Before you read, catch up with the first chapter of The Emerald Archivist: Chapter 0- The Fool
Insistent tapping pulled Ari from the water coloured whispers of the dreamworld to confusing, misty October greys. Her hand slapped at an alarm that hadn’t rang. Through half opened eyes Ari scanned the room for the sound. A second snapping clack at the window startled, and she shook under her sheets.
Ari met a piercing stare from onyx eyes that excavated depths of her being unknown to even herself. The shock stilled her. An unwavering midnight crow watched like a statue. A shrill squawk followed two quick sets of tacks in threes again against the glass, and the black bird was off. Despite her usual affinity for the misunderstood tricksters, Ari felt more than a little put off by the sudden morning call, and kicked off the covers with a flustered huff. No point in delaying her day further, she slipped to the kitchen, turned on the kettle, ran the shower, and began her morning routines.
Outside her door the weathered cardboard box wilted. Ink bled, the casing folded, yet still its walls stood. Ari’s heels clicked against the wooden porch as she stepped around the burden and clattered to the street. The pattering of light rain across her umbrella washed away the equally guilty, and angry thoughts polluting her mind as she headed to the office.
Hours passed at the firm. Pages turned, her pen scratched margins, highlighter illuminated lost passages as she chased facts for the foundations of their next case. Nothing glamorous. Mundane compiled evidence opposing allegations against one of their larger clients over a recent firing. While it wasn’t close to as fulfilling as the last trial, the recent monotony was welcome. Ari still struggled to get her bearing for any semblance of normalization. Hopes at a social life had yet to overcome the hurdles of routine and exhaustion. Home had been sedentary, and in many ways more agonizing than relaxing. It was next to impossible to rest without a nagging feeling that she was supposed to be working. The monolithic barrier beyond her door didn’t help. Excuses to avoid even looking upon the box only aided its siege over her psyche.
Outside her office window another crow perched upon a maple across the courtyard and gazed her way. Ari shook away the ridiculous notion that it could be the same morning bird. An absurd thought, especially considering the frequency of crows in her day to day. To differentiate between the shades of obsidian, and the lay of feathers was well beyond Ari’s abilities, each fellow always appeared a twin. She further embarrassed herself with the hubris of even considering that the creature was looking at her as opposed to happen to be facing her direction. While the thought eventually vanished, an unnerving feeling of a weighty, watchful eye continued its creep as she worked through the documents.
By lunch a handful of crows had come and gone. They’d chattered away, and searched for grubs, tossing colourful fallen leaves in their melee. It wasn’t until she returned back to her front door that the pitting feeling of dread rocketed. From atop the withering box another black guard tracked her steps. His beady black eyes twinkled, as his neck swivelled, unbothered as she moved close and snuck past. Ari flurried inside, locked the latch and slid against the back of the slammed door to the floor. From behind the safety of the painted pine Ari’s pulse dropped as she heard his heavy wings send away.
She rose the next morning rested and ready, minutes before her alarm. Refreshed steps sprung with renewal towards the kitchen. Ari breakfasted over toast, and gooping poached egg. Her coffee rich and creamy, the flavours lingered as she laced her boots, and tied her cloak. Headphones in, and morning podcast playing, Ari made but a single step forward through her door before leaping from her skin.
Another crow watched.
He cawed as she attempted to collect herself, rushing to lock her door, and headed into the pouring rain without the protection of her forgotten umbrella.
Damp hair, soaked socks, Ari sat cold and miserable brooding behind her desk. Unbothered by the weather, the feathered militia came and went atop across the maple’s branches. Back and forth, they patrolled their post, with occasional guard change under the oranging leaves as the hours inched. Her work suffered. She suffered. Tension rose, to the point where the poor woman leapt at the expected sound of a coworker arriving into her office.
Scarlet blush decorated Ari as awkward apologies were exchanged, and the pair moved onwards with their meeting. The day ended. Ari again snuck by the package and bird, and barcaded herself inside as his shrill calls grew in volume.
The increase in birds over the next week didn’t exactly correlate with the passing of each day. But her internal torture did. The anxiety riddled squeeze in the low of her back grip tightened to degree then clenched her jaw.
By the end of the following Friday the penetrating tilted looks had become inescapable. The relief of closed blinds only led to more maddening, relentless caws. Scavengers arrived in the dozens to the murder. They spilled from her hand rails, hide the last leaves of the maple, and littered powerlines above the sidewalks surrounding her street. They marked cars, curbs, and the occasional pedestrian. Neighbours took notice, wondering out loud about problems or attractors within the block. Infestations? Rats? Agitated looks began to localize on her home.
Yet, no matter the size of the horde, Ari could always home in on the original jackal. Self doubt had evaporated, she was now convinced of the conductor. His lingering stares elongated, impossible to ignore. Attention so pronounced passerbys and other observers could follow the crow’s gaze to Ari. Walking or waiting for buses became out of the question. As were patios. Any pause outdoors was treated as an open invitation by the feathered ones.
The pestering was endless. From behind the curtains her every step followed. Tapping traced along window panes as she passed from room to room. Almost metronomic, the maddening taps were always an intentional hair off from establishing a comfortable, predictable rhythm as they morsed their demands. Starving Ari couldn’t cook, and instead paced around her kitchen. She reached for a bottle of opened red over ingredients.
Bitter wine bit her tongue but her nerves refused to relax. The stem hardly brushed the counter before it was whisked back to her lips and drained. Cawing danced over the rattling behind the curtains, while a shaking hand refilled her glass. This time there was no pause between sips. Her empty stomach warmed, and cheeks flush, as the noise outside increased. Courage began to match irritation. The bottle emptied after her largest pour yet, and Ari marched on the pests.
Traces of inebriation sent her front door slamming to the wall as she wrenched the entrance open. Ari’s steps stumbled as she passed through the threshold into silence. For the first time in close to a fortnight her patio was empty, save for the soul interrogator above the box. Dumbfounded, she sipped again.
The reverberations of the next caw tore through Ari’s entire core, and sent her palms to her ears. Her neck snapped in time to see the trickster take flight, milliseconds before her wine glass shattered beside her feet. The patio bloodied from the sacrificed wine as Ari howled after the fleeing assailant. Her hands clawed as rage circulated throughout her system until exasperation blanketed.
Rubied glass glinted in the pools of her medicine. “Oh to hell with it,” Ari spat, and reached for the shattered stem.
Ari watched merlot drip from the daggered end, and let the loss go. While she hated to admit it, she knew the soothing love she sought wasn’t at the bottom of a bottle. With a wince Ari spun the jagged glass upside down, and plunged the point through the top of the box, punctured the loose packing tape, and spliced the cardboard open like a surgeon.
Thanks for reading, stay tuned for the next chapter of The Emerald Archivist!
-Mr. Write