The Murder of Black Wings

[Mr.Obvious]

I.
Mr. Crow set down amidst the soggy leaves. The cold night air penetrated even this deep inside the forest. He was wet and, despite his best efforts, shivering. The night bit into the scar on his left wing. Fruitlessly he comforted it with his right.
Resting in one of the many treetops would have been the smart thing to do. He knew that, as he eyed his surroundings carefully. At night there were predators abound. And nowadays, he was simply an old ruffled bird without a murder to call his own. The trek South called to him, from deep inside his bones; and instinct older and stronger than the waistcoat he wore and the fancy civilities he'd been taught. Finding an inn was a ridiculous waste of time and resources; too much chance to get involved with a business that wasn't his own.
And yet; he was cold. And shivering. If he couldn't spare a decent night's rest, he felt, he'd be lost already. He needed this. Even old birds needed to fly South. But old birds needed rest too.
Calmly and very much aware of his surroundings, Mr. Crow walked over to the light he'd seen from the sky: a small door at the base of a tall and wide oak. The forest continued to drip the afterglow of the rain on him, but he didn't rush. There was no loud music, only amiable chatter and the scraping of cutlery. Still, even if it wasn't a place of ill-repute, rushing into a bar would be sure to draw attention. Attention he didn't need.
For one second, he considered knocking, but refrained himself. The bronze little bell above door hadn't even been an option. He opened the door with some restraint, using his good wing. It creaked heavily and set of the bell. Rush or no rush, all eyes were on him now. And all amiable talk fell short.
Four squirrels were seated at a nearby table, with empty plates and half-full glasses of ale, playing a round of cards. A mole was seated next to a rabbit on the other end of the room.
He could just about hear the mole ask: “Who is it then?”
“It's a bird.” The rabbit informed his blind comrade in a hushed tone.
The grimace on the mole's face was undeniable, even if the man wouldn't have been able to see it himself. Some of the same disdain, though better hidden, was on the faces of the other guests as well. The badgers, the otters and the rats. Even all of the waiters stood there frozen at the frozen bird at the door; mice, pure white. Their eyes completely red. All looking anything but hospitable. Especially in a room without window, lit only by firefly's in cages, casting dancing shadows on everyone.
He closed the door behind him.
A middle-aged mouse rushed for him through the crowds. She wore the same outfit as the other waitresses, a skirt and a black shirt. Except unlike her fellow waiters and waitresses, she had a white apron to boot.
“Come on then. Come on.” She ushered her younger staff. “You all act like you ain't never seen a customer before. Tom!” She ordered. “Get that platter to table four. And the rest of you, don't lollygag about!”
Though begrudgingly, the other mice followed her commands. And life and sound returned to the small in. As the lady rushed towards him. They were small, mice. It seemed like an odd thing to specify. But he was always reminded by it, whenever he came face to face with one.
Her fur was as whiter than anything he'd ever seen before. He'd only once seen anything akin to it on another animal. And not even the snows he'd witnessed back when he was just a boy and his first murder had taken a wrong turn compared.
“Good evening tall, dark and handsome.” She spoke, a little out of breath.
He'd met a thousand innkeepers. Most of the women tended to do this kind of thing. If he'd been in a good mood, he'd have replied in kind; told her what a ravenous young beauty she was. But he didn't feel like it tonight. And besides, she was comely.
“Evening.” He croaked back.
She smiled at him. A careful smile. He could tell her red eyes were trying to read him. Yet he found his own eyes darting back; captivated by her fur. It reminded him. Reminded him of Her.
The pain in his wing flashed, unwarranted, bringing him back down to earth.
“Will you be needing a table?” The little mouse asked, her small paw guiding him.
He ignored the lingering stares. The moment he began to move, she led the way to the only free table left; all the way in the poorly lit back. But that was okay. It would suffice. The smell of food and drink put him in an anticipating daze.
“Lodgings too.” He declared. “For one night.”
“I'm not sure we have a room for you, stranger.” The reply came. “But we can see you off with a nice meal.”
“I see.” He said, somewhat disappointed. He'd spent many a night on a branch. But he wasn't the young bird he'd once been. He wasn't looking forward to it. Absent-mindedly he began checking his plumage, to make sure it was still doing the trick.
He took his seat as she produced a pen and notebook.
“So, what will it be stranger?”
“Pardon?” He asked, catching himself drifting off again, staring at her white fur.
Her smile was less careful now, instead an honest fluster. This had to be embarrassing.
“What do you want for dinner?” She explained in a way that told him that despite being flattered at finding out she was still able to make someone daydream, she did not have time for this right now. The place behind her buzzed. She was staring him right in the eyes with those big red ones of hers. Her paws on her hips.
“What do you suggest?” Mr. Crow asked.
“How 'bout a nice slice of cricket-quiche?”
