Read Crow Country for Free Online

crow’s wings beat where it stood. Its cries drowned out every other sound, they filled the valley like the roar of thunder, and the ground shook beneath Sadie as she struggled to her feet.
    Then the crow’s scream rang out, and the bird’s talon-feet gripped the earth, slicing into the ground.
    Sadie imagined her flesh torn by those talons, her eyes jabbed by that pitiless beak, and she ran.
    The sudden night was thick as tar; she didn’t know if her eyes were open or shut. Wind whistled and roared about her, screaming with the crow’s voice. She didn’t know if she was running or falling, dreaming or awake. She was plummeting into the darkness, and the dark was choking her, like soft black feathers in her throat.

S adie was running, her feet striking the ground with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud . She could hear her own ragged breath, each gasp tearing into her side like a wound. She was still real, then; she was still here , somewhere, though the darkness was thick as porridge all around her.
    Then she realised she could see a light ahead, a tiny yellow pinprick no bigger than a solitary star.
    She slowed to a jog-trot, shuddering for breath, and held onto her side where the stitch stabbed her. Lights glowed above her, too: the silvery dust of stars, and the thin curve of the moon. The yellow light ahead was larger now, and square-shaped: a lighted window. She could make out other shapes in the shadows, trees and buildings, flares of lamplight.
    She slowed to a walk. Nothing to be frightened of, you silly duffer , she scolded herself. What’s got into you? Scared of the Hobyahs?
    She imagined long fingers reaching out of the dark and quickened her pace. She was carrying a basket; she knew that she should carry it carefully. Even when she’d been running full tilt, she’d been careful to balance the basket. She remembered now that it was full of eggs.
    She was wearing boots and a frock and her blue cardigan that Gran had knitted, and her hair was tumbling down out of its bobby pins as usual . . .
    And somewhere inside her was Sadie, thinking in amazement, Who am I? This isn’t me! I’ve turned into someone else! But somehow she wasn’t concerned about this unexpected transformation. She was astonished but not anxious. She walked steadily toward the shop, toward home, the lamplight streaming from the kitchen and the basket of eggs from Mrs Williams on her arm.
    She let herself into the stuffy kitchen, warm with the heat of the stove, and set the basket on the dresser. Mum was draining a saucepan of potatoes. John was at the table, bent over his schoolbook, legs wound round the chair legs, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.
    â€˜Bless you, love, you’re just in time.’ Mum’s face was flushed and a curl of dark hair had escaped from the scarf tied round her head. She wiped her hands on her green-flowered pinafore. ‘Mash these spuds, will you? I can hear the baby.’
    She whisked out of the room, and Sadie, without thinking, pulled open the right drawer, found a fork and began to mash the potatoes. She looked round for the milk jug and found that and the butter dish on the table. She added milk and butter to the potatoes, beating them to a creamy mash. Just the way Dad likes them , she found herself thinking . . .
    Sadie knew that these weren’t her thoughts, they belonged to someone else. She wondered, without panic, whose thoughts they were, whose life she had stepped into.
    The plates were warming in the bottom of the oven, the mutton and gravy were ready, the beans boiling on the stovetop. Don’t overcook the beans! thought Sadie, and an echo of Ellie’s voice flashed through her mind. Vegies boiled to death, yuk . . .  She snatched up the saucepan and drained the water, tipped the beans into a dish and looked around for a bottle of olive oil to drizzle over them.
    Olive oil? Sadie frowned. Whatever put an idea like that into her