by Ken Altabef
It was harder work than he remembered, passing the long years, tasting the winds, and the taste grew bitter and stale and more bitter as he went. Passing through time he could see very little, the ground below transformed as a myriad of changing dots of light, in a pattern he had named ‘static’. He navigated through time by its smell and perhaps that was why the end game, the far future, was so easy to identify. It smelled horrible.
Raven dropped out of the sky, rolling into a southward dive and a swoop and he was there, circling the empty city, the ruined city. Oh, he had arrived at precisely the right time. The buildings were still smoldering from the fires, melting glass only recently shattered.
Raven circled lower and lower, descending to the street, loving that charnel house smell of burning flesh, the strangely colored sky, and the feel of the radiation burning his skin, stinging his eyes to bring forth a single solitary tear. He settled atop the heap of bodies piled high in Times Square, and he shed that tear. Plop.
It was not a tear for the dead, for Raven Carrion-Eater delighted in death. This was after all the consummate feast. But alas, there were no other of his ravens left to enjoy it. Oh, how they would have pecked and pecked to their heart’s content. Raven laughed at the bitter irony, and his laugh echoed through all the empty halls and places of men. And irony of ironies, mankind had done this to itself.
He tore a strip of flesh from the face of a young woman on the pile, enjoying its totally rancid, burnt flavor.
He loved this place, this time. But of course there were other futures to visit, other possibilities, and he thought one of those might be particularly amusing to investigate. No, this was not the only one, and he wanted to see a special other, the future that Vithrok desired. Choices, choices. It’s always good to have choices.
Raven took to the skies again, and this time he didn’t traverse the currents of time but merely sidestepped among the layers of possibility. This far toward the end of the strand there were not very many possibilities and Raven quickly found the one he desired. It was entirely devoid of light. The sun had been extinguished of its flame, nullified by the great slithering darkness of the Thing That Was Cast Out.
Raven traversed this future carefully for time had slowed, slowed to an almost nonexistent crawl and he felt sluggish, restricted, as if trapped in the dark tarry mud at the bottom of the sea. There was terror here too, and death. Raven tasted the stink but found it a little less to his liking. It was a clean death. Still, worth considering…
He saw Vithrok at the center of this existence, at the top of the world, a dark lord reigning over it all. My, but there was a silly look of concentration on his stony face, a petty arrogance as he wielded his precious store of Beforetime, like striking stone against flint to create that one tremendous spark.
As Vithrok set it on fire the Beforetime flared greedily, absorbing all possibility as it spread and extended. The fireball grew white-hot larger and larger, expanding across the entire world, consuming everything except for Vithrok who remained, squirming in torment, at the heart of the explosion. This was where he expected Raven to help him. But in this ending Raven chooses otherwise. He simply flies away. Raven leaves him like that, and what a wonderful joke it turns out to be, Vithrok trapping himself in a fiery tomb of his own making. With time extinguished his captivity lasts forever, roasting in atomic fire, a forever of burning torment and failure. Yes, Raven had a merry laugh at that one. Choice, choices.
But he stepped sideways again, with one flap of a wing. And this different future was the one that Vithrok truly desired, where Raven comes swooping in to the rescue, a hero in ebon black feather, to un-make what he had made. Where’s the sport in that, Raven asked himself. Undoing that which you had already done? Not much irony there. No fun at all.
He watched his future self going about Vithrok’s dirty work, as he un-named all the men of the world. And then he un-named the whales — bowhead, humpback, orca and all the others. And then he un-named the beasts of the field — the tuktu and the musk oxen, the starlings and the owls and the snow hares, and on and on, and everything else. He even un-named Vithrok, as that was part of the plan. Truth, no longer. Truth, released.
And then it was all done and only one thing left un-named and that was Raven himself. He stood alone at the end of the world, which was also its beginning. What an odd feeling. Not really ironic, but worth a chuckle at least.
