I am a raven.

And I kill people.

 

October 17, 2008

I have lived in Austin all my life, but I have travelled as far south as Mexico, and and I’ve seen beautiful things on my journeys. But something always brings me home, something intangible and inexplicable. But perhaps that’s why it’s home — because its hold over me is mysterious and wonderful. In my years soaring over Austin and watching its denizens, I’ve seen brilliant things and heard wonderful stories. I’ve also taken some amazing lives. But that’s just what I am and what I do. I cannot explain it or control it any more than I can control my heartbeat.

This world is not conclusion. A species stands beyond/Invisible, as Music/But positive as Sound.

Emily Dickinson’s words whisper through my mind as I soar over the Austin Greenbelt, looking down over the hikers, families and dogs wading in and around the pale, green water. These bright, animated chess pieces move over the board in a synchronous harmony almost as though they are dancing. I hear their laughter and their shouts, smell their skin and hair. As I drift lower they loom larger in my vision, now less like dancing gems and more like the glorious monsters they are. A baby on wobbly legs points a chubby finger in the air at me, babbling and drooling. Her mother sweeps her up into her arms, and the baby’s head falls backward, her mouth wide with laughter.

In the distance, I see a woman also watching this scene. She is dressed in a tank top and flip flops, the uniform of South Austin. She is folded into herself, boasting the kind of invisibility ungainly teenagers wish for themselves and so few humans can willfully create. The woman is watching the mother and daughter with a small smile, but behind the smile I see something else. Her eyes are liquid and unfocused. It is a moment before I realize she’s crying.

Curiosity piqued, I moved in closer to see her better. Something about her is familiar. I swoop down and pull my wings close to me, settling on a large rock just across from her. A breeze has blown a lock of hair into her eyes. Shifting, she moves her hair away, and when she does, her eyes light on me.

She stiffens. Her eyes become focuses and hard. She looks me in the eye and shakes her head.

“Raven. You bastard,” she says, her voice low and soft.

I step back and look around. Although I am occasionally yelled at by humans I am rarely spoke to, or even spoken of, properly. Most often I am mistaken for my cousin the crow, especially since I am unnaturally small for a raven. Certainly no human has ever looked me in the eye and addressed me.

But this one is.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” She wears a half smile, and expression completely devoid of mirth. “You have no idea who I am.”

I shift my weight from foot to foot and fluff my feathers in irritation. I am about to fly away when it comes to me. I have seen this woman before.

 

October 4, 2002

It was an unseasonably cold, clear morning in the foothills of Dripping Springs, Texas. I was out for my morning soar, stretching my wings and letting the wind carry me. I could smell wet, dying leaves, the smell of autumn.

I dropped lower as the wind died down, and I could see the pretty houses dotting the hillside. Xeriscaped lawns, SUVs or minivans in the driveways, organic vegetable gardens in the backyard. I knew these sort—they flourish in Austin. The Earth-aware, alternative medicine, sustainable types. Lots of the houses had children’s toys in the front yards, indicating early-rising rapscallions within. But that one house, the one where my business lay that morning, stirred in its own way even as the other houses slept.

A woman’s voice, guttural and animal-like, cried out.

Sweeping in, I could smell sweat, blood, and anxiety. The energy surrounding the house was frenzied, frenetic. I could hear voices, a soft, comforting voices intended to sooth and calm, and another voice that grunted and cried out.

I flew around the house several times trying to get my bearings before I saw the open window. Swooping in, I misjudged my descent and disturbed a vase of flowers too close to the window. The vase crashed to the ground, announcing my arrival.

A stout woman with hair bound in a loose tapestry of graying braids atop her head rushed over to where I’d landed. “It’s a bird,” she called out. “Just a bird in the house.”

I sniffed and examined her. She wasn’t the one.

I took flight again, maneuvering into the room with the blood and sweat, landing in the corner near the door. The older woman hurried in behind me. A small woman with wet, curly hair plastered to her forehead stood on all fours on a pile of sheets and towels on the floor. Her legs were spread apart, and she was moaning, rocking back and forth. I recognized childbirth, and moved in for a closer look.

The woman moaned again, grunting and gritting her teeth. She looked to be in extraordinary pain. The stout woman glid behind the laboring woman. “The baby’s crowning, “ she said. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Keep pushing gently, breathe, that’s it, we’re sooo close, Carrie!”

Carrie took a deep breath, and her whole body seemed to relax a moment. Her back arched down, pulled by the weight of the child in her abdomen. With a soft shudder and a small sigh of relief, she looked up. I think she was about to speak when she saw me. In that moment, we both knew why I was there.

