trips?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said. “He was always happy to go away, that’s for sure. And when he came home he seemed sad.”
“Oh, really?” said Frank, as though he found that interesting.
We talked until dawn. Through the boards on the window, a gray light appeared. Then the raven arrived and perched on the sill. He tapped on the plastic pane.
I wriggled out of the space blanket and stood up. “I’m going to let him in,” I said.
“Don’t,” said Frank.
“Why not?”
“It’s like Dracula.”
That sounded so stupid, it made no sense. I pushed aside a slab of salmon and stared at Frank on the bed. “How’s he like Dracula?”
“Don’t you know anything?” said Frank. “Dracula can’t go into a house until he’s invited. But if you ask him in, he’ll kill you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said.
I grabbed a board and pulled it loose. The raven stood on the sill, a black bird shape against the plastic. I tore off the rest of the boards and spread the slit in the plastic flaps. “Come in,” I said.
He hopped through the window without a care, as though he had done it a thousand times. He hopped straight down to the floor, and in his funny, lurching way explored every part of the cabin. He looked under the bed and under the table. He pecked at the things in the orange box, and especially at the shiny little whistle. “You want to play with that?” I asked.
He turned his head and blinked at me, as though he understood. When I took the whistle out of the box he twitched like a cat that had seen a mouse. He pounced on it when I put it down, and rolled it across the floor with his beak, chasing it into the corners of the room.
I laughed out loud, and the raven made little cackling sounds. But Frank didn’t even smile. Into the corner, the raven chased the whistle. He batted it out with his beak and sent it rolling under the bed.
He looked up at me.
“Go on,” I said. “Go get it.”
But he wouldn’t go under the bed. Instead, he looked at Frank, who was lying on his side on the mattress.
“Don’t look at
me,
” said Frank. “I’m not going to get it for you.”
The raven’s eyes were bright and shiny. He shook his tail and said,
Lousy birds.
And he laughed again, in his rattling way.
“He’s weird,” said Frank. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to have a raven in the house?”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s a bad omen.”
A bad omen.
I laughed. Actually, I sort of giggled. And that was enough to make Frank angry again.
“They’ve got lice, moron. They bring diseases,” he said. “Death and ravens go together, so don’t laugh.” He threw off his jacket and pushed his way through the drying fish, heading for the door.
The raven fluttered quickly out of his way, up to the chair, up to the window. He perched there, panting, until the door closed behind Frank. Then he came down again and stood right beside me.
•••
I was not used to having a pet. Every year, at Christmas and my birthday, I’d asked for a dog, and once for a snake because I thought the kids might like me if I showed up at school with a python around my neck. But Dad didn’t care for dogs, and Mom despised reptiles in general. Then Dad broke down and got me a hamster. But it lived for less than a month. When the raven came into the cabin and chose
me
for his friend, it was as though my birthday wishes had suddenly come true. For three mornings in a row he pushed through the cabin window, and each day he stayed a little longer. But he was always gone before dark.
He was a funny, clever thing, and I thought I would never get tired of watching him. He invented little games, sometimes clinging by his beak to a slab of fish while I pushed him like a kid on a swing. When I laughed, his eyes took on a special twinkle. It pleased him to make me happy.
But I was always startled to hear him speak.
I hate you,
he’d say.
Lousy birds.
His voice was eerie and ominous, and it made my
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said. “He was always happy to go away, that’s for sure. And when he came home he seemed sad.”
“Oh, really?” said Frank, as though he found that interesting.
We talked until dawn. Through the boards on the window, a gray light appeared. Then the raven arrived and perched on the sill. He tapped on the plastic pane.
I wriggled out of the space blanket and stood up. “I’m going to let him in,” I said.
“Don’t,” said Frank.
“Why not?”
“It’s like Dracula.”
That sounded so stupid, it made no sense. I pushed aside a slab of salmon and stared at Frank on the bed. “How’s he like Dracula?”
“Don’t you know anything?” said Frank. “Dracula can’t go into a house until he’s invited. But if you ask him in, he’ll kill you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said.
I grabbed a board and pulled it loose. The raven stood on the sill, a black bird shape against the plastic. I tore off the rest of the boards and spread the slit in the plastic flaps. “Come in,” I said.
He hopped through the window without a care, as though he had done it a thousand times. He hopped straight down to the floor, and in his funny, lurching way explored every part of the cabin. He looked under the bed and under the table. He pecked at the things in the orange box, and especially at the shiny little whistle. “You want to play with that?” I asked.
He turned his head and blinked at me, as though he understood. When I took the whistle out of the box he twitched like a cat that had seen a mouse. He pounced on it when I put it down, and rolled it across the floor with his beak, chasing it into the corners of the room.
I laughed out loud, and the raven made little cackling sounds. But Frank didn’t even smile. Into the corner, the raven chased the whistle. He batted it out with his beak and sent it rolling under the bed.
He looked up at me.
“Go on,” I said. “Go get it.”
But he wouldn’t go under the bed. Instead, he looked at Frank, who was lying on his side on the mattress.
“Don’t look at
me,
” said Frank. “I’m not going to get it for you.”
The raven’s eyes were bright and shiny. He shook his tail and said,
Lousy birds.
And he laughed again, in his rattling way.
“He’s weird,” said Frank. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to have a raven in the house?”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s a bad omen.”
A bad omen.
I laughed. Actually, I sort of giggled. And that was enough to make Frank angry again.
“They’ve got lice, moron. They bring diseases,” he said. “Death and ravens go together, so don’t laugh.” He threw off his jacket and pushed his way through the drying fish, heading for the door.
The raven fluttered quickly out of his way, up to the chair, up to the window. He perched there, panting, until the door closed behind Frank. Then he came down again and stood right beside me.
•••
I was not used to having a pet. Every year, at Christmas and my birthday, I’d asked for a dog, and once for a snake because I thought the kids might like me if I showed up at school with a python around my neck. But Dad didn’t care for dogs, and Mom despised reptiles in general. Then Dad broke down and got me a hamster. But it lived for less than a month. When the raven came into the cabin and chose
me
for his friend, it was as though my birthday wishes had suddenly come true. For three mornings in a row he pushed through the cabin window, and each day he stayed a little longer. But he was always gone before dark.
He was a funny, clever thing, and I thought I would never get tired of watching him. He invented little games, sometimes clinging by his beak to a slab of fish while I pushed him like a kid on a swing. When I laughed, his eyes took on a special twinkle. It pleased him to make me happy.
But I was always startled to hear him speak.
I hate you,
he’d say.
Lousy birds.
His voice was eerie and ominous, and it made my
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