The Crow and the Deer, page 1
Copyright © 2025 Paul Pivcevic
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Troubador Publishing Ltd
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ISBN 978 1836287 148
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
To all my teachers
This twofold nature of man is so evident that some have thought that we had two souls.
Blaise Pascale
“The tragedy of life is linked inescapably with its splendor; you could tear civilization down and rebuild it from scratch, and the same dualities would rise again. Yet to fully inhabit these dualities—the dark as well as the light—is, paradoxically, the only way to transcend them. And transcending them is the ultimate point. The bittersweet is about the desire for communion, the wish to go home.”
Susan Cain, Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowlegdements
A note on names:
Nyx, the name of the main Crow character, is a shortening of Onyx, the black gemstone (in ancient Greek ‘fingernail’ or ‘claw’); Sapph his nestmate is named after black sapphire. The Roe deer’s name Sard, refers to the reddish-brown gemstone of the same name, after Sardis, the capital of the ancient kingdom of Lydia (now modern-day Turkey). The two crystals combine as Sardonyx, a microcrystalline quartz, typically translucent to opaque, with alternating bands of reddish-brown (sard) and white or black (onyx). Its popularity dates back more than 4,000 years to the Second Dynasty of Egypt. It was believed to grant courage, meaning and happiness.
A note on crows:
The corvid family, including crows, ravens, magpies, and jays are renowned for their exceptional problem-solving skills, complex social structures, and remarkable memories. Corvids possess cognitive abilities that match those of primates. One of the most intriguing behaviours observed in crows is their practice of holding ‘funerals’ for their dead. Studies have documented how crows gather around deceased members, engaging in loud vocalizations and what appears to be communal mourning. This highlights their strong social bonds and their capacity for complex emotional responses.
Chapter 1
The Crow watched from a high vantage point on a Spruce, now and again taking sharp sniffs of its turpenic needles. This shook the morning fog from his brain and brought the trees bordering the lake some way down the scarp into sharper focus. The welcome heat of a mid-morning sun crawled through his feathers. He shuffled a little along the branch to gain a better purchase on its warmth. Still, it was what reached his ears that explained what was going on down there. The Crow counted his way mentally down the days of the week.
I’m right, he noted, satisfied. It was the humans’ main forest-walk day. No doubt, at this moment, some of them were stopping by the lake pausing to cast a languid look at the view. The high-pitched squeaking and squawking that rose from the canopy of Sycamore and Oak signalled the crow young up to their tricks. They’d be jostling each other along a branch deliberately too short, like human schoolboys squeezing four or five to a seat made for two. And of course, goading the walkers.
“Craawww look adda view-awwk! It’s laawbbly.”
“Aaaawwk – the air’s saaw goood here!” And then dissolve into helpless cackling.
Occasionally the humans would throw a curious look about the branches; some would even pause and stare, slightly open-mouthed, amused at this mimicry, a few incredulous at what they thought they might have heard before getting back to their murmurings and moving on. If the goaders got their timing right, a young human tagging its elders, face-down to one of their shiny handtools might be so startled, that they would be just a fraction too late and brain themselves on an overhanging branch. Or better still, find themselves sprawled face down in the mud. Occasionally a small human would hurl something. It was the youngest who figured that someone was having a laugh at their expense. The image brought a wry cackle to the Crow’s throat.
Then a familiar thought returned: these earth plodders, here they come as regular as the sun to gawp and wonder – and granted – generously leave plenty of discarded food, even the occasional bright thing to smarten up a nest, or make a decent gift… And there the thought was abruptly cut off. The Crow distracted himself. There was movement to his left among the pines. A first restless shiver of wings. Time for the day’s first turn about the water. The crows rose as a cloud, the flock expanding as the rising warm air inflated their presence, the birds noisily proud of their size, and status. Weren’t they the loftiest creatures of the forest. In every sense? A strong gust momentarily punctured the self-congratulation. With a loud squawk two birds peeled away from the formation, beating at the wind in irritation before catching up again with their flock. The group wheeled away together into the haze. The rest of the forest observing, smiled knowingly to itself.
*
The following morning the Crow woke early. His insides were gnawing. It was an unfamiliar, unwelcome feeling. The gusts of yesterday presaged a change in the weather and the Crow’s familiar perch in the Spruce was beating a crazed metronome, shaking him off into thick air.
