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Wednesday, November 12, 2003
13:55 
Something old, something new
Remember Critical Mass? I really like the girl in that story. Maura has a little Stortrooper on her blog. You can't get those any more - or, at least, last time I tried the site had gone. I have got one on the hard drive somewhere, but it's not really me. My sympathetic magic works better in prose, anyway.
If anyone saw the raven land on the keep-left bollard just before the junction, no one reacted. No one other than the female cycle courier, who was half-standing astride her custom-painted black and silver Il Pompino fixed on the offside of a red Fiat Punto, right foot still clipped in, gloved hands relaxed on the bar tops. She turned her head, face half-hidden by iridium finish lenses, just enough to look at the bird without losing sight of the traffic lights. A corner of her mouth twitched upwards in a slight smirk. The bird cocked its head to one side and regarded her, beak gaping soundlessly in an evidently meaningful expression. If she thought that there was something unusual in the spectacle of a large, black corvid landing on a piece of street furniture in the middle of the road, in the middle of a thriving market town granted city status by virtue of a very fine cathedral, she did not show it. As the lights changed, however, she saluted; one hand rising to the futuristic, generously vented Met helmet in a slightly mocking gesture, then returned her attention to the road and the rest of the traffic and set off at a brisk pace before the Punto had managed to engage first gear. Had an observer been looking closely he might had seen a reflection of her silver lycra-clad figure, hunched over the bars with courier bag on her shoulders, vanishing in the beady blackness of the bird's right eye.
The raven closed its beak with a quiet snap, seemed distracted for a moment by a rogue piece of newspaper tumbling across the tarmac in the breeze ripping through the undercarriages of passing vehicles. It was sticking slightly to the road, which was still damp from that morning's heavy downpour, and eventually slapped into the kerb with all the ceremony of a doctor smacking a newborn and stuck there, soaking in a puddle. At that moment the air became prickled with rain, another deluge about to be birthed from the gravid, elephant-grey clouds overhead. The raven hunched its shoulders and croaked to itself, a strangely human gesture that needed no translation, then launched itself into the air and flapped upwards with powerful beats of its wings.
The rain came down; the city grey, impersonal and implacable in the wake of that brief interlude, leaving only the dreary faces of sleepwalking shoppers and the mechanical shushing of cars on wet roads.
* * *
The courier comes to a sudden stop outside a tall Edwardian building with a brass plate on the door. She leans the bike against the wrought iron fence, makes a peculiar gesture towards it with her left hand as she turns towards the door, lips barely forming unvoiced words, left hand remaining in place until her lips stop moving. Her right index finger seeks out one of the buttons on the intercom and she answers the question posed by the metallic, disembodied voice with practised rapidity and an undeniable Scots accent. The door buzzer sounds, there is the click of the lock disengaging, and gloved hands push the door open.
She trots down a set of stairs, unclipping a buckle at her waist and swinging the courier bag round. By the time she has reached the doors to the office at the bottom she has taken an A4 size padded envelope from the bag and the reflective shades have been removed, revealing startling green eyes, because eye contact with the client is important. A grey-haired receptionist signs for the package and then the courier is back up the stairs, bag replaced high on her back with waist strap fastened, the bike waiting where she left it, protected against theft by incantation and also by virtue of being fixed wheel and therefore somewhat hazardous for the unwary.
Meet Jessica Crow Anderson: cycle courier, campaigner, activist, shapeshifter, occultist - probably in that order, known simply as Corbie or Crow to her friends. On the rare occasion she is not to be found in cycling shoes, and assuming she is in her base form, she stands with the top of her head five feet seven inches above whatever surface on which she happens to be standing. She has, as has already been mentioned, startling green eyes. Her hair is clippered short enough to be acceptable to the harshest US Marine Corps drill sergeant, but if it were longer it would be black. Her distinguishing features include a large raven tattoo on the small of her back, a runic design just below the C7 vertebra, a Pictish symbol on her left deltoid, a ragged line of seven, white, circular scars running from left hip to right shoulder, and, unless she has just stepped out of the shower, an oily chainring imprint on her right calf somewhere. She weighs around one hundred and forty pounds no matter how much she eats and is much stronger than she looks. At this precise point in time she is almost a full year past her 30th birthday, but her eyes look far older and her face far younger, giving her the appearance of someone who has always and will always look that way. She is sporting a bruise on the side of her jaw, complemented by a nice set of road rash on her right arm from an altercation with white van man earlier that day. Despite appearances, he came off worst, and the bike was unmarked.
Seemingly with almost Taoist lack of effort, she threads her way through the seething hordes who have failed, as always, to spot where the pedestrianised area of the High Street stops and are now meandering about with tunnel vision brought on by the rain and the hoods and umbrellas they are using in an effort to stay dry. She hangs a right into a tiny cobbled alley, using knees and elbows as suspension, stops and knocks on a yellow door. When it opens a few seconds later there is a waft of patchouli oil and sandalwood incense. The portly woman in the doorway is dressed like Harrods' idea of a Peruvian asylum seeker. To her right, hanging on the wall in the corridor, is a mirror in a carved green frame rendered to look like ivy with a green man face at the top. Underneath it, on the floor next to an untidy pile of sandals, are an African djembe and a didgeridoo. There is a sticker on the door reading "Beware of the dragon!" and the faint tinkle of windchimes sounds from somewhere in the house.
Corbie runs through the usual announcement patter as she takes her shades off. The woman at first seems taken aback when the lenses are removed, and then to forcibly assert herself, as if she is saying to herself "I am woman; hear me roar. " Despite the rain, which is now pelting down out of the sky with a sound like a herd of a thousand horses galloping through shallow water, the woman does not invite the courier to step inside but remains protectively ensconced on the perimeter of her property, just inside the door. Corbie merely smiles politely and presents the PDA with the touch sensitive screen the courier company uses for collecting signatures, and then hands over the A5 envelope that is wrapped in a double layer of tin foil and a piece of green silk. The green silk is the giveaway; Corbie would have advised her to forgo the magical efforts and stop buying designer hippy crap if she wanted more money in the bank, but it is none of her concern and so she just yanks her Gore-Tex over her head and heads to the next drop.
Attached to the strap of her Timbuk2 courier bag by a Camelbak comms holder, the radio blurts into life. She's not wearing a helmet radio today. "Got a priority pick up Zone 2 West, Corbie. " The words are garbled.
She doesn't slow down, but takes one hand off the bars to press the button on the radio. "I have six on board and a monkey on my back. Who do you think I am? Nicole bloody Cook? "
"You're faster than her. " There is laughter. "Get a move on. You might want to know that they're giving away doughnuts at the student shop by the station for your way back. "
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