In a Raven's Shadow

By Peter Browning

Torment is a terrible thing; it festers and consumes and is nurtured by each ugly experience. The teacher is a product of his past—left embittered by events best forgotten. He is a loner, avoiding any social contact that might inflict pain or distress. His classroom is his refuge, an island of solace, a place where he can embrace the innocence and kindness missing in the outside world. When one of his favorite students suffers a gruesome death, he reaches a breaking point. But will a new dark path destroy him?

'The raven gave a loud caw, flapped his wings and took to the air..... this was an invocation impossible to ignore.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228849230

Book preview

In a Raven’s Shadow

Peter Browning

In a Raven’s Shadow

Copyright © 2021 by Peter Browning

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-4922-3 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-4921-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-4923-0 (eBook)

Für Elyse

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

My sincerest thanks to Jane and Barry. Without your knowledge, guidance and, most important of all, your encouragement, this would not have been possible.

"In torment, there was release.

In the darkness, there was light.

In solitude, there were companions."

—C.C. Humphreys, Vlad: The Last Confession

Prologue

The overgrown road wound through the old cut-over forest, lined on both sides by wild shrubs full of snowberry and rosehips. The air was fresh and clean from the rain the night before; raindrops hung from the clover and other weeds that filled the ruts where years ago logging trucks had hauled the trees to local mills. It was mostly a young aspen forest, no more than thirty feet tall, that had grown in after the fallers had finished. Over the rolling site, a handful of taller fir veterans that had survived the chainsaws stood watch like guardians over the thriving trees.

The boy was twelve years old now and stood motionless in the middle of the road. His brown hair was uncombed. He wore a denim jacket, grey T-shirt and denim pants. An old worn pair of black sneakers covered his feet, but the holes in them revealed his dirty blue socks underneath. After a few minutes, he began walking slowly and quietly along the road, stopping regularly to watch and listen. It was his favourite time of year. The aspen was just beginning to turn colour. It would only be another month before all the leaves were red and yellow. But it was the shrubs he was most interested in. He carried a small gauge shotgun. It was loaded—with the safety on—and held across his body, the barrel pointed slightly up to his left. The grouse would be here. If he was patient, he knew he could bag at least four or five of the wild chickens before the day was over. The birds loved to gorge on the berries that hung from the shrubs. They would also need to dry off after last night’s rain, so he was sure he would see them looking for the sunny breaks in the forest canopy that splashed warmth onto the old road.

He was by himself, and he wanted it that way. The old man would be two or three miles away, sitting in a larger clearing and waiting with a rifle for the mule deer that might stray into the open. The old man was his father, but he never referred to him as dad unless he had to address him as such. Even at this age, the boy knew that a father should take an active role in rearing a child in the hopes of helping his boy become a decent human being. But the old man was simply a supply of genes and the dispenser of discipline once the boy was born. By being alone, the boy could enjoy this time without the fear that hung over him whenever the old man was close. But there was a bonus to living in a household with a temperamental ogre—his wits were keen, and his reflexes fast. By planning ahead and sensing the moments that might invoke rage, it was possible to avoid childhood mistakes, or at least as many as possible. Whenever a broken dish or spilled milk initiated a slap to the side of his head, he moved fast, blocking the blow with a raised hand or ran fast enough to let the old man’s anger fade. This upbringing had honed his instincts, sharpened his senses, and when a target presented itself, he could shoulder his shotgun in a flash and shoot with the very best.

Hunting was a skill the old man believed every male should learn and embrace. When the boy was eight, it was his job to field strip the weapons, then clean and oil each one before presenting them for inspection. Perfection was acknowledged with a rare smile; it was one of the few times he actually felt like a son. At ten, he was brought to walk beside the old man when hunting and was made to learn every nuance, either by observing or listening to instruction only given once. The conversations that other sons and fathers enjoyed were rare, usually entailing how life had screwed the old man over instead.