“Is it good?”
“I made it myself.”
The answer should have sufficed, but the old bird had a hang-up about such replies. “Is it good?” He laughed softly through his beak.
Rather than being offended, she joined in the laughter. “I make a crooked cricket-quiche.” She assured him.
“That will do nicely.”
“And something to drink?”
“Ale.” He answered. “Or something stronger, should you have it.”
“Coming right up.” She winked at him.
He watched her go; saw her dancing tail disappear into the bustling crowd of mice waiters. The fumes of the nearby kitchen were enough to lull him into a daze. Before long he had to fight to keep his eyes open. Yet all the while, his mind raced on. About this place, the staff, the guests, that white fur. Perhaps he could risk sleeping here, at this table, just for a few hours. It could be pleasant. There was no doubt it was all very tempting. Then again, he hadn't reached his ripe old age by giving into every foolish whim.
He nearly jumped when she returned with his supper, her kind face close to his.
“You're a quiet one.” He expressed, somewhat disoriented.
Again she smiled, and he found that he quite preferred it on her. He didn't even mind her overbite. It was something he'd never been able to do, with his beak.
“You're a tired one.” She shot back. “I brought you your food.”
That she did. The aroma of the quiche reached him. A sweet seduction. A fragrance rich and determined.
“You don't disappoint.” He complimented. “This smells amazing.”
“And it's ale.” She went on, taking his words in stride as she shoved a wooden mug closer by. “But it has a drop of something stronger in it. My personal favorite.”
With some bravado he reached for the cup and brought it to his beak. The taste was not an unpleasant one. The ale brown and thick. And whatever she'd put in there, it bit back.
“I can see why.” He spoke honestly.
“If there's anything else, just let us know.” She said as she made to turn around.
“Actually… Miss.” He started, his feathers wrapping around her arm for a single second.
“Yes?”
“It might not be polite to ask, but I've been wondering...”
“Yes?” She folded her arms, expectantly yet ready to shoot him down with bolts of lightning.
“You must get this more often...” He said, before reading by her expression that he better get a move on. “Your fur.”
“Ah, yes.” She said, leaning on the table with one paw. With the other she played with the hairs in her face. “Quite the uncommon colour for a mouse, is it not?”
He nodded.
“I'm not from the fields. Nor the forest.” She continued. “Let's just keep it at that.”
“So these are all your kin then?” He gestured to the busy mice running from the bar to the tables carrying plates and cups.
“It's a family business, yes.” She said, looking over them fondly. “My husband and I started it. And these are all our sons and daughters, helping us out.”
“Large family.” Mr. Crow noted. “You and Tom must be proud.”
“Oh.” She laughed, but not really. She fidgeted with her collar. “No Tom is my eldest. The place would fall apart without him. But no… Their father… He's not...”
“I'm sorry.” He apologized, understanding immediately.
“It's okay.”
“I didn't know.”
“It is okay.” She reassured him.
“It's not. It wasn't any of my business, but I just had to pry. It's a bad habit. I am sorry.”
Her eyes narrowed with a kindness in them. “You just enjoy that slice, stranger.”
“I do have one more question.” He said, raising a feather carefully.
“Yes?” She held her head lobsided.
“I noticed I'm the only bird in here?”
There was a flash in her eyes. Her smile never waned. But her eyes betrayed her. That was fear. Worry. Unfiltered unease.
He tried to play it off. “I'm just afraid I may be off course, it's a bit early to see none of the younger birds around. They tend to start their trek south later than us old timers.”
“You truly are a stranger to these parts, aren't you?”
“Yeah.”
“Perhaps you should keep it that way.”
And with that, she left him; disappearing into the crowd once more. He ate his quiche in silence. He drank his ale quickly. Perhaps too quickly. When he ordered another, one of the daughters took the order. And one of the sons brought it. He could not tell if this one was Tom, or not. He didn't ask either. There wasn't a hit of the strong stuff in the second round either. It felt like a subtle hint.
The matriarch had been right, of course. He was a stranger to these parts. Best thing was to keep it that way.
He had to make it South.
The sun called out to him.
Somewhere.
He didn't realize how quiet things had gotten, until he heard the voice that broke the silence.
He hadn't focused on it at first, unsure of what it had said. But he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore it now.
It demanded attention. It was elegant and suave.
He hated it from the second he heard it.
The crowd had parted enough, backing up against the walls somewhat, as to give the newcomer space. It's grey and white feathers looked somewhat scruffy. Yet the bird didn't wear them like they did. Instead, he strutted, sporting his grey pants and matching waistcoat with a bloated chest: pride. Nothing but self-brewed pride. You could see it in his strut.
Fuck. He hated pigeons so damn much.
Mr. Crow tried to keep to the shadows in the dark corner; sipping his half-way gone second drink. This was none of his concern. He'd pay his bill and be out of here soon. He had no dog in this fight.
