Ravens in the Graveyard by S. L. Matthews

Author:S. L. Matthews [Matthews, S. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: S. L. Matthews
Published: 2020-03-12T13:18:05+00:00

Chapter 6

New Recruits

Bosal kept track of the days, marking each sunset with a chalk mark on the wall by his bed. Well, Preacher’s old bed. Nineteen marks. Only one more day before he’d have to start the count over. He wasn’t so good at counting past twenty. Anything more than that was confusing and served too much gluttony anyway, he figured.

The marks were to keep track of two things: his time spent in Dozen after Preacher’s death, and the number of days they kept the Butterfly locked away. He heard people talking about the judge, who had gone off to some other town on business. They said he would pass through town on his way home to hold her trial.

Meanwhile, the sheriff grew tired of Bosal’s constant visits and shooed him away when he came around. He told Bosal he could see her for the trial, but it was a long time to wait. Bosal passed his days with the ravens.

For two months, it seemed peace had settled into Dozen. Families went to church and huddled into the pews, captivated by Preacher’s gifts. After his death, people still flocked to the little gray church, but no one seemed to know what to do. Without a preacher to lead them, it became a Sunday social.

Bored and without spiritual guidance, Bosal watched people drop away a few at a time, returning to their old habits. Soon, the little gray church was as empty as a beggar’s belly.

The ravens were his only companions. He took up with Daniel, who spent much of his time voicing his agitation against the town. His pithy squawks, calls, and clicks were a constant stain to the townsfolk, for the raven seemed to be everywhere. With nothing else to do, Bosal watched the bird and gradually realized there was a pattern to Daniel’s chaos. He followed the same path at the same time every day, flying from one roof to the next, hopping down to the hitching rails, flapping his wings and chattering. His calls would draw in his friends, and sometimes there would be more ravens decorating the rooftops than Bosal could count.

Ideas were not usually fruitful for Bosal, nor were they frequent. But, when an idea hit, it was with the force of a steam engine barreling down the track. Daniel was following someone!

“He knows!” he cried, but no one was around to listen. Maybe I should tell the sheriff, he thought but shook his head. The sheriff didn’t seem to like him very much, and even if he listened, he would ask only questions Bosal had no answers for. Better to wait and watch.

When he wasn’t with the ravens, or trying to coax Daniel to tell him his secrets, Bosal sat by Preacher’s grave, whittling little figures out of wooden sticks and observing the town fluff-duffs pass by. One day, as he rested in the graveyard carving individual feathers in the wing of a little raven, he saw a stagecoach pull up in the middle of town.

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