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The view from my cage is breathtaking. I hang from a gibbet, overlooking the river. The setting sun sparkles on its surface, a brilliant cascade of rainbow hues that hides the trees on the farther shore, and the mountains beyond. That sight has been burned into my brain. I even imagine I can see the spire of Pastor Phillip’s church, and beyond that, our home. Passersby spare me glances as I waste away. There is pity in some eyes, but the sign “DEVON HAND, WITCH” is enough to put off the literate. The guards posted on the road below discourage the rest, lest they share my lot. Some have taken aim at me, but most stones glance off the iron bands. Some leave their mark, yet the pain of my parched throat and cracked lips is greater. I can squint less now the sun has set, and it’s easier to see the clouds and their promise of rain. Last night my tongue caught a couple of drops. They carried the iron tang of my cage, but it was the sweetest water I’ve ever tasted. The raven caws as he flaps onto my gibbet to resume his watch. He is impatient, and has croaked at me since they first locked me in. “Hurry up!” This seems to be all that this one knows to say. A raven can speak, but only repeats what it has heard. I fantasize that Parson Phillips sent him with the message. He would be one who would rather I “hurry up” and die. To use a creature he believes to be of Satan would be telling, after his accusations. Ravens have no truck with his Devil. They are minions of a trickster god, creatures of protection and prophesy, guiding us between this world and the next. I ally to a power more ancient than his devil, but the truth is of little concern to him; I need to be removed so he can have Laura to himself. I’d oblige him for my own sake, but I swore I would never leave her, so I cannot. It will be hard for her to hold out against his mantle of piety, his god, and his congregation. She will need help. The raven flutters down to one of the lower straps of my cage and jabs his beak into my ankle. He draws too little blood from my desiccated flesh to justify his effort. Still he prods me to action. “Hurry up!” “Come to me,” I rasp. It takes all the air from my lungs, but it’s enough for him to hear. He hops up the bands to my eye level and tilts his head curiously. Neither of us can keep away from Death. He may be here to accompany me across the divide. “Hurry up!” My reflection swirls in his eye, then my vision blurs. I blink to clear it, but my eyes are too dry, and I too weak. The blur dissolves into darkness, and I’m falling. Instinctively I fling my arms outward, and the wind catches me. My vision clears, but now I see myself in the cage, looking forward in a dead stare. It’s as though I were looking at myself from outside. I must surely be dead, but as I watch, my head jerks in sudden, birdlike movements. I glide in for a closer look, settle onto a steel band and fold my... I have wings. My haggard eyes look back at me from inside the cage, with a panicked awareness. The head jerks about a few more times and turns an eye to me. The mouth quivers, and out comes a dry, rasping croak. “Hurry up!” My body shakes from that last exhalation, and then all is stillness, save for the creaking of the cage as it rocks gently from that final death rattle. One of the guards prods at my body from below with his halberd. He seeks a reaction, but only rocks the cage further. I flail out with my wings to steady myself. “He’s done,” the guard says. “Supper, then?” His companion nods, and the two walk away. My already rotting flesh smells oddly sweet to me, but I spread my wings and flap away across the river. I have somewhere to be. |
“Beware, lest ye too suffer the wages of sin, as did Devon Hand!” Pastor Phillips gives another of his fire and brimstone sermons. I gaze down at the gathering from the rafters. The scent of their fear rises, a choking aroma of sweat and rot. No one wishes to be the next to be purged. I am glad that Laura does not sit among them. Phillips thumps the bible on the lectern in front of him, beating home his point. People flinch, their eyes search the floor for something unthreatening to focus on. My words pour forth in a torrent of croaks. “He lies! Pastor Phillips bore false witness!” Ravens can imitate words, but know not their meaning. I do, and Phillips knows these words to be truth. He tries to ignore me, but members of the congregation look up and point, murmur in hushed whispers. “The bird speaks!” “What deviltry is this?” I flutter down to a sconce by the pulpit. “Devon Hand was no witch!” My croaks echo in this hollow edifice, ringing in their ears, but they are brow-beaten and afraid. They have already cast their lot with their Pastor’s poison, and now cast a volley of small projectiles, and a chorus of shouts and denials which Pastor Phillips does not join. I fly away, and a conspiracy of ravens follows me into the woods beyond the village. I perch in a tall elm that looks down on our home. Wisps of smoke rise from the chimney. “Laura!” I call out in my unnatural, carrion caw. “Laura!” My companions alight in the trees about the house. Some repeat my call. I tilt my head to look down as the door opens, and there is my love. Her eyes search the woods, stirred by a brief hope, but the silence brings that folly to bear. “Why did you leave us here alone, Devon?” She cradles the soft swell of her belly. Pastor Phillips had only wanted me to be gone, but the tribunal might have sentenced her as well, were she not with child. “I am here!” I croak. My reply causes her to glance about, searching again for the source. I leap from my branch and settle on one at eye level. The others flutter about, rearrange themselves. “I will not leave you,” I croak, renewing my promise, and the flock echoes me. Laura’s gaze takes in all our dark shapes. “Devon?” She believes in the ancient power as do I, but her whisper is full of uncertainty. Then she turns toward the cracking of twigs and rustling of leaves that betray a visitor. I glide to perch on the roof above her and watch Pastor Phillips’ approach. He is all self-righteous solemnity. He eyes me suspiciously as he arrives, then takes his hat in hand to use in a sweeping bow. “A good morning to you, Laura.” He returns the hat to perch on his scrawny head. “I missed you at church. I trust that you are not unwell.” “Such familiarity. Am I not to be accorded the honorific of Goody Hand?” “I thought not to revive in you the pain of his transgressions.” “If you seek to make me forget him, I will not.” “I will address you as Goody if you wish. I hope to have that soon followed with Phillips.” The gall of this defies belief. I wonder how his god can stomach him. “You presume far too much, Pastor. Goody Hand I shall remain.” “You feel that way now, but, given time, you will find my protection preferable to raising his whelp on your own.” His effrontery is too much to bear. “You covet that which you shall not have!” I screech. He stares. Recognition assails him, but before he can voice it, a storm of black feathers descends on him. Phillips waves his hands about wildly, trying to fend them off, but they will not be dissuaded from their attack. Beaks and claws pierce flesh and draw blood. He covers his eyes with his hands as they drive him off, screaming about demons and retribution. After a while he is gone, and they return to their stations about our home. |
It may be that she thinks me only a common Raven, or that I am her love and will leave her again. I am kept in a cage on the porch, and each morning she feeds me scraps from their breakfast. Our son darts in and out among the trees, shadowed by the cartwheeling flock. I watch her as she watches him. I could open the door, leave whenever I wish, but why would I? The view from my cage is breathtaking. |