The Crow

Ever since she was little, her mother used to call her munja.

Munja, for the wild winds and storms that ravaged the Peaks, cloaking the mountains in thick snow and clouds. No sight of green could be seen for miles and trees were but ghastly skeletons, memories of what they once were. An endless white of rolling hills and slumbering mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, and the Ward was no different. Cloaked in skeleton trees and fog, their home sat on in a clearing, east to a frozen lake, and far beneath the surface, fish still swam circles.

Poems and songs depicted of a world of green, an oasis, but it had been hundreds of years and Sanvi had half a mind to think that it must be myth--but the say the word aloud meant treason, and treason meant punishment. The punishment, she’d seen on the edges of town, old haunts with twisted minds. Some were but ash.

The careful etchings of deliberate hands found on the walls of caves on the edges of the Ward seemed straight from fantasy, like the times when Astarte allowed the heavens to be open and the sky was blue and the earth was soft. Days when storms, munja, were not eternity and reality wrapped into one.

Days like this, the Day of Light, were held in remembrance of the day that world had ended. It happened every twice a year, and each time, the Ward would gather around fires and tell their tales and drink away. The town would seem alive, the cobblestones and ice awake with fire. They would pray to the gods and listen to each other and pretend. The children would go asleep happy, stomach filled with food and their heads with song.

An old traveler came down just for this occasion, ever since Svani could remember, and he was like a celebrity among the people of the Ward.

“There were plants that grew roots from the ground,” Andel continued, the roar of the fire behind wrapping shadows against the walls of the home. The old traveler appeared gaunt and narrow in the light, the angles of his face too sharp, his eyes inky black, making the children huddle a little closer and hold on a little tighter to each other. “People, just like us, would grow these plants for food. They made their living through them, and Astarte blessed the soil and her people. But the people thought they did not need her. A new spirit rose up, a terrible, wicked creature, who went by the name…” Andel paused, and his voice lowered, “Ephraem--”

At this, the children cried out, recognizing the name, as the story was told countless times. Sanvi could recite it in her sleep. At times, she caught herself mouthing the words, and across from her, Zarog caught her eye and amusement flickered across his aquiline features.

“Ephraim wanted power,” Andel whispered. The children leaned in. “He wanted the blessings, the sacrifices, and made himself to be their savior. He led the people astray, and their plants began to die. The people starved, and they cursed Ephraem. Ephraem the Vicious unleashed all his shadows and creatures of night and they ravaged the world with fire and storms.”

As if the fire heard it’s tale, sparks flew behind him and the children squeaked in fright. Sanvi, leaning against the tree, started, but Zerag caught her eye and frowned. Her jaw tightened and she remained where she was, her eyes seeking for a familiar shock of white blonde hair among the children. She relaxed when she saw that Laef was there, as wrapped up in the story as anybody. A story she could hardly believe, yet understood.

“Our beloved Astarte, for her love for us, chained Ephraem the Vicious to stop him, but his creatures--the Terrors-- were still on land. Astarte, so tired, could only use her last strength to send the world to slumber, unleashing her ice and snow spirits to blanket the earth, these thick clouds and storms of snow to hide her people. Thus,” said Andel, “...the Peaks were created. The Day of Light, with the stars falling from the sky and when liquid flame come, are times when we remember what She has done for us.”  

Alden’s eyes flickered over the children and onto the recruits. His expression was light, but his eyes were grim as he withdrew into his cloak and set the squabbling children free. The priests waited, their white fur robes heavy as the children ran to them. “May Astarte bless us, and the Sentry as they travel far and wide. Bless even the forgotten ones.”

She’d heard the saying before, and each time, the words sent chills running down her back. The children ventured away, following the priests and family to the Sight, where the flames would soon be seen. A group of seekers, part of the Sentry, were currently out in the wastelands of the Peak, without a village between them. She gave a quick prayer to the unknown gods that seemed too far away to hear her.

Zarog’s little brother came bounding over, his hair a stark white in comparison to his dark fur of his coat.

“Z!” Laef burst when he saw them. He had his mother’s gentle eyes. “I didn’t know you were here!”

“Of course I was, kich, how else am I going to keep you safe?” Zarog ruffled his brother’s hair in a way that sent a stab through Svani’s chest. She looked away, just as Laef’s eyes sought hers and he smiled in that effortless, terrible way he had; with innocence and adoration bright in his eyes, brighter than the stars. She couldn’t help but smile back.

“I have a present for you, Ni,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “But we have to hurry!”

“What about the Flames?” Svani’s hand closed around the little boy’s and she glanced at Zarog when he began to tug insistently.

“I see them every year!” Laef struggled against her and she laughed as his boots dug into the snow. “Let’s go! This is important!” He huffed when they didn’t budge, matching smiles on their faces. “It’s not funny!”

“Wasn’t the last present just a giant dung pile?” Svani pointed out. “They made us do outhouse cleanings for a week.” What was worse was that one of the other recruits, Peytr kept flinging horse s**t all over the newly cleaned and scrubbed floors, and she had to get back and do it all over again. The other recruit was surely the Devil’s right hand man.

