This
story adapted from the version found in
The Sandman no. 40, by
Neil Gaiman, as told by
Cain and
Abel to
Daniel,
Eve,
Gregory, and
Matthew.
Rooks are the most social of the
corvidae. There's a
mystery about rooks, one that not even
ornithologists have been able to understand, though they
birdwatch themselves blind. It is from this mystery that the the
collective noun we use for
rooks comes. A
Parliament of
Rooks. There's a
field.
Empty. And suddenly the sky is filled with
birds, rustling
feathers,
musty stink of droppings and
parasites,
blackening the field entirely. Almost. There is an empty space in the center of the field, with all beaked heads turned attentively to that expanse of cleared
grass. In that space sits one lone
rook. It caws loudly,
shrill and
hoarse, continuously, echoing out over the silent throng.
Thousands of black beady eyes watch it
soliloquize. From time to time, they call out, as if they're asking questions. Like a trial. Like a parliament.
This can go on for hours. From
dusk till dawn, or vice versa. Then
one of two things happen. On some signal, which
humans watching have been
unable to identify, either all birds
take wing all at once, leaving the central bird alone in the field, or,
in unison, they fall on it and
peck it to death.
I am purposely leaving Abel's secret out of this wu, in order to preserve the integrity of the mystery.