The Clockwork Crow

I’ve always had a fascination for other animals. While God may have bestowed upon us a beautiful large head, he gave the other creatures of the world equally important and exotic features. As a kid, I would beg my parents to take me to the zoo every day, where I would marvel at the animals. I would stare into the eyes of the lions, watch as the snakes slithered, beat my chest with the gorillas, and gaze up at the magnificent splendor of the elephants. However, despite my deep love for animals, none ever loved me. I would only walk across the street, meaning no harm to anyone, but the pigeons and sparrows would clear my way. When I went to the pet store, the animals all ducked into the corners of their cages at the sight of me. I didn’t know why those creatures I loved thought me so vile. It pained throughout my childhood years, though I never lost my fondness for the creatures.

I graduated high school at the age of fourteen and pursued a degree in zoology. Despite my severe intelligence, I actually got my PHD a year later than normal. I couldn't conduct research, observe animals, or do much of anything when they all ran when I was within ten feet of them. By the time I had graduated, I became somewhat well known. I was the man with a doctorate in a zoology whom animals hated. It was an oxymoron, one that quickly spanked some amount of notoriety in my name. However, that same fame also hindered me in pursuit of a job. No university would hire me as a professor. They would become a laughingstock! Hiring a teacher to teach zoology even though he’s never been anywhere near an animal! I understood the reasoning, but I was still hurt.

After a year of traveling the country in search of an occupation, I eventually returned home to my parents. My dad was a watch maker, and his creations often sold for upwards of ten thousand dollars. My mother was a housewife, who took care of our home and my little sister. When I came back, it was a wintry Saturday in New York, and I shivered in the cold weather. Most of my recent excursions had been across the warmer US states, and though I had been raised in the chilly climate, I had grown accustomed to heat.

When I entered the apartment, I couldn’t hear much of anything. As I looked around it became clear that nobody was home. My father, mother, and sister may have gone out or something. Yet, as I stared out the huge floor to ceiling windows, I spotted something peculiar. Right outside, was a crow. It had a beady black eye, and huge dark wings. Yet, the strangest thing about the bird was its presence. It dove downwards onto my balcony, eyes still focused on me. I opened the balcony door and approached the creature, wonder sparkling in my eyes. An animal. An alive, non-human creature was tolerating my presence.

As I watched, the crow came closer to me. He was fearless and had an almost arrogant look to him, as though he thought he was smarter than me. I stared at him and he held my gaze. There was something sentient, intelligent about him. We looked at each other for a long moment, a silence filling the normally bustling city of NY. I sensed a connection, a heart of a true friend within that bird. Not a relationship of pet and owner, but of confidante and friend.

The crow was the first to break the silence. He turned his beak upwards, and cocked his black head, cawing at the same time. It was as though he was asking for food.

Chuckling, I held up a finger and went back inside to fetch a piece of bread. While I tore chunks from a loaf of Wonder bread, I heard sudden cries. They were the cries of a crow.

I rushed back outside, only to find a ginormous eagle. It was almost majestic, its huge golden wings outstretched. Its beak was wickedly sharp and buried in the crow’s black feathers, from which a pool of scarlet liquid flowed. The bread dropped from my hands as I ran towards the eagle, hands flapping as I frantically tried to scare it away. My display was unnecessary though, and the bird took one look at me before flying away.

I kneeled at the side of the crow’s body. His wings were torn, bent into horrible, unnatural angles. As I lifted him into my arms, I could see one eye was missing. His legs were also completely broken, snapped like twigs by the larger animal. As I continued to examine the damage, blood soon covered my balcony. The blood seemed to originate at the left part of the crow’s chest. His heart.

As I felt for the pulse, by the crow’s neck, I could feel nothing. However, I was not going to give up. I loved this bird. I had only been with him for a few minutes, but there was a connection. It was meant to be. I, whom animals hated, had found a companion. He was not going to die.

I rushed into the apartment and took the crow straight to my dad’s office. From a young age, I too had been interested in the mechanical wonders of watch making. An apt learner, I became quite skilled at the art. However, after my curiosity and interest began to wane, I turned my mind to other stuff, such as zoology. Yet, I was a genius after all. I never forgot.

My heart pounding, sweat pouring down my skin, I quickly began to work. I assembled shining bronze gears together, fitted into a small half inch canister. Little bezels dotted the sides of the contraption, additional switches to change speed. My hands worked fast, as every second was a second blood wasn’t going to the brain. I attached short pipes to the side where arteries and vessels would go. Once, in college I had read about a crown’s anatomy. Every single detail was etched in my brain.

I finished the clockwork heart exactly seventy eight seconds after death. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before plunging pliers into the crow’s chest. I used the pliers to widen the hole, just enough so that I could insert the makeshift heart. The moment it was fitted in the ticking began. I grabbed a needle and quickly stitched up the crow’s skin, another skill I learned when I was in art class at the age of seven. As I held my hand against the newly sealed chest, I could feel nothing. I waited. He lost too much blood. The one animal who loved me. Who accepted me. He’s dead.

A feeble heartbeat pulsed under my fingertips. I screamed in joy, fist pumping upwards. My work was still not done though.

I crafted long bronze strands, strong yet flexible. I twisted them across a thin iron pole, forming a structure for new wing bones. I did a similar process for the legs, focusing more on the iron supports, since the feet must support more weight. I inserted the pieces in carefully, only one a day. The bird needed rest in between.

A month after the attack, the crow finally got up. I was in the process of creating a sort of replacement eye, one that could not work of course. Something to take the place of that awful hollow, similar to a human’s glass eye. It was a beautiful thing, the dial of a watch, time ticking mechanically. It matched with the enforced metals and leather that covered the bird’s wings and body.

It began with a twitch. The crow’s legs began to shake and he slowly got up, on his side. His feet could not yet support his body’s full weight. As he tried to right himself, the ticking of his heart became louder. A continuous beat to remind him of the horror he had to go through.

He slept through the whole next day, spent from his previous activity. It was during this time I attached the crow’s eye. He was whole again, or at least as whole as I could make him.

When he finally woke for good, fully recovered, I was no happier than before. The crow acted as a mere machine. I saw no life, no intelligence in him. He was only living and breathing due to the ticking heart he held. He was but a mere creation, a sad attempt of mankind’s to create life from where there was death.

I sobbed when he began to fly around the house. My heart ached with misery and sorrow. It was worse to see this awful reminder of what had been, an empty image of the animal I’d loved. His wings heavily flapping around the room in timed beats, a machine not a creature. When I held him to my chest, I could feel no warmth, only the coolness of metal.

I underwent this living torture of seeing a warped and changed version of the crow for another few months. Everyday I would reassure myself with the fact that he was at least alive. But, he was never truly alive. That day, when I came back after getting groceries I stared into the crow’s eyes. The remaining beady black one only stared back. The jolt of energy I had felt the first time I glimpsed that eye was no longer there. That connection, that intelligence, that personality was gone. The life in him was gone.

I screamed into the air. What had I done to deserve such pain? Such agony? The one being who loved me as much as I did was dead. Nothing I did could ever change that.

Tears pooled from my eyes, a downpour of emotions, as I grabbed the crow. I held him in my hand, feeling his beating clockwork heart. I sobbed, eyes closed as I squeezed the bird’s chest. It began to caw, a mechanical sound, a screaming siren. My tears flowed heavier, but my grip grew even harder. Even his caws began to die out.

I sank to my knees as the clockwork heart crushed beneath my fingers.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

And then, slowly

Silence.