Part 5 (Final)

Wandering up past all the first rows stuffed with books of gardening, complete with ivy plants crawling from the shelves, she slowed near the stairwell. Like a stitch, the general idea of where she’d seen such a book tugged. Turning the corner, she gestured beyond the dusty statues guarding mythology and lore, and around the romance shelf beneath the archway, the one with book covers falling apart at the seams.

But at the first staircase that wove up it to a ceiling overhead with an old guild sign, Picky waved him onward. A flurry eased in her chest, and Picky eyed the wall of book spines and read titles like Mining on Munster Mountain, Footsteps of the Tracker, and Pirates: A Father’s Memoir.

The man cleared his throat and shifted on his heels. “You sure you work for-“

A dart of black flew down, swooping and cawing until the Raven landed on the top shelf.

“Bah!” the man said, his hands flapped around like pancakes. “A bad omen.”

“No, he’s lucky,” Picky said and turned to peer up at the Raven who now flew.

The Raven’s eyes swirled white, and Picky didn’t flinch away or not watch. The Raven swung down to peck at a book’s spine so faint it was hard to see and gave a murmuring caw.

Picky pulled out the book, and in a voice, like a mouse read, “Apprentices of the Modern Era?”

Coated in a glean of sweat, the man wiped down his head with a handkerchief. “You keep the book. But Mr. Gettersworth never let you in here before. He’s never seen you before.”

Embroidered into the handkerchief was an ornate G. Picky clenched up. Who else but the librarian himself would be there first? Mr. Gettersworth, the librarian, stood before her and had caught her in a lie. A heartbeat fast as a hare flung into her chest. She ducked towards the staircase. Her feet churned over themselves, hitting one step after another but she stopped halfway-down. Picky was missing what mattered.

“Raven come on,” she said, and stared at the door, mere steps away. “Raven!”

“Miss, it’s your raven,” Mr. Gettersworth said, and his voice quivered like someone who just walked beneath a ladder or broke a mirror or opened an umbrella inside the house. “He’s talking to me.”

This was the second time that dealings with Picky made a person flabbergasted that week. But unlike the Baker, the librarian began to laugh. Picky raced back up the stairs, to find the Raven sitting on Mr. Gettersworth’s shoulders.

“Oh good, you’re back,” the Raven said and clucked its beak. “I was just showing off my wing.”

Picky held onto the staircase banister like she might swoop down it any second.

“Once I had a cat. She showed up one day, and told me how to make hot chocolate, and that if I fed it every day, I’d never want for anything.”

Picky stared at them, unable to know what to make of someone else keen on the mystical workings of what she’d recently glimpsed. “The cat made hot chocolate?”

“No, but she told me the recipe,” Mr. Gettersworth said and leaned in a little as if worried someone might hear them. “Told me! Talked just like you and I and this raven.”

Picky and Mr. Gettersworth both shared a smile. And later still after more talking, a cup of hot chocolate with the Raven by the fireside. But not before the cup was done did the librarian pose a question Picky hated to answer.

“How I got my name?” Picky said and touched her wrist where the baker snatched it. She was about to tell of her pick-pocketing ways when the Raven chimed in.

“Oh, that was from me. You see, I picked her out of anyone in all of Amberjack to befriend because she’s good and would never hit me with a slingshot,” the Raven said and dipped his beak into his own little cup of hot chocolate.

“Is that so?” Mr. Gettersworth said and nodded to Picky. “You don’t judge a book by its cover. I like that very much, Picky.”

“Guess I don’t,” Picky said and slurped her hot chocolate until it was gone.

Mr. Gettersworth became the grandfather to Picky most children all wished they could visit often. And the Baker, once some time passed and his heart made a little softer, came to bring bear-claws and croissants and other fancy pastries that Picky, Mr. Gettersworth, and the Raven adored. But Picky bloomed when chosen as the apprentice for the library, and many years later it’s keeper. By the then, her own gray hairs sprouted, and she grew into a woman many years beyond eleven.

But around this time, the Raven grew old after a life longer than every other animal in Porttown. One sunny day, rare as a vein of gold and twice as bright, the Raven fell asleep in pulled out drawer where he’d made his nest. He closed his eyes and stared up at Picky from where she sat, right beside him. The Raven thought his life was wonderful as any he’d ever dreamed and met death without a single worry.

The next day, they buried the Raven in the peanut crystal bowl, fine as any prince’s coffin. But unlike some animals or people given a few kind words and shovel of dirt, Raven’s burial turned into a legend. Only those there ever truly believed how a hundred ravens darkened the sky and descended to perch on weathervanes, gutters, street lamps, and top-hats of unknowing men. Snakes wove through the cobblestone lane, through the grass, without fear of the eagles snatching at them. Even every cat, from stray to house dwelling, snuck out to sit whisker to whisker with mouse and rat at the gathering spectator’s heels.

All paid homage in Porttown to the most beloved raven who ever lived.

On the little mound of Raven’s grave, a tree grew black as the night sky that oddly enough, grew roasted peanuts in spring and strawberries that tasted like mint in winter. And if ever lonely, Picky sat beneath Raven’s tree and thought of cheerful things. Sometimes a newcomer or visitor passed, to enjoy the snacks on the odd tree, and Picky told anyone who asked her name the story of a feathered friend, who had picked her life to save.