"There is something in that tree," mentioned Ali Qushji, motioning stealthily with his beard, toward a birch tree behind him. "The bird in the tree is looking at your satchel. Why is that?"
Afanasy squinted towards the topmost tier of branches. He saw only twigs, and snow-covered leaves, and an ebony-colored raven that must have weighed seventy-five pounds, with a leather vest and some kind of tarnished brass collar. The raven looked away, trying not to look obvious.
"Foma, come here a moment, would you?" asked Afanasy, setting his kvas cup into the snow and wiping his hands on his shirt. Foma rolled out from under the truck and slowly sulked to Afanasy's feet. In one circular motion, Afanasy swept the underpaid whelp up by his ankles, pitched him carefully across the meadow and knocked the raven from its perch, picked up his kvas cup again and delicately sipped the last, overly sweetened drops.
There was an intermittent cracking of branches as Foma ricocheted down through the tree's limbs and disappeared into a snowbank at its base. For a span of two frosty breaths, all was quiet. Then the snow was disturbed again as the whelp threw himself onto his feet. "Hey, there's blackberries in here!" he shouted, and the raven's feathers began to slowly decorate the white snow around him.
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