But today was his day, and the forest solitude was a benediction that gave him strength. The gun in his hands was an extension of his being; holding it felt as natural as any craftsman holding his tools. He had no fear of the woods. His sense of direction was keen and without fail. So he took another breath, deep and full, then walked another ten steps to stop and wait and watch and listen.

Chapter 1

The best part of growing older is each day, you have less to lose. The teacher embraced this thought daily, and it always brought a wry smile to his face. Knowing that the important things in life were now the simple daily pleasures, not the vast array of material garbage that he, like everyone else, had spent so much energy chasing in his youth, served to reinforce this truth. It was not as though his past was a waste; certainly not. But now, his life valued knowledge, reflection, and most of all, peace of mind. As he approached middle age, the bitter realities of each year set their limits as well. Every morning when he looked at himself in the mirror, he realized that time was eroding his physical being and the vibrancy within. Eyes that were once bright and blue had now faded to a dull grey colour. They often reminded him of a dying fire, a warning of ebbing vitality.

Today was no different. He strolled along the sidewalk just as he did most days, making his way home. With his briefcase in hand, he watched the world go by. He was dressed as was his usual style, although style was not a part of his everyday vocabulary. Khaki slacks, a plain blue shirt and tie, a dated corduroy jacket, and well-worn oxfords were the choice today. Such attire was comfortable, cheap, and easily interchangeable with four similar outfits in his bedroom closet. As he walked, no one noticed him or, if they did, paid much attention. He preferred it that way. Being innocuous was easy, as it allowed him to evaluate each day and the life that went with it without bother.

He was a teacher, and it was the job that gave him a reason to get up each morning. No, it was a career. Jobs were for those who didn’t like what they did. But teaching gave him life and meaning. Children were the essence of innocence. They marvelled at the slightest classroom trick or story that highlighted the day’s lessons. Words such as malice, malevolence, or evil did not apply to the students he taught. Life had not yet crafted an ugliness in them that was so prevalent in adults. Sure, he had his share of boneheads who wasted their time and were minimalists at best. But as a group, they could laugh easily, explore their imaginations without criticism, and play without hostile intent. With this, teaching was the best part of his day, and their acceptance gave him the energy to live on as happily as he could. It was his refuge.

The rest of the world was a different story. Traversing the minefield of mankind was arduous, painful, and unforgiving. And it had only gotten worse. It was apparent that humanity had lost its way and every medium glorified greed, vanity, and excesses of every kind. Years of this had made the teacher cynical, and he offered no apologies for this. His smiles were a façade. The idle banter of meaningless conversations was used simply to survive amongst others. For the most part, interactions with those he was unfamiliar with were conducted cautiously. He left no openings for anyone to exploit.

But he did have friends. And those, he could count on one hand. These relationships had survived the test of time. Trust had formed with all of them, and they could be counted on when things were at their worst. They did not question his lifestyle, passed no judgement on his thoughts or comments, and he did the same. Contact with them was infrequent as he preferred to be alone for the most part. It made no sense to become a bother. They had lives of their own, but it was always good when visits or social settings brought them together. Like all good things, he knew it was best to savour these occasions sparingly.

As he walked the last few steps to his townhouse, he brought out his keys and opened the door. As was his custom, he placed his briefcase near the coat rack, removed his shoes, and hung his jacket on the nearest hook. The interior was furnished sparingly and quite plain with the faint odour of last night’s supper hanging in the air. The walls still had the faded pale blue paint from years past and supported several pieces of cheap art and a framed Rolling Stones poster that reminded him of more carefree times. There was a kitchen/living room area with the standard appliances, flat-screen television, an old oak table and chairs, and an ugly floral print sofa that he had purchased from a second-hand store. He surmised that it probably came from a retirement home as no one with their original teeth would have purchased such furniture new. The remaining three rooms were, of course, the bathroom and two bedrooms. One was his, the other a guest room that might have been used once, but he couldn’t remember. Nor did he care.