Raven stands now amidst the swirling, flexible mists of the Beforetime. Everything is as it was before, and he thinks for a moment that this may not be the distant future but possibly the distant past. He has visited that past often, and it seems no different than this. Now there is no way to tell; there is no time.
The Beforetime.
The Aftertime.
The spirits all run free, free of form, free from individual identities and free to play their imaginative games and indulge their richest fantasies, free to enjoy, free to create whatever they desire. There is no conflict, no petty misunderstandings, no darkness. It is a time of enlightenment, a time of perfect understanding and boundless love. Bliss.
Bliss.
Raven did miss the Beforetime; that was true. It offered clay in vast abundance and every color of the rainbow. And all the world to create.
Raven, the sole entity which was not in union with the others, flew on.
He decided to visit some other places and other times. For now he thought about it, the Beforetime had not contained happiness only; eventually there had been discord. An argument that had echoed down through the ages. And who had started that argument? Could it have been Raven? Possibly.
And so he traveled back to the aftermath of the argument that had shattered heaven — or possibly forward to the aftermath of the next argument that would shatter this new heaven in its own time — to the darkness after the Great Rift, to visit the first men who strode the earth, creatures he had named the Tunrit. And while most stumbled in the darkness, a few had sight with which to lead them and the foremost among all of these was Vithrok, the Truth. Raven watched as Vithrok led his intrepid band through an opening in a cave wall that none of the others could possibly have seen. The opening led to a treasure trove that lay behind that wall. Not diamonds or silver or precious gems lay there, but a waterfall plummeting down from the rocks and at its base a hot spring, a pool of warmth in their world of intense cold. Oh, how the Tunrit men cheered Vithrok that day as they swam for the first time in warm water.
Raven flew forward again, locating his new destination by the smell of irony and the taste of bitter defeat. Ah, sweet irony. He arrived at the Ring of Stones, the ancient graveyard wherein the Truth had been entombed. And standing among the stones, with the blazing sun beating down on them, were the last of the Tunrit survivors — old men with wrinkled faces and milky eyes. Raven watched as one of the men spit on Vithrok’s grave.
He laughed. Their greatest hero was also their worst villain. Because he had wanted too much. Because he had glimpsed the sun and would stop at nothing until he brought it home, and doomed them all. Who had it been, wondered Raven, who had afforded Vithrok that first glimpse of the sun? Could it have been Raven? Oh, quite possibly.
Raven had seen enough, travelled enough. Thought enough, for too much cogitation was surely not a good thing. It made his brain swell and press painfully against his little bird skull. He travelled back forward again to the time that he presently called home. And going forward through the years he saw the coming of men, the first man and woman emerging from the pearls he had laid on the beach, his own great creation, though they didn’t know it — a perfect joke on them. Or was that a joke on him? Either way, he witnessed their rise in number and power, flying forward on the winds of time, reviewed their many accomplishments and inventions, triumphs and follies. Taking a vaster and broader look, he noticed the white men’s settlements, their trading posts and outfits. Question — had he invented the white men too? Raven couldn’t remember. So many travels, so many jokes. What did it matte
r?
He saw their caravans and steamships as they crossed expanses of tundra and ocean alike, he traced their pathways and their origins. He saw a great civilization of cities and airships, smokestacks and glittering spires. Several civilizations, with colorful banners and flags, pitted against one another in deadly conflict. Had the end begun already? Oh yes, he thought, that’s how it goes. That’s how it always starts. That’s how it ends.
He’d had enough. Going around in circles now. One more visit will make this day complete and then to his roost to rest.
Vithrok stood, pacing impatiently, in the circular chamber at the top of his citadel, at the top of the world. His web was nearly complete, ahead of schedule. But he must wait for the proper alignment of celestial bodies, for they were the key to leverage.