When the innkeeper rushed to meet her new guest, he became acutely aware how hard he was holding the wooden mug. With his bad wing too.
She was pleading with the pigeon. Mr. Crow couldn't quite make it out. Not from here. But he could guess. The grey bird carried himself in a way all too familiar to someone like Mr. Crow. This guy was a crook. A gangster through and through. As slick as he was revolting.
“Hey, I'm just the messenger.” The bird said without so much as a hint of a hang-up, holding up his grey wings innocently. “But if you want to take this up with the Night-owl?”
“He knows we're good for it.” One of the waiters rushed forward, stepping in between the pigeon and his mother.
Mr. Crow could only assume this was Tom.
The old crow had to remind himself. He had nothing to do with this. This wasn't his fight.
But it was hard to focus on that, as he felt that he could tell where this confrontation was leading. He'd been in it often enough.
“You're just early, that's all. He can wait for one more week, can't he?” Tom urged.
Not his fight. This was not his fight.
“Tom. Please. I can...” His mother tried, grasping him by the shoulder.
Too late.
“He can wait?” The pigeon asked. His voice still not quite unpleasant, but clearly disturbed. Like calm waters with a fin, barely visible, rushing through them.
“Sir, please, he didn't...” The woman wasn't just scared, she was terrified.
The South. Remember the South.
The pigeon waved her off. He didn't so much convince her to stay calm. Mr. Crow could tell, even from the back, by the sparkles in her red eyes. Tears.
He couldn't deny the trek. It was all there should be.
“Shh. It's okay.” The pigeon ushered. “He's a grown boy, he can talk for himself. So boy, he can wait?”
“I just meant...” Tom started, but the fire was gone from his voice. He was putting up a brave face, but it lacked conviction.
“You just meant you know what it takes to do what the Night-owl does, didn't you?”
“No. NO. I didn't say that, I...”
The mug was trembling in Mr. Crow's wing.
The pigeon was on Tom in an instant; it's talon pinning him down. The nails dug into the white fur. The young mouse screamed in agony. And yet none rushed forward to aid him. None of the customers. None of his brothers and sisters.
And Mr. Crow sat there, desperately trying to recall the South.
“No don't!” The crying innkeeper rushed forward, her tiny frame desperately trying to push the behemoth off her first-born.
A grey wing lashed out, knocking her to the ground.
Fuck it. He fucking hated pigeons.
Mr. Crow rose from his seat and rushed forward in a steady pace. He had time, the pigeon was calling out everyone and anyone in the bar; asking if they wanted a piece of this and if they wanted problems with the Night-owl. All the while, Mr. Crow could move in his blind spot.
The pigeon didn't see the wooden mug coming until it was too late. The sound of it connecting to the bird's head was overshadowed only by the loud gasp on everyone's lips.
He didn't care. The pigeon stumbled away from his prey, loosening his footing. Mr. Crow could just, from the corner of his eye, see Tom and his mother crawling to one-another; meeting in an embrace. But by then the intruder demanded his full attention. He was trying to regain his balance, but Mr. Crow knew better than to let him. His beak lashed out, not once, not twice, but three times. The cuts weren't deep, but they were enough. The pigeon fell to the ground, his bleeding wings raised in self-defence. Though it was his side that bled the hardest.
Mr. Crow fought the temptation to take his eye out. But as the shivering bird lay on it's back, dreadfully anticipating the next blow, he thought better of it. This one was a nobody. A coward. But from the sound of it, he did belong to some dangerous murder. The bloodrage subsided as soon as it had arisen. Maiming or killing this bird would only cause for more problems down the line.
“Get out.” Mr. Crow ordered.
The bird lowered it's wings, apparently only seeing his assailant clearly for the first time.
“But… But...” It started, clearly confused. “You're a… You're one of us.”
“I said get out.” Mr. Crow went on, not fazed. He wished he'd remained seated. He didn't want any of this. None of it. “I won't repeat myself.”
“You crazy bastard.” The pigeon crawled up, but clearly kept it's distance; afraid of the sharp beak at Mr. Crow's dispense. “This isn't over.” It warned, clutching the wound at it's side. “You hear me?!” He yelled in impotent fury as he backed up towards the door. “ You'll be sorry!”
Truth be told. He already was.
And still, he watched the grey bird back out through the door and flee into the dark night.
With some luck, perhaps a fox would catch him. Though deep down, Mr. Crow doubted it.
He turned back to find a hundred eyes watching him. None of the least Tom's an his mother's.
“Thank you.” The innkeeper managed in between sobs, clutching her son who lay in her arms.
The boy's face, however, was one solely of surprise.
“You shouldn't have done that, stranger.” Tom spoke.
He was probably right. Mr. Crow had no illusions.