Old man and the raven

The old man stared at my campfire long enough for his silence to grow heavy. I waited for him to speak, nervously tugging at the sides of my cloak to keep autumn chill at arms length. I tried to read his face. Did he look apprehensive? Reserved? Haunted, even? It was difficult to tell.

“It started after my first battle”, began his deep, rough voice, quietly at first, “I was riding home through the fields, you see, taking in the aftermath as I went. There were bodies everywhere and the smell of iron was still sharp in the air. Just hours before, I was but a boy.”

He had a gift for stories. I was instantly there, riding with him. Some note on his voice got caught in a previously unknown crevice in my heart, and wet my eyes.

“In my sadness I started to hum a hymn for my fallen brethren. So much bravery, lost without a trace, except for the short moment of respite claimed for others. Where did it all go? My thoughts wandered with the dead, as my quiet humming transformed to a muted song.

I do not remember the words. I only remember I wished to honor the dead and, in my small way, help them along to wherever they were going. It felt like I followed them in song. In truth, I think I wished to follow them in body.”

The old man paused to let out a deep breath, and for a moment I had my thoughts back to myself. How did I get here? Did I ask a question or did he offer a story? Then his voice continued, and I was whisked away, once again:

“While singing, I noticed two wolves in the distance, jogging from one fallen hero to another. Strange beasts, they were. In the dimming light, their fur took on a blue hue. Large even for wild wolves, with shorter snouts. Sniffing for a feast, I gathered. Oh, how right I was… The wind must have carried my voice to them, because they perked up with a jolt, scanning for the source with their eyes and ears.”

“I knew the wolves would soon recognize me if I didn’t keep quiet. The part of me that distinguished myself as prey felt a sudden need to hide. But the part of me that was singing did not care. Unyielding Inspiration, stupidity, some strange elation found in the prospect of death or mere fatalism, I still do not know, but I kept going until the wolves’ ice-blue eyes locked in on me, and they sprang into a run, heading straight for me.”

I could not move a muscle.

“Finally, perhaps precisely because it was already too late, I froze. I could do nothing besides watch the wolves close in with blinding speed. I didn’t feel fear, but that was only because I didn’t think to feel anything. I watched as the wolves neared what must have been striking distance for ungodly strong predators, and jumped in the air towards my suddenly dry throat.”

I tried to swallow without success.

“Next thing I knew, the two wolves in the air in front of me somehow shifted, blurred together, and formed into a large black bird. It was a raven unlike any I have ever seen - at least thrice the size of a normal bird - with the same ice-blue eyes as before. Without slowing down it flew down and tore its claws deep into my right shoulder. My sight flashed with cold pain. The raven penetrated through skin and flesh into something deeper, and a chill ran through the inner walls of my being. I feel it still.”

Suddenly I felt the old man’s ice-blue eyes on my soul, putting pressure on it with his next words: “That is how it began. That is always how it begins.”

“Not with exaltation, but with pain”