Alone with his thoughts, he reflected on the past. He had been married for a while once, and like for many, it hadn’t worked out well. But life was easier this way. Time, being a precious commodity, could be spent as he pleased. There were no more arguments over inane issues or obligatory visits to boring relatives. Best of all, no more stupid power struggles that ate away at the best of relationships. Life hadn’t turned out the way he had planned, but then, no one’s does. Although he had taken his lumps, he still found ways to enjoy his time. And, of course, some were far worse off. Still, he realized that he was ageing. There would come a time when he could no longer function in the classroom. This never occurred to him years ago, but it surfaced more frequently recently. He smiled. Maybe he would get lucky and die of a heart attack at his desk, and the kids could carry him off on his shield. At worst, he would be forced to resign and put out to pasture. But in all likelihood, he would eventually decide to retire gracefully and slip into his dotage.

These thoughts were shelved, and he decided it was time to make dinner, turn on the television, and be entertained by worldly madness. Finally, after a simple supper and a dose of digital lunacy, he prepared his lessons. There was nothing earth-shattering in tomorrow’s plans, but maybe a stroke of brilliance would enter his mind, and those glorious teachable moments would line up to be delivered. Not to worry, though, as his kids were wonderful; everyone found time to smile.

Such was his evening routine. Eventually, he repacked his briefcase for the morning, preparing to call it a night. This was the hardest part of the day. For once in bed, faint spasms of loneliness would haunt his night. The worst was the lack of sleep. He would stare at the ceiling for a time, hoping his dreams were not completely insane or disturbing, then finally doze off only to bolt awake after an hour or two, his mind racing with every possible worry he could think of. This pattern would repeat itself through the night, and the morning could only be salvaged with the strongest possible coffee. It was often like this.

All teachers have their favourites, and he had his. There were twenty-four students in his class, and for as good a group as they were, three stood out. Michael was the leader, the most conscientious of the bunch. He was a quiet yet gifted boy who thrived on challenges, both physical and academic. Tall and athletic, he grasped concepts easily and excelled in all areas of school. He seemed driven, and occasionally, the teacher would worry that he seemed to carry a burden and needed to let loose a little more, like Willy. Willy was the class clown. With a mop of flaming red hair, freckles, and quick wit, he could spark laughter from the class. He loved to engage in the most inane banter with the teacher to try to get an emotional response. It never worked. A simple stare was enough to let Willy know that his repertoire of knock-knock jokes was as much as he would get away with. So he was bright enough never to cross any lines, but the sparkle in his eye revealed an imp who would probably become a challenge once the hormones of adolescence took hold.

Emily was the third. In the teacher’s eyes, Emily was an angel. A small girl with short brown hair and brown eyes, she flourished at school. She rivalled Michael academically, but more importantly, she loved to organize games at noon or initiate various causes to help others. Emily tended the class gerbil, Charlie. Charlie’s cage was always clean, his feeder full, and water replenished. Every minute of her class day held meaning and purpose, and the pride she took in her work gave him such hope. The teacher never had children of his own, but he thought he would pray for such a child if he could.

What amazed him most was that Emily came from the worst of circumstances. Her family was impoverished as her single mother was the sole provider and worked two menial jobs. She had two older siblings who did their best to help by working odd jobs after school, but still, there was never enough. The teacher wasn’t sure what became of the father but as Emily’s mother was missing two teeth and rarely ever made eye contact during parent/teacher interviews, he surmised it probably wasn’t good. Although Emily wore second-hand clothes, she was always well-kempt and was as well-liked by the rest of his class as any of the others. Her nurturing instincts and kindness never wavered, and she let it be known early on that she was going to be a nurse. The teacher watched over her. He provided a variety of class snacks at noon to make sure her lunch was complete, and the school counsellor was always informed if she seemed ill or missed class to ensure the family cared for her properly. And, of course, Christmas needs were taken care of as he sent an anonymous package of treats and gifts for the family just before the holidays began.

