In the dream, Davey watched the log rolling at great speed down the river. He was utterly powerless to stop it. And the stupid boy just stood there. On the slippery trunk of the stupid tree in the middle of the raging water. Standing there like an idiot, just shouting at him. Davey waved frantically, motioning for Billy to duck, but the log launched into the air over the fallen oak and caught the boy sharply on the side of the head.

His pathetic scream was cut short and the small, limp body was seized by the rapids.

Davey choked back a panicked sob and unhooked the coil of rope from his shoulder.

Dropped the chainsaw.

Broke into a run.

Billy knew this. He did not know how he knew. His small, six year-old body was being carried down the swollen river, blood pouring from a large wound on the side of his head. His left leg was broken, and he had inhaled a deadly amount of water.

Yet he clearly saw the old man running alongside him, overtaking him, whirling the rope above his head like one of the cowboys off the telly. Davey was shouting, but he could not make out the words. Of course not: he was unconscious. The bird flew close to his head. It was quiet now, watching him intently.

They say you cannot die in dreams, yet here he was.

Let me help you, boy, the bird said, her shrill voice suddenly clear inside his head.

The water around him became sticky and dark. He was no longer moving, rather mired in a bed of treacle. The sound somehow remained, although since the world had paused there should have been silence. It was there though, like a big foggy shape surrounding him, rather than any sort of sound form the real world. He imagined that if anyone had been speaking, he would have heard them clearly. From above, he saw shapes in the water around the little boy. Around him. Growing, taking form. Faces in the murky waters. Young faces. Frightened faces. All looking at him, coming for him.

Then the voices began:

Can you get us out?

Yes, yes can you get us out, get us out, can you, will you let us out?

They do not let us out.

We will be here.

Small hands broke the surface. Billy watched in shock, helpless.

The bird morphed into a small thick cloud and cushioned his head. It expanded and enveloped his body until he could no longer see out of his own eyes, just the view from far away. A tiny body in a large river, crashing towards a row of sharp rocks in a whirlpool of red pain. Hands clawing at his body.

We will be here until we die, and we do not die. We will be here.

Just as the river pulled him under, the world began to move again. He saw the rope catch his arm, coiling slowly around him as if it had all the time in the world. The Shadow was a physical thing then, hovering around his limp body like a swarm of black flies. As he watched, the flies streamed into his eyes, ears, mouth and nose. His fingertips tingled and the Shadow filled him completely, his eyes turning into blackened orbs while Davey tried to wake him.

Then he was ashore and waking, spluttering, spitting out the filthy taste of pipe tobacco and dirty, mud-flavoured water from Davey's surprisingly efficient CPR. Everything was back to normal. Stars twinkled in the clear sky. The water flowed again. The river still roared, but the Shadow had left him. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mess of damp twigs and feathers. His frozen fingers were too numb to move, but he handed it wordlessly to Davey and watched the old man inspect the little bundle.

There was a terrible moment of silence, while Billy tried not to whimper at the pain in his leg and temple. He looked around for the blackbird, fearing high pitched retribution and saw her perched on a nearby fence post, watching with an anxiety comparable to his own.

Three tiny beaks cautiously appeared over the side of the nest. Billy began to laugh.

The little boy and the old man clutched at each other, roaring with laughter as the blackbird hopped down to see to her children.

'Thank you.' she said.