He lifted Kidan’s device, the ocular lens through which he viewed and measured the progress of the planets and stars. With a wave of his hand he directed the shimmering dome of Beforetime to part slightly so that he might view the stars. The gauge on Kidan’s device measured their movements exactly. By the position of its gears he saw that the time was nearly at hand. The stars of the Collarbone rested just above the Two Placed Far Apart. They had only to shift a little bit more, only a few days’ time at most, and all would be ready.
The web stretched away from the citadel, going straight and true to the Moon, the great lever, and thence to the far reaches of the Outer Darkness. There its furthermost tendrils attached to the Thing That Was Cast Out, his secret treasure.
Vithrok drew the curtain of Beforetime closed. He had only to wait.
A startling sound, a raucous buzzing, drew his eyes upward. The impenetrable dome of Beforetime fizzled and strobed wildly. Something was forcing its entrance through the shield. It was a gigantic raven, twice the size of a man. The Raven!
The concealing dome of Beforetime sizzled and popped and crackled as the Raven smashed through, then closed again behind it. Vithrok burned with indignation. He was safe from all else, it seemed, but not Tulukkaruq, the great Raven.
But something had gone wrong. The Raven crashed to the ground. It struck the black rock of the chamber with a dull thud. It lay still.
Perhaps, thought Vithrok, it is stunned from its forced passage through the curtain of Beforetime. He could only imagine the titanic forces involved in breaching the barrier, the mind-shattering chaos of the quicksilver and all the wild ideas and endless possibilities it contained. And so Raven lay weakened and unconscious before him.
Vithrok stepped closer, thinking, he could kill it now. He could kill the Raven, right now, and be done with it forever.
But such a thing wouldn’t do. He needed the Raven for his plan to succeed. Vithrok could take away the sun and murder Time but he could not un-name all that had been named, he could not free the vast bulk of Beforetime locked within all creation. He could not liberate. He could only destroy. The power of creation and restoration lay with the Raven.
As he watched, the Raven’s feathers began to fall, its eyes bulged and melted from their sockets. Its flesh withered and sagged. He gazed upon it with his spirit-vision and realized a devastating truth. The Raven was dead.
All was lost. All was lost if the Raven was dead.
Vithrok felt claws of panic screech into his soul. He reached out with his will and sent responsive, delicate fingers of the mind to tend to the fallen. He had to put it back together. He had to fix this or all was lost. Foolish idiot. Charging in here.
The breath of life had fled, the Raven’s soul taken flight. He could not put it back. All was lost. All was lost.
Vithrok turned, and standing behind him was Raven. In his form of man, with dark ebon skin and bright eyes and mouth smiling cruelly. Raven laughed.
Vithrok’s temper flared. “You’ve come to give me your answer?”
“No!” said the Raven flatly.
“No, you won’t help me--”
“No, I haven’t come to give you my answer,” quipped Raven. “I’ve come to deliver a warning.”
Vithrok burned. “Will you help me save this world?”
“Perhaps,” said Raven. He snatched Kidan’s device from Vithrok’s hand and gazed down bemusedly at it. Looking up at the dome, Raven waved his hand and a small opening appeared. He raised the glass to his eye.
Vithrok wondered what Raven saw with the lens. He can’t see my web, Vithrok reminded himself. No one can see it but me. Of that he was sure. But the Raven knew of the plan to draw back the Thing. How much of the rest could he surmise?
“How will you do it?” asked Raven. “The distance is so vast…”
“I’ll tell you everything, once you’ve agreed to help.” Vithrok smiled at the Raven, knowing Raven’s word was good for nothing anyway, but he had so few stones with which to barter.
Raven handed the glasses back. “And what does Annigan have to say about it?”
“The Moon? Why should he care?”
“Certainly must have something to do with the Moon…”
He’s fishing, thought Vithrok. He doesn’t know anything. “Your answer?”
“Later,” replied Raven. “First the warning. The white men are coming. They are coming here, to this very spot.”