“Get out,” she whispered, her face having gone white. “Oh god, get out! Get out! Get that fucking black bird out of my house! Jake! Mom! GET IT OUT!”

Surprised by her outburst, Carrie’s mother sat back on her heels. “I don’t know how to trap a bird,” she muttered, looking dazed. “Jake’s not here, honey, he was called away to work. Don’t worry about it, the bird can stay. We have more pressing matters.”

Carrie began her wailing again, and her mother, the midwife, began shouting instructions even as she maneuvered between Carrie’s shaking thighs. “All right, darling, the baby’s head is out. Okay. Oh. Oh. Carrie, you have to push this baby out now...”

One minute, two minutes later, in a rush of blood and water, the baby slid between her mother’s thighs and into her grandmother’s waiting hands. The tension in the air was palpable. Yet amid the commotion and the smorgasbord of smells, I was called to the bright, shining, ethereal cord that suddenly appeared in the room. It rang in a brilliant frequency, and when it appeared everything else ceased to exist. I went to the cord, and snapped it into my beak. It was mine to take away.

As I took flight with the cord securely in my mouth, I heard a woman’s voice cry, “She’s not breathing! Oh god, she’s not breathing! Help, Mom, SHE’S NOT BREATHING!”

I went out the same way I came in, through the window, flying high and disappearing into a colorless sky.

October 17, 2008

“I never thought I’d see you again. Not much reason to, I guess, since I never got pregnant again after that. Did you know that, black bird? I had four miscarriages before carrying Isabelle to term, and then you swooped in and carried her away. Just like that,” Carrie says, snapping her fingers.

She looks different now, clothed and clean in the sunlight. Her hair is an explosion of bright, copper curls that reflect light like metal. If I were a magpie I might try to capture some of that hair for a souvenir. But I know better than to get too close; she’s wound so tight she’s liable to do anything and I don’t want to cause a scene.

“So you know what I want from you, black bird? I want you to bring me another baby.”

I cock my head to the side and blink. American folklore has storks bringing babies to couples, not ravens. I hop a little closer to her, for I am intrigued by more than her hair. It isn’t often that I am seen for what I am, and even more rarely that I am seen for who I am. Carrie doesn’t just see me for a raven, she knows we have met before. She knows I saw her naked and despairing. She knows I nabbed her child’s life from this world. She knows me. She sees me. And I cannot move away.

“You take lives all the time." she says, her voice breaking. "All I’m asking is that you bring me one of them. Instead of taking it off to wherever you take them, bring it to me. You can do that. You owe me, black bird.”

Her tears are falling freely now, and I almost understand her pain, even if the meaning of her words are lost on me. “Owe” is such a uniquely human word. I cannot understand what this means.

“I carried that baby for nine months without even a hint of trouble,” she whispered, her shoulders shaking. “It’s not fair, black bird. You owe me.”

“Fair” is right up there with “owe” as a word I have no use for. But her plea is so rich, and as a composite she is so beautiful, that I am drawn to her desire quite apart from her own trifling reasons. I am drawn to help her because she sparkles, because she sees me, and because I have never brought life to anyone, and quite frankly, the idea excites me. For reasons completely my own, I want to help Carrie.

I blink my eyes, shake my feathers, and take to the sky. South Austin is full of interesting people. I just have to find the right one to bring to Carrie.

October 19, 2008

Though it may be surprising, I enjoy watching humans. This may sound morbid, seeing as how I am often ultimately responsible for their demise. It might seem more logical to avoid them, but I can’t seem to help myself. I enjoy the way they dress in every color found in nature and beyond, their fantastic hrududus, and they way they talk to each other in an increasing number of unintelligible ways. But perhaps the real reason I adore watching humans is because of our special relationship. I can hear what they don’t say in conversation and what they really mean.

It’s cunning the way humans communicate. They often say one thing and mean another. They often conceal their true thoughts with their words only to reveal them through body language. Sometimes other humans miss these cues. I never do. I can hear human thoughts and emotions as though they really did have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, engaging in animated banter.

Carrie has asked me to bring her a baby. I could bring her any soul, of course—nearly any of these shining silver cords could be snapped up and directed to her womb. But this is a mission I have never taken before. I do not want to bring Carrie just any baby: I have to find the right baby. I want to see her squeal with delight. I want to see her cry with joy. No, she won’t be able to detect the quality of the soul I bring her, but if I am going to bring her joy, then I should do it right—bring her joy for years and years to come, not merely for a moment.

