Wonder Made

Eleven

•••

An abandoned house is a decrepit one. This proves the case for the three-story manor that lives atop Mire Hill.  Its staple Victorian pitched roofs have been worn down to Victorian mounds, which sounds like a terrible name for British caramels. Creeping English Ivy has gone rogue, growing far beyond the trellises that had once held it in place. 

The porch is angled, a decision that reads less like an architect's choice and more like a mistake made after a night of drinking. Slats rear up, stabbing at the air. A porch swing, more rust, and broken dreams than anything substantial, wheezes in the breeze.

It saddens me to report the interior fares no better; all three floors are breeding grounds for mold, mites and other pests. Spiders have packed up their webs and moved on, having declared the space too unclean for them to set up roots. Only the lower level is somewhat inhabitable, which is where we find our Crispen Heavensley. He reclines on the green Laz-E-boy he rescued from the trash. 

Despite presenting as someone deeply relaxed, he is anything but. In fact, he is deep in concentration, searching the ether for someone. Do I know the particulars of who this someone is? Yes. Will I disclose them to you? Not right now.

Call me coy, if you feel so inclined; I will not refute such claims.

His brow furrows and one eye peels open, staring into the gaping wound of his roof, where a murder of crows flies and caws overhead. Grey clouds move in, smothering the leftover blue sky from the early morning.

He senses me, narrating this part of the story, and in doing so with such conviction and fact, I am sure he approves of my job unconditionally.

Answering me, he gives a shake of his head, flashes a frown, and thinks: No way. Not you. You couldn't relate a story in full if it were to save the world.

Pshaw, I think to that. I've saved the worlds millions of times, unbeknownst to the humans and the dinosaurs who predated them. Just because a few extinctions slipped through my hand does not mean my work and efforts should go unnoticed or forsaken.

Crispen shakes his head harder. This isn't about you.

This, I cannot argue with. He is right, for once—a rarity for the boy of crows—though, a time will come when the story pivots, and I will be as important as any of the main cast.

Crispen's thoughts scream, That is not the case! You serve a minor role, one that could easily be axed in subsequent drafts.

Pshaw, I think again. How belligerent Crispen has grown up to be! I almost think his leash should have been shorter.

Crispen's lips pull into a tight line. And there it is, your true nature.

My nature is neither here nor there, nor to be discussed within the parameters of these early chapters. Besides, others will decide my nature, not just you, boy of crows - you, who shouldn't have been.

And yet I was.

And yet, I think, you were.

The crows circling overhead release a squawk into the air. Crispen and I part on hostile terms.