The Winners

Smoke pushed the sky out, a thick, choking smoke which stopped up the air in your

lungs and stifled your mind. Above the wispy sea, a lone crow flew, deftly avoiding the poisonous smog which would slyly drag at your wings and coax you, eyes stinging, into the scorched battlegrounds of the fire. And oh! What a beautifully strange and terrible fire it was. Below, the grand street overflowed with spectators, there to see the intricate, ever-changing kaleidoscope of flame. Ash softly snowed upon the shifting crowd, landing on the fine silk puffs, lacy ornaments and tall white collars of high society. Policemen, sweating in stiffuniforms pushed through the mob on uneasy horses, and a rosy engine stood grand with bold golden letters. Sorrow and misery dripped from the air, enriched with doubtful murmurs of onlookers surveying the new-fangled machine’s feeble attempts to douse the roaring flames with fine jets of water. The weary crow alighted onto a rough, slated roof, apart from the dangerous fumes, where it could join its fellow inhabitants of Edinburgh in watching their world burn down—where perhaps the most dismal image was the ruination of Tron Kirk. The church's spire blazed with a most passionate fervour, adorning the dull brick walls with wreaths of ruby tinted gold. A greater unease possessed those who watched this sacred edifice burn; flurries of their agitated whispers reached the cold roof, but to the troubled corvid these voices were one and the same to the noisy wind. Words of ‘divine punishment’ and ‘god’ mean nothing to birds.

Gradually the crows’ palpitating breast slowed, and a November chill began to creep into its fine bones – which even a few haughty ruffles of its sleek feathers failed to dispel –so it crooked its neck for the last time to the curious scene before hastily hopping along a few tiles and onto the air. Each rhythmic beat of its impatient wings carried it away from the murky chaos of sweltering fear. It seemed more at ease as it finally obeyed the clamorous instincts to leave, away from the deceitful flames, away from the puzzling humans, away, away, until its inky body held stark against the grey, tumultuous sky. As the blackened streets below became steadily quiet, the intent crow swept lower to the lonely roofs. Slowing, it cast glittering eyes upon the winding labyrinthe of alleyways. The fire, having traced through it once, haunted the place through craggy piles of still-smoldering rubble and soot-stained windows and the smoke-tinged air. On its mysterious hunt it encountered other crows, scavenging for animal carcasses and other such edible treasures in the ruins. Yet the corvid did not stop to join them, struggling through the bitter draughts which cruelly laughed at its futile search. Finally he found it. The sole purpose of such a perilous journey. A small, crumpled heap of inky feathers, lying in a destitute corner of one of the many alleyways. Landing nearby, the crow hopped tentatively, desperately towards the corpse, and prodding with its beak, turned the small figure over— a cold, grotesque statue veiled in ash. Life watched death with a strange, wretched curiosity. Others noticed the unusual stillness of their kin and hopped to observe. Before long, a throng had collected in the shadowed alley, all entranced by the fallen bird. There they stood, frozen, mimicking the corpse in its rigidity, and a silence swelled, the air impregnated with question and a slight undulation of fear. Our first crow, however, stood apart from the rest; staring with a crooked neck, in vain trying to discern the trick behind such a cruel mirage. He had once known that disheveled body, had once seen it animated with vivacity and sharp wit. He had once loved that empty creature, or as close to love as a bird can have. Maybe that was why such a sound could be wrenched from his throat. A guttural screech, hoarse with rough-hewn desperation, rage, and agony. The mourning wail was answered by the singed stone alley, his voice returning in fragmented shards; and then echoed in the watching crows. They shrieked in a broken choir, drawing nearby crows into a whirlpool of night and flashing eyes, clustering, a breathing mass of sorrow. The raucous song grew feverishly into a jarring, resounding pit of sound, something which even the humans could not ignore. A woman, attired in all black, mounting a post-chaise; a grubby messenger boy scurrying along the cobble, about to deliver a tragedy; an elderly gentleman gazing hopelessly at his lost home and fortune; indeed, a great many grieved along with the birds for what the great fire had stolen, had devoured— and hence many such hopeful breaths and captivating dreams were swiftly incinerated, left to push out the sky as ephemeral smoke.

Author: Kana Barr