Cry of the Rooks (eBook)

C H A P T E R
ONE

It started in the middle of a field in the midst of a very cold November evening. A huge bonfire, burning in the centre of the field, provided enough light and warmth for the adults and children that had gathered around it, most of them wanting to watch the fireworks dance across the black sky. Silver embers of the sparklers danced and fizzed in gloved hands of children, whilst frothy and bubbling glasses of cold beer were held in the bare hands of the adults. The fog of spent gunpowder from the rockets combined with the crackling, sputtering scent of meat from the barbeque coated the grassy field in a dense, thick mist.

A firework shot up into the sky, exploding into a deep green balloon of embers, the crackle of silvery sparks making everyone gasp in amazement, with another shooting up to join it. A high-spirited youngster called Christopher threw a firecracker towards us before disappearing into the darkness. We all took a step back as it fizzed, the explosion brief but loud. On a nearby tree a Catherine Wheel span around with yellow flame shooting up into the leaves and down into the grass with ferocity, evoking the gathered crowd to emit the obligatory vowel sounds of awe.

While all of this was going on, I bumped into Carolyn, a dear old friend of mine who, after the initial pleasantries of greeting and discussing what we were now both up to, lost no time in excitedly explaining to me the benefits of the recent course she had just signed herself up for.

“The ancient art of Chinese feng-shui?” I repeated questioningly. “What the heck is that?”

“It’s the ancient art of balancing the yin and yang energies that flow throughout the household, and all of that kind of spiritual thing.” She smiled. “I think you’d like it, why don’t you come along for a few classes? I’m sure they can fit you in.”

I thought about it briefly, finding no reason not to go. A final rocket blew itself up into the sky behind me, followed by what was the grand finale, with multiple explosions making everyone look up to see stars briefly fill the night sky.

A sudden, high pitched scream pierced the sound of dull explosions, as everyone’s attention now turned towards the bonfire. A second scream confirmed the existence of the first, and suddenly the tone of the party took a much darker tone. People looked around as the dull pops and bangs still echoed around the site but no fireworks leapt up to colour the night’s sky.

“What the hell?” I asked myself, throwing aside my drink, rushing over to the sound of the screams.

I happened upon the scene as two men dragged what looked like a smouldering sack away from the base of the bonfire. As more people gathered around the scene became muddled, as people looked around to see what the commotion was, spreading around what little information they knew.

Eventually word got to me about what was going on, and it was news every host dread to hear: there’d been an accident, and someone had got burned. I made a point of going to the scene once more, getting a closer view only to find the young boy, Christopher, writhing in pain, screaming so loud it rattled my ear drums. A burst of fire and a loud explosion erupted through his pocket, sparking and sending him into more throws of agony.

Some people hovered, not knowing what to do or whether to watch the unfolding drama. Others scrambled to help, at first trying to pull down his jeans but giving up after realizing the cheap denim had fused to his charred skin.

“An ambulance has been called!” someone from the crowd said, the estimated time it’d be here being drowned out by more pops and flashes from the pocket.

People now became desperate to end the poor boy’s suffering, throwing their drinks and water from the drink’s coolers upon him, to try and douse the fuses, yet one by one, they irregularly erupted giving him another flare of pain.

Eventually blue lights could be scene flashing against the slight fog caused by the evening’s fireworks. The ambulance arrived, the paramedics immediately telling the gathered crowed to disperse. A stretcher was brought out, the paramedic deftly checking the wound as the last firecracker erupted.

“You’re alright, just a few little burns.” He told the crying child, as he was taken on a stretcher. “Are his parents anywhere?” The paramedic asked, with one of the men who first dragged the boy lifting his hand and following him into the ambulance, his face ashen and shaded with shock.

The door slammed shut on the ambulance, the blue lights still flashing away, staining the night’s sky the same way the fireworks did only minutes prior. “His pockets were full of them firecrackers.” Someone said in a hushed tone. “Got too close to the bonfire. Miracle the other pocket didn’t go off.”

A sense of normalcy and relief washed over the crowd, as on the ground the bonfire dwindled and died. The cold quickly reclaimed the heat that had been emitted from the dying embers, with people standing around dazed and shocked, others deliberating the accident, most people beginning to leave, almost as if they had come to feel the warmth of the fire and nothing more.

A few days later, whilst trying to remember everything about the evening aside from Christopher’s incident, I remembered Carolyn’s offer, and so I phoned her responding that I’d go with her to a class and see what all of this feng-shui hype was about, keeping an open mind but otherwise not overly enthusiastic. Whilst we were talking, I asked her to keep me updated on the status of the Christopher lad. Apparently he was fine, suffering some burns but they would heal in time. Whether or not he’d go near bonfires again was another question entirely.

A few weeks later, I set out to a small village near Retford, in Nottinghamshire, with Carolyn to attend the first meeting of the feng-shui class. We spent most of the hour travelling, speculating as to where the meeting would take place, and eventually followed the directions to an old Georgian Vicarage. It was a large brick building with high windows, and looking out onto the grounds I spotted a large outdoor swimming pool filthy and unused with leaves and dirt.

As Carolyn and I approached the entrance to the grand building, an attractive middle aged lady, wearing the best hits of fashion found in the 1970’s, smiled when she saw us and asked if we were here for the class on feng-shui, which we said we were. She was a memorable person only because of the clothes she wore, being so ridiculously out of date it was impossible not to make a silent, mental comment. Her dress was a dull, boring brown that had dull orange and black patterns sewn into it, running up and down on one side. Her neck was weighed down by a black and brown necklace of thick, heavy beads that, combined with her dress, did nothing but give her the impression of being a relic of a time that had long since gone.

Other people started to appear and we were all ushered into a large living room with high, ornate ceilings and hard, polished oak wood flooring that was covered by two vibrant Chinese rugs. A magnificent marble fireplace lay flat against the centre of the furthest wall and high windows provided plenty of natural light either side of the mantelpiece. An old pull cord hung in place beside the white painted doorway, which would link up to a butler’s bell elsewhere in the house. It has long been disconnected, but served as a reminder of the elegance of times gone by.

Several rows of chairs had been placed in the room for our convenience, and although the fireplace was unlit, the room was warm enough despite the best efforts of the autumn chill.

The house was obviously privately owned, chosen for its size and suitability for hosting this class. While the house was pleasantly furnished and filled with people who were more than amicable and friendly, I sensed a deep, ingrained unhappiness that attached itself to the abode. On the way in, for example, the leaves that were floating aimlessly in the cold blue waters of the swimming pool, and it was clear from the unkempt frostbitten lawns that it had been a while since it had played host to any form of jovial family gathering, and even longer since it had heard the laughter of young children playing. No photographs of any sort lined the grand, open spaces of the halls, and it was clear to me that the house had been frozen in a time where the happiness had been long gone, and the children had all grown up and moved out.

It would later transpire that the owners were in the middle of a divorce. The husband was an accountant, the dull, straight-laced type. The wife was an attractive, middle-aged woman at an age where people may reflect most on their life so far, asking themselves if this is really all there is, whilst the monotonous beat of the hum-drum routine grows ever louder. It was not surprising that, having completely snapped from the cold seriousness of her husband, she was engaged in an affair with a penniless Native Red Indian called ‘High Cloud’, no doubt having met at other spiritual days out whilst she was searching for her ‘inner peace’.

I remember how, before the main lecture started, the husband appeared, sharply dressed in a suit and tie but wearing a face that could scare off thunder. He stormed through the assembled group, probably with the intent of telling each and every one of us to leave. For whatever reason, he simply made a point of looking cross, before leaving just as promptly as he arrived.

I looked outside through the large...