One for the Raven

One for the Raven

By Heather McLeod

Chapter 1: Saturday

Still dressed for sleep in Walmart men’s boxers and a tank top, Sadie Fox ran across her farm’s parking area, the gravel biting her toes. One hand held back the sudden brightness of sunrise as she followed a worn dirt path out to the flat acres beyond her small cabin.

She could already see the birds, their black-feathered bodies the size of cats, as they hopped around the snaking vines and green globes of squash hundreds of feet away.

The ravens’ chatter carried in the morning air. They waddled over the soil, bending to poke with their beaks and stab with their talons. They free-jumped onto the larger squash.

Sadie estimated thirty birds.

She ran faster, flailing at the air as if she were a bird of prey. Oblivious, the ravens continued to explore and dissect. Sadie flapped and screeched as she imagined an eagle would, barrelling down on the flock, wishing she really could catch them and tear the warm bodies apart with her fingers.

She’d planted those squash seeds into soil she’d mixed herself, nurtured the cold-sensitive sprouts inside her own home, double-forked their beds and shovelled compost before kneeling to plant each one of those tender seedlings into its own, hand-formed mound.

She’d laid drip lines, hauling hoses to ensure the plants never thirsted. Those squash had cost her hours of work, promising a late summer harvest and some much-needed income before the fall rains and silent winter.

But now the ravens were tearing them apart.

Finally the birds noticed her, a few dozen feet away. They hopped, then launched and glided back to the safety of the towering big leaf maples across the fence, onto the absent neighbour’s land.

Sadie slowed. She felt the acid rise from her empty stomach. How bad is it?

She reached the quarter acre of squash, and saw just how bad it was.

In the early morning July light, the ravens had uncovered hundreds of squash from the shelter of their mother plants’ broad green leaves and roping vines. They’d torn through the still-green, still tender skins of the young squash to reveal pale flesh. Some squash had been pecked and clawed until their soft insides were exposed, while others had been made un-saleable with a single long slit marring their smooth shells.

Sadie held her tangled curls back with calloused fingers and moved from plant to plant like the sole survivor of an airplane crash, searching for a single whole squash. But the ravens had been thorough.

Sadie walked the one hundred and fifty feet between two rows of plants, her naked feet careful around the mother plants’ vines even though it no longer mattered. When she reached the wire fence she turned and walked back between the next two rows, cycling through the patch until she’d assessed every plant.

Finally, in one corner of the patch, Sadie found a single plant with four whole, young squash huddled under the foliage. Red kuri: her favourite.

Instead of harvesting squash this year, and recouping all that time she’d invested in their growth, Sadie would need to spend even more time cleaning up the ruined beds.

Because of the ravens.

They’d destroyed the peace of her silent farm this year. Just when she’d found her stride, after eight seasons of farming, eight years of struggle and challenge. After two years of managing the farm alone, with no one to share the stress and springtime debt. Finally, she’d thought she had it figured out.

I should’ve known better. There’s always a curve ball in farming. And wasn’t that what she liked about it? The challenge? Wasn’t that why she’d left her safe, monotonous government job?

It was Saturday: today was the Duncan Farmers’ Market, her most profitable day of the week. She had to get dressed, pack up the truck and leave her farm. She had produce to sell, packed and ready in her walk-in cooler. She’d already lost the squash money: she couldn’t afford to lose her week’s harvest too.

But if she left, the ravens could return. They would return. She’d learned the only way to keep them on the other side of that fence was for her to be there in the fields, playing scarecrow.

If only there was someone she could call for help. Someone who could be here at the farm while she was at the market.

But Matthew was gone, Emma was gone, and she was alone.

Sadie’s ribs squeezed tight. It was all too much for one person. Her throat burned hot. She told herself it was okay to cry: there was no one around to hear her. She had to squint to see the nearest house. She’d cried often enough, alone on her farm.

But she swallowed it down. Tears wouldn’t help.

Sadie considered her options, and realized she didn’t have any. It was time to get ready for the market. The ravens would come back. They would damage other crops. They’d done plenty of harm already this season, although the annihilation of her squash crop was the worst so far.

So far.

She had no choice. Sadie turned her back on the ruined vegetables, on the surviving acres of crops that she relied on to pay her mortgage and bills, and strode toward her house.

From the trees, the ravens cackled at her helplessness, and Sadie flinched.