Vithrok was surprised to hear it. He had been so preoccupied with the weaving of his web he had ignored practically everything else. His dome protected from mystical eyes, but the white men…
“They don’t know anything. Why should they come here?”
Raven shrugged. “They are curious souls, I guess. This exact spot has meaning for them. They are crazy? I don’t know. But I will tell you this: they cross the sea in metal ships, not wood. These vessels are fast; they smash through the ice. They will be here soon. There are so many of them, and they won’t stop coming.”
“What’s this? Another cruel joke you play on me?” asked Vithrok. “Trickster.”
“Maybe I am,” replied Raven. “But you should be careful the men don’t play a joke on you. They come up from the south, the white men. My ravens see all. They have numbers and weapons which you can not control. You will find your sorcery useless against their metal guns and steam-powered sailing ships. No joke. And they will try to stop you.”
“Then I’ll stop them,” said Vithrok.
“They are driven to the pole! They are resolute! You’ll need an army to stop them.”
“Then I will have an army.”
CHAPTER 34
THE WEIGHT OF CONSEQUENCE
Nunavik sat in the empty white room of his soul, stewing over his dilemma. He’d had enough of memories and remembrances. One should learn from the past, not be held captive by it. He had to escape.
He hoped, once again, that the commotion outside his spirit-tusk would have died down by now. Let’s take a little peek, he thought.
He strained his consciousness around the limits of his little white room, finding a tiny crack that led to the other side of the barrier. Without exposing himself too much, he just wanted a glimpse of the sea and the silt and whatever else was out there.
Aacckkk! A pair of mean, beady little eyes. Belonging no doubt to Kktakaluk, the sea scorpion. Nunavik quickly pulled away, retreating into the safety of his prison like a startled clam.
“Twelve hundred years,” he muttered, “and that woman never forgets.”
There must be something he could do. Alaana had possession of the physical tusk, which she usually kept in a little pouch inside her parka. By taking the tusk in her hand the shaman was able to call to Nunavik. Sometimes Nunavik answered and sometimes he didn’t, but he was always able to hear the call. He honestly didn’t know if the connection worked in the reverse. He had never called out to Alaana. If he wanted to see the shaman, he usually just emerged from the tusk.
It seemed worth a try. “Alaana!” he called, concentrating his effort across the spiritual plane. “My blunt little harpoon! Hear me! I’m…” The Walrus could hardly bring himself to say it. Ah, but he must. “I’m trapped under the s
ea. Come and get me. Please.”
Already he knew it was no use. There was simply no way to get a message out to Nunatsiaq from within the spirit-tusk. Communication with Alaana was impossible.
He was seeking help from the wrong quarter anyway. The spirit world of the sea was a different matter, and much closer to hand. There was one who was never very far from him, one who had pledged always to help him in his hour of need. Qityabnaqtuq, the golden starfish.
Nunavik centered himself, casting away all distraction, a task which was quite easy in the empty room. “Qityabnaqtuq,” he intoned, “Lord of the sea stars, master of those who crawl the ocean depths, hear me! Golden One, who has always been a good and faithful friend to me. I am in need. Hear me!”
Nunavik waited patiently for the warm glow to infuse his spirit, a light that brought with it a sense of peace that told of the nearness of the golden starfish, but the feeling did not come. He called again and again, but the spirit did not come. He simply couldn’t send a message outside of the spirit-tusk.
There was nothing else for it. He must risk everything. Alaana would never find him here in all the great sea by chance alone, even if she did decide to come looking.
Nunavik prepared to exit the spirit-tusk. The only consolation he could offer himself for this bonehead move was that he surely wouldn’t live long enough to regret it. He imagined one of Kktakaluk’s powerful claws closing around his neck, cutting him in half. So it goes, he thought. Time to face the weight of consequence at last.
The Walrus stepped out.
“Qityabnaqtuq! Qityabnaqtuq!” he intoned frantically, realizing it was not the proper invocation and his state of mind was anything but calm.
