oak. 

"You know, William, you're a piece of shit. I know all about you, I know about your propensity to commit crimes, I know how you like to bully, torture and get violent with other people, you get off on it. And I also know that my sister, no matter how many times you've hit her in the past, no matter how many times you beat her up, for whatever reason she has decided to give you a second chance at building a new life with her. I know that you've spent most of your life in and out of the justice system, which is why I called you here without my sisters' knowledge, nobody knows you're here but me and -"

William abruptly interrupted him.

"Let me stop you right there Noah, this is where you are going to warn me that if I hurt your sister, you will kick my ass or something even worse-"   

Noah did not answer at first, instead he walked farther into the woods with an agitated William Crowler following impatiently behind him.

"No William, this is the part where you get your spiritual awakening" He paused to look up at the top of the treeline at the murder of Crows slowly growing in size. "Nope... I'm not going to do anything at all to you... They are." 

All at once, Noah Maxwell pushed him down the hillside to where he came to rest in the wet, rain soaked leaves. He cursed at Noah Maxwell loudly, but soon found his outburst interrupted by a dark figure walking toward him from the opposite rim of the hill. when it began to draw closer he could see that it was an old Indian man with long black hair, adorned in a long black hooded robe, the Crows seemed to follow his lead and swarmed in around William Crowler and began cawing loudly as they landed forming a circle around him, and for the first time in his life William could feel the fear building up inside of him.  As the old Indian drew closer William saw his eyes were glazed white as if he were blind, he lowered the hood and as if looking right at him raised his head in the direction of Noah Maxwell who had his hands out in front of him palms together as if he were in prayer, Noah bowed his head to the old Indian and nodded, the Crows became louder and sounded angry.

The old man slowly placed his cold dead hands on each side of William's head and folded both thumbs over his eyelids and slowly pushed his head backward. And William Crowler began to scream. There in his own tortured thoughts, William not only saw every life that he brought pain and suffering into, all the torture, all the abuse, every life, every face he'd caused pain, he not only saw them all, but he felt all the pain, all the suffering, everyone that he'd hurt they were all there with him. All at once, a lifetime of malice all came rushing back to him... And for all of his screaming, for all of his cries and begging, there was nothing he could do to make it stop... For William Crowler, it felt as though his soul was being ripped from his body, and then the next thing he knew he was pulling himself up the damp hillside toward Noah Maxwell's feet.

Noah turned back toward the highway, and then, barely able to walk,  a broken William Crowler in tow. when they got to within twenty yards of Crow's Crossing Road, William finally collapsed. Noah Maxwell stood over him defiantly looking at him as his eye's slowly began to turn a frosty white, William unable to do anything but lye there in the wet grass shivering, his then blind eyes began to wander aimlessly across the empty black skyline. Noah Maxwell calmly bent down and took his wallet from his pocket, and stood over him. The Crows had returned and begun to circle overhead as the old Indian man appeared once again at the edge of the treeline and stood silently watching. 

Noah turned to face him. He knew he could not see, but still Noah thanked him, throughout his young life Noah Maxwell knew there to be one absolute, whenever something confused or tempted him, whenever his drunken stepfather would berate and beat on him, Noah always knew that he could return there to the Road of Crows, and the old Indian and his flock would somehow always seem help to clear his confusion and ease his pain.  He could never thank them enough. He returned to the sedan and got in and began to drive as the rain intensified, he pulled over at Bane's Bridge above the Saddlehorn. He got out and removed the burner phone from his pocket and dialed 911. when he finished the call, he bent down to pick up a large rock and smashed the phones sim card with it, and then taped William Crowler's driver's license to the rock and threw them both into the rapids of the Saddlehorn River. He looked back in the direction of where he'd left William.  

"Rest in Peace, you piece of shit."

Epilogue: A life lived, a life passed.

They'd responded to the 911 call at just after 3:00 Pm on Friday afternoon, officers from the Jackson County Sheriff's department found the shirtless wet middle-aged man alongside of Crow's Crossing Road, near turn 23 lying in the fetal position in the grass just where the anonymous call had said he would be.  When they asked him who he was, his white eye's aimlessly roamed the sky, his lips were moving, but there were no words. they called the ambulance at 3:15 PM, he had no identification, and as officer George O'Reilly watched the paramedics strap him to the gurney, the unidentified man grabbed his wrist tightly. He began to softly speak in almost a whisper, George O'Reilley heard him say one word over and over again… Repent... The two officers watched in silence as the Murder of Crow's that had been circling above, began to follow the ambulance as it slowly pulled away. Just another day in the life, here on Crow's Crossing Road.

~Scratch.. A.B.T. Copyright © 2019~