“This is better, promise.  Z, please!” Laef turned his eyes onto Zarog, and Zarog broke. She’d seen this in him before--a normally straight laced, rule abider, would follow into traps that they both knew were no good. Svani could do it once or twice, but Laef, with those starry eyes, could lead an angel into hell.

Zarog ushered them along, nodding at the exchange in recruits as they passed. It was Peytr and Roe, their furs blending with the backdrop of night. Peytr’s eyes caught Svani’s and leered in the way that she was used to--but it still felt like a hot iron poke going down. Roe pulled Zarog aside, and said something she couldn’t hear. He nodded, and they went their way.

Zarog glanced at the sky, pushing his little brother ahead. “We can’t be too long, then. Show us before you get us all into trouble--and before the Sight is finished.” To Svani, Zarog said, “We have patrol this week. Eastern front again.”

That was no surprise. She grimaced, watching the other recruit’s retreating forms with a sickening sensation at the pit of her stomach.

“I never get into trouble,” Laef whispered to Svani.

“Tell that to the Chief,” Svani replied and Laef giggled in reply. She did not smile.

Zarog held a lantern in the air, the little flame strong in the cold as they moved to the other side of the town. Snow flurries had kicked up, sending blasts of ice into their faces, and Svani knew the Flames were in the sky, like she knew that her heart was beating. The world turned into a strange eery glow, with luminescent snow and the trees seemed stronger, heavier in the world. The sky was tinged in colors of greens and vibrant hues of sapphire, colors that she could never imagine and would never see again. Even away from the Sighting, they could see the edges of the Flames dancing across the horizon, where the clouds did not meet, even when the branches of trees and the smoke from chimneys should have blocked her view.

She was not allowed to the Sighting. Of course, that had never stopped her in the past years. Sometimes, she snuck in with a disguise. Other times she climbed the trees just to glimpse the moving flames. Each time, the effect was breathtaking. And right after, a Blessing would occur. The old cow who was thought to be dying, gives birth. Or the sap in the trees would come out smooth and clear. A couple who have been trying receive twins. They blessed Astarte each time for the gifts they received.

Yet each Flame held a knowing in her bones that something was happening. A stirring in her blood, in her soul, the hair at the back of her neck rising and the way she began to feel uneasy--

“Over there!” Laef released her hand and burst into a stumbling run across the stoned oaths,

Zarog and Svani glanced at each other--his look apprehensive, and hers a grin. They had a strange way of wordless communication, his expressions speaking far more than his voice. He was worried. Of course, Zarog was always worried, even more so after they both joined the Sentry .

“There’s nothing to fight,” she had told him. “The Sentry ...it’s an honor. We fight and keep our strength from the Rouits, but we’re allied with them. There’s nothing to fear. This is the Ward.”

What she meant was: there’s nothing else for them to do.  Her, the munja, and Zarog, the nalazce, or seeker, seemed like opposites--but together, they had the same plan.

They wanted to be among the greatest because without it, they would be nothing. There were two kinds of Sentries--travelers and protectors. The ones people frowned upon were travelers, but the protectors, what Zarog wanted, was a great and powerful position. Coveted--but to Svani, unnecessary.

The Ward, their home, was safe. It always had seemed strong and big, people with smiles and fire houses scattered throughout, and homes lit with little flames. It was not a wasteland, like the Peaks were said to be. The Ward worked hard to be something.

The Sentry trained to go on expeditions, traveling across the tundra to find new expansion and meat, but they weren’t experienced enough. They were still trainees, stuck doing their rounds and making sure kids didn’t run off--which Laef was exactly doing.

Zarog had always been a stickler for rules. The Sentry  was law, it was reason, and it was just. His dream was to travel with the Sentry, come home with a giant stag on his bag, ready for a feast, become the hero in the tales that they grew up on. His dream was to fight and protect and provide for the Ward. He wanted to be somebody, and he was paranoid that something was out to grab it from him.

He told her, one day, out of the blue: “There’s more to it.”

They’d been lying in their hammocks after their rounds and border patrol, as well as training. Her limbs were black and blue, and there was a mean scrape on her ribs that rubbed painfully against her shirt.

Young girls and boys, either elected or volunteering, were put into training and the recruits for the year were set. After many years of training, they were experienced and became the Sentry. The recruits were assigned partners throughout this training, comrades, and Zarog was hers. She couldn’t be more grateful for that small blessing--either by faith or luck, she didn’t know.

They were laying in their hammocks in the fire rooms scattered throughout the Ward. It was a small hut, a cave burrowed on the side of a mountain with leaking lamps and a rickety door that shivered as the wild wind spirits ram amok. They’d need to make the fire rooms better, she thought. Add more furs for the Sentry to sleep better with. She could feel a draft of cold wind against her cheek.

Here, the spell of things seemed slow. Things were not reality, not yet. In the dark, she could imagine a different identity of herself, for Zarog, for Laef. For her mother.

