[NOTE: The story below was chosen as a winner in Word-wise's 2008 Short Writing Contest. Except for the right to publish it here as a winner, full rights and ownership of the story belong exclusively to Diana Thurbon. Contact her directly for permissions.]
The day Sarah finds the fledgling corvid, it is ten years to the day since she heard from her son. Is it an omen? A black crow-like bird doesn't exactly have positive symbolism - so maybe it is better if it isn't.
She walks through the Melbourne Botanic Gardens and kicks bitterly at the neatly raked piles of fallen coloured leaves. The special sharp fragrance of autumn leaves mingles with the musty scents of damp earth. Being back in this place at this time of the year unearths a deep sadness for the past. She feels a sudden chill and her spirit fills with melancholy - she desperately wishes that somehow things could be different. She fights tears and the solid lump in her chest. She used to bring Ric here to play in the fallen leaves under the trees when he was little; she remembers how he always chose a few of the prettiest coloured leaves to take home to paste on squares of stiff white cardboard.
Bitterness is mingling with misery when she hears the tiny shrill chirp over the crackling of scrunched leaves. Looking down she sees the little black fledgling under the tree. It is autumn - baby birds belong to spring. That's odd, perhaps it is some kind of omen!
She looks around for the parents, but the baby seems to be abandoned. She reaches down and tucks him warmly into her jacket. I'll look after you and love you - how hard can it be to raise a corvid? She is sure she can learn.
The baby bird sleeps quietly as she drives home - her mood is distinctly brighter, and her mind is full of plans for her new pet. She doesn't know if she has a raven or a crow - maybe Ric's forgotten bird books will be able to clear up the identity. I'll unpack them as soon as I get home.
Hopefully the Internet will tell her how to raise the fledgling. She knows she can't leave him to the fates and foxes. Maybe she'll be better at birds than she had been with her human child.
The bird books aren't much help - it seems only an expert can distinguish the various crows and ravens; so she guesses he's a raven and names him 'Omen'. Likewise, for once, the Internet is practically useless. Crows and ravens appear to be rather unpopular birds, and nobody seems interested in raising fledglings. She reads the stark descriptions: crows peck the eyes from weak lambs; they worry animal wounds to open them for blood. They like blood. She learns they are very clever and that they are destructive pets because they peck holes in things looking for food. Nowhere can she find anything about feeding baby corvids, so she settles for infant formula and mashed lamb's liver - there is plenty of blood in liver, she reasons.
This is a crow rearing major mistake. She returns from work on day three to find he's had diarrhoea from one end of the house to the other. The mess and smell are unbelievable. Poor little bird. She cleans the baby's smelly caked bum and tail feathers and then her furniture and floors.
Her mind drops her back into the day Ric found and swallowed her red coated iron tablets - he was about eighteen months - his diarrhoea all over her bed had been on a par with what she has just faced with Omen. Then it had meant a phone call to Poisons Information, a trip to the casualty department of the local hospital and a panicked mother. For the raven it means being shut in a newspaper draped bathroom while she phones the zoo and a wildlife veterinarian. She learns that liver doesn't just have a lot of blood; it is also a very rich source of Vitamin A. It's too rich and not suitable corvid food.
Settled into a diet of baby formula, fine minced beef and kitchen scraps, the bird blossoms. He flies across the room and lands on her shoulder every day when she comes home from work He develops rich glossy black feathers, sooty brown underparts and bright blue intelligent eyes and is now officially (she decides) a raven.
One day she goes into her yard forgetting he is perched on her shoulder - he flies off - she is alarmed and calls him loudly, 'OMEN! OMEN!' He ignores her cry and disappears, but he returns five minutes later with a shiny lolly wrapper which he drops into her hand.
When Ric was a little boy he'd often brought her presents: a pretty bunch of dandelions, some seed pods, or interesting stones he'd found. When they went to the beach he found shells to give her. As soon as he was old enough he used to like making her breakfast and bringing it to her in bed. On Mother's Day he brought little presents home from school.
Her mind eases gently back into the moment and Omen's gift. She carries it inside and the raven follows. She takes a china bowl from the cupboard, gives it pride of place in the centre of the dining table and drops the sweet wrapper into the bowl.
Three months later the large blue bowl in the centre of the table is full of corvid presents. There are bottle tops, foil from cigarette packets, coloured buttons and chocolate wrappers. She has also been presented with the occasional worm but she always hands those back. Omen doesn't seem to take offence.
After six months of life with Omen she takes a deep breath, and overcoming her fear of rejection, she posts Ric a photo of herself with Omen perched on her shoulder. Surely a photo of me with the bird will touch his stolen heart.
A week later it is returned cut in half. An accompanying note says in hard angry writing, 'Don't contact me - I have nothing to say to you - the photo is a lie and so are you.' She feels the familiar tears but blinks them back as Omen snuggles comfort into her ear.
So many of the little things that Omen does remind her of her lost son: certainly the mess and scattered rubbish when she gets home from work is reminiscent of life with a teenage boy.
She can never open the fridge without Omen sticking his head in there looking greedily for treats - just like Ric she thinks for the hundredth time - the familiar lump rising from her heart centre to the base of her throat.
The following autumn, when Omen is twelve months old, he leaves her shoulder and flies high into the sky. Three chilly days pass before he returns. It is now eleven years since Ric had left home and joined the cult and still the solid lump remains undissolved in her chest.
A month later Omen has made several long solitary flights. She knows the time is coming when he'll leave her for good.
The night following his latest absence, they are watching television and sharing popcorn. The bird gently pushes a buttery piece into her mouth. She feels a soft sad, yet warm glow filling the middle of her chest. Long-held deep resentment and bitterness begin dissolving at last.
"You're going to leave soon, aren't you Omen. That's what wildlife does; and you won't come back either; you will find a Mrs Omen, and a new life. I think I can be OK with that now. It's my choice. I can choose to let go. I've learned I can keep love warm in my heart, and yet still say goodbye. Thank you."
© 2008 by Diana Thurbon