Aching to escape his discomfort, the Crow set an eye on the river flowing from the lake, intent on following its turns towards the human earth-nesting where the water briefly shallowed and swans gathered. Flying against the wind took effort but that was a relief for the state he was in. As he reached the outskirts, the world bled of colour. Is it the overcast morning, wondered the Crow, or this dreary monochrome of human dwellings? The bird was far from naming his state of mind, let alone musing that this might be dictating its palette. His mood plunged another notch. His wings were heavy. He needed a pause, so alighted to pause on a patch of grass beneath a yew tree, next to a moss-covered building of old stone. He was hardly spared a moment. From around the building an early dogwalker appeared with their hound: the animal now racing towards him, tongue lolling. The Crow activated an emergency take-off with the dregs of his will. He didn’t last long in the air. Buffeted and directionless he came to land on the corrugated roof of a bus shelter, his throat flushed. It was too early an hour for this spot’s shifting human huddlings. The place was deserted but for a few wind-blown leaves scratching at the hard ground. And then he saw on the flat stones what he realised he had most dreaded encountering; what he most wanted to forget. The aching inside squeezed further and the contents of his stomach emptied onto the shelter’s roof. Averting his eye from what the wind had revealed beneath the leaves, he took off shakily, drops of spittle running from his beak, not at all sure where next.
*
Even before the Crow had woken reluctantly to the day, and before the early sun had roused the wind, the forest clearings were dazzling carpets of dew quietly celebrating the early morning light. Apt then that the first muzzle to emerge from the trees into one of the clearings was a tentative one. It belonged to a deer, a Roe one of the eldest of its group. Moving cautiously at first, taking in the scene, she bent down to take her place in the celebration with a first tasting of succulent grass. Every few moments she paused, raised her head and while she had no need of words to think this thought, she saw with her heart, and there, registered gratitude. This was the moment the world revealed itself dancing as one. Other deer waiting at the clearing’s fringe tuned into the scene with its myriad shapes and shades of green, brown, and silvery-grey all swaying and shimmering in the light. Each animal was vibrating from antler to toe, nostrils quivering, alive to the moment. Slowly, the clearing filled with more reddish-brown forms, each body flooded with a private joy.
By the time the Crow had found himself back among the trees, exhausted, hungry and wide-eyed, the deer had retreated to their private places. One Roe though, continued to rub herself reflectively and rhythmically on a young Birch close to the edge of the clearing. With no cry to announce his return, and the wind drowning out his untidy scramble for a branch nearby, the Crow
And then – was it the alarm call of a blackbird darting between them, or a fresh trembling of leaves as the breeze changed direction – and the spell was broken. The Roe vanished. The Crow could reason no explanation, but for the first time felt his inner ache ease. Just a few seconds with this alien had brought unexpected calm. He paused, stilled, suspicious of this solace, alone on his perch. Yet in this liminal moment, free of the day’s usual distractions, memories flooded back. They flickered and collided across his vision: relations shuffling around a prone figure; fruitless pecks at the body’s feathers, hoping to draw a response. Waiting. Then standing there, alone, empty, as the night drew in, the group having dispersed, everyone else moving on. The images dissolved: in their place, hollowness. He yearned to retrieve his clarity of mind. He wanted to get back to looking after the young; he wanted to enjoy the company of the wider family again. Most of all he wanted to see a future beyond these uncontrolled bursts of chaos in mind and body.
His inner clock marshalled him back to the present. The day’s tasks would be piling up, duties handed out. All the seniors would be expected to be present while work was assigned. The Crow struggled wearily into the air, his head thudding. At least there would be some comfort in physical proximity to his kin he thought, flapping homeward, his inner turbulence finding a match in the weather.
Chapter 2
The Crow’s absences were being noted and squawked about. The community was losing its comforting rhythm. Late one afternoon, when the tasks were done, the Elders huddled and called the birds together. They congregated, shuffling into a circle, pecking at their feathers, hopping disquietedly from leg to leg, darting glances at their distressed cousin. Some sharper than others.
“Look, Nyx, what happened to Sapph won’t happen again. At least not like that,” came the conciliatory voices. “The young ones have been told.”
Others were silent. Sullen, guessed Nyx. He felt their irritation.
“But they’re still playing with these things,” he complained, shaking, picking up a thin colourful tube so everyone could see. “Every single one of these I found, I’ve dropped in the lake.”
