A Raven in Spring
By: Mathieu Parsy
And the days were now shaped by omens. The once vibrant wheat fields had lost their summer shine. The trees were dressed in crows. The rabbits ran disembodied from the woods. A meadow vole rested on its back by the silo, gathering a thin blanket of ants. When the little boy asked his mother about his dad, whom he hadn’t seen in months, she first appeared distraught but then told him sternly to finish eating his soup.
One day, he found a beautiful dead raven in the yard and hid its body in the hollow of a tree trunk. He made a bed of twigs bound with red yarn from a skein his father had left in the workshop and decorated the resting place with his favorite marbles. At night, he imagined the creature calling him. He would wake, tiptoe barefoot through the house, walk outside to the tree, and pray by the dead bird while staring at its sepulchral eyes until the morning air stung his face. He prayed for his dad, his mom, and the raven.
As winter drew near, he crafted a small gate from sticks bound with yarn to fit the hollow of the trunk and protect the black bird’s body. But when he returned to the tree, the raven was missing. He searched the trunk, the yard, and the woods but found nothing.
Winter came, and dark feathers appeared around the house—on the kitchen counter, in his bed, and even in his mother’s shoes. When asked about them, he claimed he knew nothing. But each time he saw a feather, a chill ran through him. At night, he dreamt of the coalbird, speaking in his father’s voice, whispering to him to “prepare” for spring. As vivid as the dreams felt, there was no raven when he woke.
When spring arrived, he returned to the tree. There was no sign of the raven, the bed of twigs, the yarn, the marbles, or the gate. He stood there, the sunshine unfolding on his hair, staring at the empty hollow trunk. A dark bird soared above, and a gurgling croak floated over the fields. He wasn’t sure if it was his raven or just another bird passing overhead. He watched it vanish into the bright sky.
That afternoon, the doorbell rang. When the boy opened the door, police officers stood there, telling him they had found his father’s body.
Mathieu Parsy is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera before relocating to Toronto. His work has appeared in publications such as Panoply, Brilliant Flash Fiction, DarkWinter Lit, and Close To The Bone. IG