Worthwhile

The crow king and his court.

          I have seen him walk along this shore so many times that my memory refuses to place a number to his habit anymore.

          Up and down blood-red sands rich with the warmth of the sun, he has left his bare foot prints behind as, often, the only testament that he exists. For he does not speak, no—he does not even make the barest sound, it is near oppressive to watch him do this every night.

          The sun lays heavy in the sky which is littered with black-winged dots that caw-caw-call his name with sweet love. He does not look up at them, nor down at his feet, nor to the side. He stares ahead and no doubt sees her face, calls her name in the vacuum of emotion he presents to us, remembers the touch of her skin against fingertips.

          He does not cry, my black lord, my shadowed heart. It simply is not something that he will allow us to see. Even in this, this ritual of broken dreams he forces himself to walk along—like barefoot dancers on glass—he will not let us see him weak.

          Oh, my black lord. My King.

          Long have I watched him these years, long have I seen the sun die in the reflection of his endless ink-dark eyes. Dreams of bravery and trite songs to sing of mourning to break him from his self imposed spell often careened through my head as I, as well as his followers, flew above him in proper escort.  I was never brave enough to say a word; I had not yet gathered the courage to me.

          This evening’s ritual began as it always did. He simply stopped in mid-scry as the sun lowered and made his way to the red-brick sands of the beach they once walked together upon.

          I do not know what courage took me, what wild compulsion I fell under at that moment. With a cry I had kept in my heart for as long as I have watched him echoing to pink clouds, I stretched my wings and began my spiraling decent from the air toward him.

          I had ruined the ritual by daring to shatter the stillness.

          He did not rush to turn his face upward to look at me. He was slow as ponderous glaciers that smothered the ground slowly; ice in my heart from the black gaze he held on me as he stopped in the sand completely, bringing the ironwood staff upright. I, in my audacity, landed upon it. As my black feet touched, I shook out my feathers calmly, as if simply shimmying out the last of settled flight-dander.

          Above me, all the cries had stilled. Perhaps they waited for him to kill me for daring to intrude. Across from me, I dare not look. I buried my beak in breast feathers to preen.

          I was thinking. I had to—words that must be said and carefully to him.

          “My lord,” I started. My hesitance colored my head and wing-words I gave him, making the many motions of my body as I communicated with him slightly jerky and less graceful than usual.

          He did not answer me. He waited. Beneath pitch down, I shivered a bit.

          “My lord, we wish to tell you something.” And above me came a flurry of distressed squawks, riotous craws, caws and near unsettled croaks as I had simply made myself the spokesmen of his entire guard, putting their heads on the same platter as they (and I) imagined mine upon.

          I chanced a peek at him through my preening. I could not tell what he thought of anything, only that he waited for me to continue.

          “My lord, we know that you mourn her. We do not take this from you. But you shut us out from your grief and sorrow. Are we not your children? Are we not your Blood-feathers? Let us cry where you cannot, let us take flight where you will not. Let us sing for you such mourning and carry your burden with you.  You hurt us when you close your heart to us, my lord. You do not walk this path alone, you never have.”

          The world seemed to me that it had paused entirely. I could not hear my crow-brothers and sisters wheeling above. I did not even hear the rustle of wind through guide-feathers. The ocean, distant behind him somehow dulled its licking roar against the sand and the sun seemed to hiccup in her fiery orange, lazy decent into the water.  It became so still that all I heard was my heart beat and the breath that kept trying to die a rattling death within my throat. Perhaps I will faint, I thought. Or he will kill me now in this swallowing hush.

          A finger, a single finger bathed half in ruddy sunset and looming shadows swept its way past my beak and across my head, landing gently to bury within the feathers at the back of my neck.

          “My brave little one,” he said. His voice was as the thunder of rain threatening on the horizon, dark boulders sent to tumble down mountains, the sweetest down on newly hatched chick’s breast. “You are very wise.”

          Startled, I bent my neck until the sharp of my beak touched the ironwood of his staff. My surprise only grew however, when he chuckled. A sound I shall never forget—to me it sounded as if he shook away dust from his vocal chords.

          “How could I forget my wings, mm?” And if he wanted an answer, I did not have one. It was all that I could do to stare at him in awe.

 

________________________

 

          He still walks at sunset. We still follow him. But these days I trail behind him on these new, pale, clawless feet and attempt to wobble along. I am not yet sure if his gift is something I appreciate. I miss my feathers, I miss the wind in them and the sky—but he no longer holds himself far away from us. He no longer mourns her alone, and there are times when he smiles at me—a wicked, thin-lipped, long sort of smile that makes me think it was very much worth it all.

          And that perhaps, I should be brave more often.

Author's Note

This story was written for a contest. The writing is wholly mine, but the inspiration is not. The contest was to write a story for an image provided by the lovely and talented Mercuralis at deviant art. If you are curious as to what the image was that inspired this piece, please feel free to visit: http://mercuralis.deviantart.com/art/Attending-the-Crow-King-revise-47871356.

Reviews

[Jim Bob]

"The world seemed to me that it had paused entirely. I could not hear my crow-brothers and sisters wheeling above. I did not even hear the rustle of wind through guide-feathers. The ocean, distant behind him somehow dulled its licking roar against the sand and the sun seemed to hiccup in her fiery orange, lazy decent into the water. It became so still that all I heard was my heart beat and the breath that kept trying to die a rattling death within my throat. Perhaps I will faint, I thought. Or he will kill me now in this swallowing hush."

This is an exquisite story, not only well wrought but very well thought. Great imagination!