“You’re not the only one watching them, you know. You’re not alone.”
Of course, this was true. And it soothed Nyx a little to hear it. The young ones were rarely out of sight for long.
But then, an unmistakable rebuke from the Chief Elder.
“We are crows. A family. We have plans. We move on.” It was a measured cruelty.
The crows jabbered their affirmation. Nyx seethed. A new pain tore at him inside. For a moment he was tempted to allow his stomach to empty itself again. Ha, wouldn’t that get their attention! But then a new thought: Action there must be. Otherwise for sure it would happen again. He owed this to Sapph. Unbidden, his eyes welled. He swallowed hard and straightened up. The last few days had hunched him, he noticed.
He paused, and restarted:
“These coloured sticks, they are another human tool. And I’ve been studying them,” he began, deliberately. This was, of course, not true. But if there was one regular subject of conversation about humans that was thrilling, infuriating, often punctuated by envious sighing, it was their ever-growing numbers of tools. Crows had their own tool clubs, of course – the cause of frequent exasperation as male birds in particular, would abandon the nest without warning to race off to examine some new tool or technique. But humans, well, the strange and ever-changing coloured shells they moved around in, the huge stiff birds they flew in, the bright flat things they held, stared at, stroked and cackled at – all were fascinating. But it was their hand tools, their pet toys that seemed to condense the very essence of human power in the world, these were particularly mesmerising.
Nyx was jabbing his beak at the thin, shiny tube he had brought.
“They use this one to make their bad-smelling mist,” he said. “Their fun, I suppose,” he added bitterly, his beak clenched.
He continued:
“They don’t know what happens when they leave them on the ground. They don’t… it’s going to happen again, I know it. And we must do something!” He slumped again. Pleading was pointless with crows. This had cost him more effort to say out loud than he had expected. Words had run out.
The rest of the group allowed a respectful pause. But a discomfort grew once more. The birds held back from reproaching their bereaved cousin directly, so they chose a broader grievance.
“Don’t you think we’re not all sick and tired of their noise, their cutting down of our homes, their lights at night, the nasty smells that come from their earth nestings; and what we hear from our river cousins about sickness in the fish?”
Internally the group groaned. How many more times would they have to have this conversation?
A large shape loomed over the group startling them. The shape resolved into an adult Raven, a male. He fluttered down into the circle and took in the gathering with a slow sweep of his head. He was at least a head taller than any of the crows. All conversation stopped.
“Fellow corvids,” the Raven began. The crows sighed. This beginning from a Raven signalled a lecture was coming. Normally, the crows would indulge their more distant cousin. But they weren’t feeling forgiving tonight. A low-throated rumbling began.
The Raven paused to see if the crows would settle. A lull. The Raven seized his chance.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion,” he admitted. “But I’ve come with an idea.” Ears pricked up. The Raven turned and nodded courteously in Nyx’s direction before picking out his words.
“As many of you know I’ve been studying human tools.”
The crows settled, reluctantly. This was on topic, at least. It had to be acknowledged that Ravens were generally a help. Always on hand for tool-teaching classes.
“I have been collecting the memory leaves that humans use with their tools,” explained the Raven. “They leave them outside their nests with all the other things they stop using.”
“What do you mean, memory leaves?” This sudden revelation of superior knowledge brought fresh discomfort. The crows were now fully alert. But the Raven had paused to pluck thoughtfully at some chest feathers, grooming himself in concentration. He wasn’t to be rushed. The crows waited, and momentarily began to scuff at the ground. The Raven continued, unperturbed:
“Every tool they have, they have reminders on how to make it. We have our tool classes; they make shapes and scratches on these thin pale leaves, you see?” The Raven dangled the instruction booklet disparagingly in front of them and dropped it into the centre of the circle.
“This is their weakness,” he mocked. “We, on the other hand, have no need for reminders like these.” He looked around at the gathering, satisfied to see every eye turned his way.
“They have a different one of these for all the things that they use,” continued the Raven. He bent down to open the thin booklet with his beak to reveal its diagrams.
“The coloured stick, the tool that caused our cousin’s tragedy, is put together in the following six steps.”
An outburst of excited crowing. Most hooking tools the crows used to fish for worms or spiders took six steps to make; the chimney rescue procedure also, six steps. The keeper of the tool hollow in the old Sycamore counted six tools out, and six back in again at the end of the day.
