"So Always, You Answer"

Prologue: An Empty Canvas

Caedmon had fallen asleep again. He didn't know for how long, of course, but he lifted his head up from the greasy wooden desk, drool covering the parchment, unaware of having ever drifted off.  The parchment that was supposed to contain his next masterpiece. Art used to be something he loved, now it was like a chore to even scrawl his pencil across the page. Dark bags hugged the lower parts of his eyes, his hair could use a good comb-through, and his beard had grown out to a longer length than he would have preferred. 

"Easy, now." He whispered to himself, slowly easing his body from its sore position on the chair. His limbs ached from disuse, and he had a bitter taste in his mouth that he couldn't quite put a finger on. "I was supposed to be a gifted artist. What happened to me?"

The young man staggered to the window, feeling much older than twenty-five, and grappled with the handle of the frame until it opened with a click. Warm summer air brushed his skin, riddled with the aroma of cigars and dirty drains that stank from last evening's downpour. Caedmon scanned the mass of children playing skipping games and jump rope to find a most handsome specimen of crow. Now, if he could earn a living gazing longingly at those birds preening their feathers on Saturday mornings, he'd be rich. It was mainly a matter of envy, he wished to fly away from all his unpaid bills and the chalky feeling of restlessness,

"Little one," He swallowed, beaming proudly. "I wish I could be you. I wish I could be something- something more than a silly horsefeather. I want power, for once in my life." Chuckling softly, he frowned. "Talking to a bird, really?"

Eyes locked with the crows's beady, glassy eyes, he could almost sense that it wanted something too. It flicked open its wings and flew up to the windowsill. From up close, Caedmon could see that one of its claws held a crumpled and squashed piece of paper, which was yellowed with age. Quite odd. The bird seemed to be quite calm, willing to let the man see what was hidden in its talons. It pried each claw, one by one, open, and then with a caw, asked him to take it.

"This is...this is a contract." He almost shrieked, motioning to the title. As he continued reading, his palms became sweaty and his mind became a swirl of thoughts, strung together in thick circles. This wasn't an accident. This crow didn't just pick it up off the street. It was for him. "'...and we would humbly ask that you meet in the town park tomorrow, near the fountain. There, you will see a bench, where our leader is waiting. Details to be discussed.' But...CROWS CAN'T WRITE!"

The words on the paper seemed to taunt him, as if it knew exactly what he wanted. It was like a nightmare, where he was pulled in both directions, equally afraid of his fate on either side. He scanned every word once more, hoping he would understand his predicament if he were to remember every word. The opportunity to become something more than himself beckoned him like a siren's call. This contract promised him everything he wanted. Why was he so unsure? Maybe it was the feeling that this power- unimaginable power- could change him. Or maybe it was the barely cooked mutton that served as his dinner last night. How was he to know?

He stared at the sea of crows that had somehow materialized on his porch, waiting for his answer. He knew what they wanted. The three letter word gnawed at his insides, rattling his very core. The handsome crow gave another caw, as if to encourage him. It was as if this bird could understand his plight much more than just a simple animal who pawed for scraps.

There it was, then. His decision was made. Once he said it, there was no turning back to a world of underpriced, stale meat and half finished masterpieces. Gathering his thoughts, he quickly shelved them in neat lines, each thought connecting to the next in order. 

"You asked me if I wanted to sign your contract in the park tomorrow. And I say," His lips parted slowly. " Yes."

Caedmon took a deep breath after he uttered that one fateful word. The crows seemed satisfied, feeding off of his insecurity and turning it into a sort of determination. Whatever became of him, if he went mad or not, would be what he deserved for no inspiration for months in his tragic little life. A surge of excitement mixed beautifully with the unease in his veins. Was that destiny?

The birds scattered as soon as he closed the window so that he could focus on the crumpled paper in his hand. The words and letters danced as if they had a life of their own, growing still as the man traced his finger over the intricate script. What would the crows get out of it? What price would he have to pay?