Certainly I can do that much.

Looking down from my glide, I see Jo’s Cafe, the outdoor coffee shop in the middle of a busy north-south thoroughfare. As usual, the cafe is overflowing with Austinites busily typing on their laptops or chatting on their cell phones. A couple of young women catch my attention. They are huddled together near the parking lot. They smell of amber and dragon’s blood. Intrigued, I drop down and perch on the chair of a nearby table.

“Have you talked to Tatum lately?”

The dark haired woman shakes her head, sipping her drink. “Nope. Have you?”

The other woman, whose hair is orange, shakes her head as well. “I was thinking of going by her place today. She hasn’t blogged or tweeted anything since Sunday. She was really shaken up after the ritual last week. I want to see how she was doing.”

The second woman backs away from her coffee mug mid-sip as though she’s about to choke. Eyes wide as saucers, she holds back a laugh. “What? So... you didn’t hear? God, I thought the whole coven had heard about this.”

The first woman cocks her head to the side. “No, heard what? What’s going on?”

The dark-haired woman chuckles, shaking her head. She motions for her friend to lean in, lowering her voice. “She says she’s been waking up next to dead guys,” she whispers. “Hannah, get this. Apparently, and I heard this from Raven, Tatum claims that twice since Sunday night she’s had sex with random guys she met on 4th Street, and then when she wakes up, they’re dead.”

(I haven’t actually happened upon as many Wiccans as you might think, even though they are abundant in Austin. Nevertheless, an inordinate number of them have been named Raven. Perhaps I should be flattered. I am not.)

Hannah blinks, her face having gone white. Her friend doesn’t notice. “What?”

The other woman shakes her head. “I know, that was more or less my reaction, but Raven swears to Goddess that’s what Tatum told her. I mean, I know Tatum’s been through some stuff lately but coming up with this? It’s ridiculous.” She sits back in her chair, sighing. “I’ve known Tatum a long time, but this is a whole new level of bullshit. She’s turning into a goddamned attention whore. What, we have a ritual—which, okay, really did not go as planned and was intense for everyone—but as a result, she turns straight, starts fucking guys, and they wind up dead in her bed and she has no idea how? Seriously? Seriously? I mean, what the hell? If she’s not making it up, we have to call the fucking cops, you know? She needs to see a shrink. For real.”

“Keep your voice down, Violet,” says Hannah, looking around at the other patrons. She needn’t worry; no one is paying these two any mind. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pursed. She sips her coffee, slinking down in her chair. “She really had sex with men?"

Violet guffaws. "Are you kidding? That's what you find most alarming about what I just told you?"

Hannah doesn't appear to be listening, however. Her eyes have misted over and gone to that far away place usually reserved for dreamtime and grief. When she comes back, her eyes are dilated. "What does Raven think?”

Violet tosses her hair, makes a face. “Who cares what Raven thinks?”

Hannah frowns, a red flush creeping into her cheeks. “I do, that’s why I asked. What does she think?”

“All right, damn, don’t get all crazy on me. She thinks we need to sit down as a coven and discuss Tatum’s behavior and see if we can come to an “agreement” about what needs to happen next.”

Hannah looks thoughtful as she chews on a piece of her bright orange hair. Then, “So, Raven doesn’t believe her.”

Violet laughs. “No, of course Raven doesn’t believe her. Do you?”

Hannah shrugs, and though it is plainly written all over her body, Violet misses the hesitation and distress. “I’m worried about her,” she said carefully. “I think Raven’s right that we need to talk to her, but...” She shrugs, unable to finish the thought. “I don’t think she is making it up. I mean, no, I don’t believe...I mean, I think something is going on.”

Violet waves off her friend’s concerns, rolling her eyes. “You like to see the good in people, Hannah,” she explains. “And that’s admirable and everything. But, and I say this for your own good, you need to get a fucking clue. Tatum is either full of shit or a psycho, and either way, she’s not healthy for the group. She’s got to go.”

A breeze rustles through my feathers and I take this as my cue. I don’t need to hear the rest of the conversation. Hannah notices me absently, eyes unfocused, mind whirling. Though I feel her desolation and her fear, I do not have time for it, as she does not suit my purposes. Whatever is happening with her soul is more than I intend to transfer to Carrie’s empty womb, and though I am fascinated by her turmoil I am looking for a soul for Carrie. Hannah’s soul is tormented if not outright possessed; Violet is...well, she’s a bitch. Neither woman is right for Carrie. With one last look at Hannah, which I offer with as much sympathy as a bird can, I take to the sky again.

Next