His kids, as he called them, kept his soul intact. The teacher would observe the inhumane actions of others, the callousness toward those in need, the deceit used in most relationships and, of course, the neglect inflicted on the children who were brought into the world by people with no concept of parenthood. He had witnessed this almost his whole life, and his jaded persona was only equalled by his instincts to avoid anguish. Like a stray cat, he observed his environment, and his vigilance kept him safe.

And if this was all this life had to offer, he would be happy with it.

Chapter 2

Spring had been unseasonably warm and mild, and this Tuesday was the same. Jesse was on his way home after skipping class this afternoon. Behind the wheel of his ride, he was without a care in the world. He and his set had spent the better part of this afternoon parked at the beach, each leaning against his car, chuffing on joint after joint. And as young men do, they did their best to appear the coolest in speech and dress. Although their designer shades hid bloodshot eyes, the idiotic giggling revealed a drug-induced stupor that only got worse with each hit. They spent hour after hour like this, ignoring the passing of the day until finally, the boredom set in, and it was time to find entertainment elsewhere.

Jesse was a high school senior who avoided class as much as possible, believing there were far more important pastimes to engage in. As far as Jesse was concerned, he had the world by the tail. His wealthy parents had gifted him his car on his sixteenth birthday, and his generous allowance kept him in the trappings of gangsta fashion that allowed him to strut like a prize peacock. Of course, with all this came the image and attitude to go with it. Never mind that at home, it was yes, Mommy and Daddy, out here, he was a badass. His parents had tried not to spoil him too much, deciding that a new import was adequate transportation and not too flashy. But Jesse always came, hat in hand, for more money and refurbished his wheels with all the high-performance extras to complete his package. The final touch was the sound system that could deliver his hip-hop to levels of ear bleed. Yes, young Jesse had it all.

Four miles from home, he rounded the corner that took him onto a street that passed his old elementary school. He had travelled this route a thousand times and knew he could drive it with his eyes closed. There was no other traffic as he passed the school, only a lone cyclist in the distance.

Emily had stayed late after class today. Her Easter weekend had been a good one. The family had been together with no one having to work, meaning they could enjoy each other’s company. But school was always her favourite place. Today, Charlie’s cage was dirty, and he needed attending. This was a joy for her. There were no other distractions, and he was the closest thing to a pet she’d ever had. Her teacher had needed to leave, but he said it was okay as the janitor was cleaning the hall outside. He would be there if she needed anything.

When Charlie’s needs were taken care of, she sat petting him for a bit, then placed him gently back into his cage and watched him race along the spinning wheel, going nowhere. Finally, she picked up her backpack and left to get her bike from the rack outside the school.

Jump Around was thumping in the car’s speakers when Jesse’s cell phone chimed the arrival of a text. He picked up the phone from the passenger seat and stared at the screen. The hypnotic beat of the music blocked the outside world while the cannabis distorted time and space. Jesse sailed down the street, oblivious to all else but the light and text in front of his eyes. As he leaned toward the passenger seat to read, he didn’t notice that his left hand holding the wheel was pulling slowly to the right.

In an instant, the impact sent the right side of the car lurching into the air. It came down, hit the curb, and continued forward until the back right wheel ran over what felt like a speed bump. Jesse bolted upright, pounding at pedals to stop, but his foot bounced off the brake and rammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car jolted forward with a horrible screeching sound that flared up from the pavement as trapped metal under his car grated on the pavement. The sound cut through the music, filling his ears until finally, the car came to a stop. He had no idea what had just happened, but his gut told him it wasn’t good.

Jesse turned the stereo off, staring forward, dazed and confused. He opened the car door, got out, and slowly walked to the rear of his car. What he saw stopped him in his tracks, his mouth open and dry. He was right; it wasn’t good. It was worse. The body of a child lay up against the curb. He looked up and around; there was a stillness in the air and no movement anywhere. The only sound was the throbbing in his head as his heart pounded. He shuffled toward the motionless figure. As he got closer, he saw long hair and a flowered shirt and realized he had hit a young girl.