The Thief On Murder Island

By Deborah Bainbridge

I perched in the trees with my flock, waiting for the land walkers to leave. The tourists had nicknamed our home Murder Island ever since we chose to inhabit it. My name is Maximillian, but my crow brothers called me Boss.

Twilight painted the sky orange and pink as the last two kayaks of the day floated by. Branches teetered all around me, filling the air with the familiar scent of pine. The murder was hungry… restless. If the land walkers didn’t leave soon, a mobbing would begin.

At a small picnic table, one family wearing knit beanies and puffy jackets remained. The female handed the young boy raspberries and nuts, which he spattered on the ground. Land-walker children were loud and smelly but left a feast to forage. I focused my surviving eye on my prize—a cigar, teetering on the edge of the table. It was already lit—a kind gesture from the land walker. My tail feathers flickered.

The burning tobacco tugged my memories back to the day I’d found my first cigar—the day of the attack—when Russell lost his parents and I chose to raise him as my own hatchling. On that fateful day, a golden eagle had gored my left eye, leaving three slashes to darken my face. The rush of the cigar’s pleasure had lessened the anguish I felt. But, the promise of its pleasure was empty, wore off quickly, and left an unrelenting craving that had followed me ever since like a nagging shadow.

I strangled the branch beneath me. Are they ever going to leave? Tap-tap-tap. The land walkers needed some motivation.

“Shade, Trickster, Watchman,” I cawed. “Drive them out, boys.”

“Done, Boss,” squawked Trickster, his sinister grin betraying his excitement.

The three crows descended upon the land walkers. Shade harassed them by knocking over containers then hovered just out of reach. Watchman snagged a mitten while Trickster glided above them, dropping pinecone scales onto their heads.

The child wailed, and the female picked him up to soothe him.

The treetops rang with a storm of fluttering wings and resonant caws. “Ten points!”

Trickster bulls-eyed a cup. Hot cocoa sloshed onto the table.

“Thirty!”

I held up the tip of my right wing. “Wait for iiiit….”

The flock stilled.

Just then, the tall male stood with a crazed look, slashing the air with his arms—the standard picnic male breaking point. That was the sign.

I released a cry of victory. “Caw-Caw!”

The land walkers crammed items into their boat then sped toward shore. My thoughts returned to the cigar on the table.

Gone.

It was just there! My mind raced. I clutched my chest. I need that!

I screeched into the sunset, scanning the skies to no avail. Feathers bristling, I launched into the air as if the branch beneath me had been electrified. A sea of crows parted as I flapped methodically through them, searching the island for my prize. I circled twice before I spotted it—a small wisp of smoke drifting out from beneath a picnic bench.

I thudded onto the seat, clacking my bill. “Come on out, wise guy. You’re going to pay for that little prank!” I opened my beak, ready to strike.

A young, male crow hopped cautiously from beneath the table. “Please don’t hurt me.” Trembling, he dropped the cigar. I lunged forward, skimming the ground. The juvenile cringed.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Russell?” My entire body deflated. “You’re the thief?” I stood, gaping. “I don’t understand.”

“I just wanted to be like you.” Russell cowered. “You’re the coolest, strongest crow in the whole world.” He flinched, as if waiting for me to strike.

My black wings drooped against my sides. “Did you think I would hurt you?”

He didn’t have to answer. His look said it all—a look I would never forget. I’m a monster. My heart pinched. “I’m sorry, Russell.” I never thought my choices would lead Russell down this path. “You think I want you smoking?”

“If it’s so bad for me, why do you do it?”

“That’s a good question.” I sighed. I felt exposed but I knew he needed to hear the truth, the good and the bad.  “Worst choice I ever made, kid. When I was your age, my plumage shined a glossy black. My family said it had an iridescent blue sheen. Now, look at me.” I gestured to myself. “I look like a half-plucked chicken. I cough when I wake up, I can’t get a full breath of air, and, to top it off, I got winded lapping this island looking for you.” I wrapped my wing around him.

After a moment of silence, Russell wriggled from beneath my wing and faced me. “I’ve got a deal for you.”

“Is that right?”

“I won’t start if you quit.”

“Quit?” I sputtered.

“Then, you leave me no choice,” said Russell. “Since I want to be just like you.”

“You sure know how to hit a guy, kid.” I rocked back and forth. “Look, those things have a powerful hold over me. They play tricks with my mind.” I looked down. “I don’t know if I can.”

“But, you’re the bravest, the craftiest,” Russell pleaded. “You can do anything!”

“You really think so?”

He nodded. “I know so. We’ll all help, won’t we?” He looked up at our flock—our family. Their response was a symphony of encouragement.

I startled, at first, but their support made me feel invincible. I felt hope—hope I hadn’t felt in a long time. “You got yourself a deal, kid.”

Russell hopped onto my back, cawing and clicking his beak.

“When do we start this big adventure?” I asked.

“At the darkening of three moons—the turn of the year,” Russell answered. “A new year—a new you.”

A joyous caw escaped me, harmonized by a murder most fowl. I spotted the smorgasbord of crumbs and announced, “Then, let the feast begin!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Bainbridge is a Christian, wife, and mother who enjoys running, traveling the world, writing short stories, and cookies. Her genres of choice include mystery and speculative fiction. Throughout her life, she has been inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, and Suzanne Collins. She is thankful to her friends and family for their encouragement and to her husband, Shawn, for his unwavering support and for kayaking with her as she imagined Murder Island.

---

More Stories | Facebook | Instagram