Andy Crow's Fantastical Summer

The Crows (Part 2)

THE PAGES OF THE BOOK began to blow mid-air as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the center page. It fluttered in the air, sending jets of sparkling glitters everywhere, then settled itself on the table in front of Andy. Mouth hanging open, he couldn't explain, even to himself, why he wasn't making a fuss. His anticipation was at its peak, but his expectations pitched down, looking at the empty page—with nothing to see but a brittle sheaf of ancient-old paper. The fact was that even though he knew the book was blank, he kept picking up and turning the pages as though it was a story he wanted to finish.

Slowly, his eyes parted with the book to look at Aunt Carol blankly as if he had been given a terrible joke. "It has nothing on it."

Then, Carol laughed a soft, girlish laugh. She pulled the book slightly towards her and ran her newly-manicured fingers on its rough and gritty texture. "Oh, it has. But it's not just any book like what you think. It's an old album consisting of photographs by the Crow family—generations after generations. But I want you to look away or at least cover your eyes first, dear nephew."

"But why?"

"Because in order to fully reveal its contents, it first needs to recognize the blood as being one of the members of the Crows," Carol said in a soft, silky voice. "I might need to cut myself to do so."

Andy's eyebrows knitted into a tight line. He was not afraid of blood, but the fact that his aunt needed to hurt herself was an unwelcoming idea. "Well, I don't think you should cut yourself that much," he said in a tone quite reprimanding, and Carol couldn't help but laugh. Andy pointed at the blue butterfly brooch pinned to the ribbon on her chest. "But maybe just a small prick can do."

"Right you are!" Carol smiled broadly, her face lighting with both realization and amazement. "How come I haven't thought of it. Silly me!" She unhooked the pin from the frilly ribbons of her dress and, with a swift movement that Andy hadn't caught how it was done, pricked her index finger, and a small pool of blood oozed from the tiny punctured hole of her skin. She let the blood drip and dropped a blot onto the open page of the album.

The blood shone brightly on the yellowing paper for a second and then vanished as though it was being sucked into the page. At last, something happened. Andy sat straight and leaned closer to the album, almost pressing his nose on the paper.

Oozing back out of the page were lines in various strokes turning into shapes as if someone from the inside was drawing a sketch using a charcoal pencil.

It was a moment or two before he registered the somehow familiar faces in the sketched photograph of a family of four. Beneath it, words were written in a neat cursive: The Crow Family: left to right, Mortimer, holding five-year-old Andrew, seven-year-old Carol, and Adeline.

With his attention caught, Andy examined the picture more carefully. Carol and Andrew's father, Mortimer, was a good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle in this sketched photograph. The mother, Adeline, had jet black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved quality about it. Compared to the soft demeanor of her husband, she gave off a strong and daunting aura with her dark penetrating eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose. Young Carol shared the same playful and carefree look like her father, her eyes disappearing from her bright smile. She dressed so fancily as ever, wearing her high-necked ball dress and beaded pearls sticking into her twin-braided hair. Meanwhile, the young version of his dad, Andrew Crow, had surprised him the most. It wasn't with the way he was dressed in a lacy collared jacket and shoulder-length hair; it was how his utter displeasure was written over his face—lips curled, obsidian eyes hooded out of boredom, and crossed over his chest.