She hated the dark.

“There’s more,” he repeated, and she gazed up into the dark ceiling, his voice echoing against the walls. “The Sentry, it’s this...idea, of greatness. You can choose to be a shoemaker or a furs dealer, or a butcher. You can be a priest, a teacher, anybody you want to be. But us, we chose to be part of the expedition. We are part of the protectors…” he paused. “But from what? Do you feel it? Something is happening. And we don’t know it. The Chief and the Sachem don’t even know it.”

She didn’t understand him, then. She still didn’t, not entirely, but sometimes she thought about the Chief, with his furs and his eyes, so similar to Zarog’s. One, cruel with the turning of age and desperation. The other, with unbridled hope and fervor. Uncle and nephew so similar, yet both detested the other.

Zarog didn’t bring it up again, but she thought of it now, as Zarog followed his little brother, and she wondered.

“Here!” Laef’s voice tore her away from her thoughts, and she ventured deeper, toward a flame house that stood straight and proud against the backdrop of white mountains and silver trees, green in the limelight of the Light. “Hurry before it goes away!”

“Laef?” Zarog called. His hand stilled to his stone dagger clipped to his side. “Wait for us.”

“Z,” said Svani. She took the lamp from him, and he slowly unsheathed his dagger.

“This is a Sentry house,” Zarg murmured.

“Why haven’t we seen--” started Svani, but Zarog held up a hand. He inched closer, ducking into a crouch as they watched the light inside the flame house flicker with movement. His boots crunched in the snow as he moved and pressed lightly against the door, flames burning inside and lighting up the small lodging with an orange glow.

Inside, scarcely decorated with furs in a corner, a table, and a tub of dried food, Laef waited.

And by his side, wrapped in cloth and near a burgeoning fire, a creature.

“Look!” Laef said proudly. “I found him. Ni, you like crows, don’t you? That’s what we are. You always say that’s where we came from.”  

If there was ever a time to by symbolic, there was one. The crow was small and looked half dead, its wings still fluffed, beak too big for its gray body--an ugly, dirty thing, held as if treasure in the hands of a little boy.

No one had seen crows since Last Light. And Zarog didn’t know she still told Laef the old tales.

Zarog took a deep breath, his face unreadable and determined, and Svani  knew what he was going to say.

Immediately, she jumped into response and stepped closer, so that she could study the crow closer. Laef offered the ugly thing to her, like an offering. “Where did you find him?”

“I was in class and heard a noise,” he stated. “Take him!”

That was the last thing she wanted to do. She took it anyway, and felt the small bones of wings and legs, its body trembling with either fear or cold.

Her first thought frightened her, as it always did: that she could, with one breath, break the bird in two. It was so fragile, like thin ice, and she was a sledgehammer in the making.

Her second thought was that it was cold, and she held it to her breast, its head darting to and fro, looking around in disarray. It squawked loudly.

“Laef, why haven’t you told the Sachem?”

“They’ll want to cage him! See what he really is,” said Laef. At this, Zarog shot Svani a dark look. “But he’s so small and they’ll make him really upset.”

The crow stopped fretting and lay in her hands. Her heart hurt. “You know,” she said gently, avoiding Zarog’s eyes. “Those stories--”

“--are not real. They’re just fairytales conjured by a madman. The real story is in Astarte. You know this, Laef. This bird is not magicked or blessed--it is a bird. There is no power. It’s just what is appears to be: a rarity.”

Laef looked torn. His brows furrowed tight. “But...Svani said--”

Svani knew what she had said--she could hear the words herself, late at night, when Laef couldn’t sleep and she spun the stories of her childhood. Words lost and remembered, of the Lord of Crows.  

“Svani knows better,” said Zarog with an edge in his voice, “than to tell you lies.” He shook his head. “The bird has to be gone by morning--dead or released, I don’t care. It is a symbol of treason, and the Sachem would be forced to punish. I do not want them to happen.”

The beloved Sachem; judges and Lawmakers of the Ward. Her earliest memories of them were her mother--spitting at them. It was vivid in her mind. Her words were barbed and something slammed into little Sanvi’s chest, something heavy, and she’d opened her mouth to scream.

“He’s Svani’s,” Laef insisted. “And mine. I want to keep him.”

But not here. All the crows were dead. Why was this one different? “The Sentry house is public. If you wish to keep him--”

Zarog grimaced. “No. I won’t have you and my brother put in harm’s way for treason, especially for some little bird.”

She felt it again, this fragility of bird against her chest, the warm of its little body returning. Its eyes were blinking and large and black, a mirror of ink. Its feathers were soft and it smelled like winter and sap.

Suddenly, Svani had the keen sensation that she  was cradling something else. Something only she remembered--but she knew the punishment for treason would be harsh: exile. When the Chief came, the stories of the Old were gone. In its place were of Astarte, were of Ephraem, and that was the beginning and the end.

To be a Sentry, one must be able to do all else for the Ward. And the Chief was the Ward.

She turned around, pressing the creature tight against her, and snapped its neck.