Ravenswynd Legends

by Sharon Ricklin

  * * *

  He had followed the three girls to the mall and watched as they bought tickets to the movie. Waiting only a moment, he bought himself one ticket and found a seat a few rows behind them. Before the movie ended he got up and moved to the row just behind theirs. He knew he had to time it just right, and not be too obvious in his movements. He waited until she had leaned forward just enough to reach his hand between her head and the seat and as he placed his thumb on her he felt the jolt of electricity pass between them. It was stronger than he expected, and she jumped forward and yelped. He stood immediately and whispered, “Sorry.” As he exited the theater he chuckled to himself as he heard her complaining about rude people. Ah, I did have some flaws!

  From that time on, his thoughts of possessing the woman became more intense, and even though it was hidden from view, his raven image marked her. This mystical sign would draw her closer to him and open her eyes up to the truth of what their future should be. As he walked out into the mall he looked down at his medallion, thinking about what Sibelle had said, and he pondered ways in which to get Elizabeth to touch it.

  He remembered Sibelle’s exact words: “Once the lass touches it, ye will ken she is the one. I have given ye many proofs. Dinna waste them.”

  He realized getting her to touch it would not be an easy task. He would eventually have to meet and speak with her for the final proof, even though his mind and his whole being had already told him she definitely was the one. This final proof would be helpful if there arose any doubt in the future.

  As he walked through the mall, he recalled some of the stories Sibelle had told him through the years. He had often asked her questions about her own origins and how she came to have such prophetical powers. She once revealed to him that, when she was but a babe, she had been given her first drink from the skull of a raven, which gave her powers of prophecy and wisdom. She had told him she was born on an island near the west coast of Scotland over seven hundred years ago. The place was called Hebrides and it dated back to 6500BC, the Celtic era, when many legends were born. It housed the Callanish stone circles where mystical events occurred frequently. Another time she mentioned that this isle of Hebrides was known to inspire many visitors throughout the years, some of them she’d even met in person. She loved to speak of the famous men she had met throughout all her years there, though no one took it as bragging as she spoke in a quiet, humble manner. His memories of Sibelle’s voice came through so vivid and real that I almost felt like I had gone with him and heard her speaking myself.

  “Mendelssohn composed one o his famed overtures while livin here, and George Orwell wrote his book, 1984, while on the nearby isle of Jura.” She smiled her crooked little smile, a frail looking woman, with wild, curly brown hair and violet eyes. No one would expect her to be a day over forty, yet he knew better. “Och, and there wis that lad wha wrote his screenplay while on holiday at Eileen Shona; Barrie was his name, ye micht remember the yarn o Peter Pan?” Her smile widened then, and Emrys wondered what she was thinking, though these details she kept to herself.

  “William Wordsworth wrote one o his most famed poems wi the setting in the Hebrides.” She said, “but dear, Emrys, I am doon wi all me memories for now, if ye seek to ken more, ye’ll have to find oot for yerself.”

  I sensed that Emrys did not pay much attention to Sibelle’s physical looks. I never got a clear picture of her face, even though he knew the color of her eyes and hair.

  Suddenly back at the mall, completely in awe, I saw things from his perspective again.

  Emrys stepped out of the bathroom and began to walk down the long hallway toward the food-court. The three girls were walking directly toward him. She had her eyes on her sister, asking about sunglasses. He kept walking toward them prepared to step to the side at the last minute. A fleeting moment of electrical energy passed between them as they breezed by one another, their arms almost touching. He kept walking when he heard her gasp. She felt it. The Signatus had already started working. He sensed her eyes on him as he walked away and turned the corner. He knew it was just a matter of time, and he would have to make eye contact. Then he would know for sure.

  I dreamed then of the notebook that Emrys carried with him. He had written some poetry of his own through the years, intrigued by the fact that Sibelle’s prophecies sometimes came as a rhyme. He even wrote down some of his favorite poems so he could open a page and now and again enjoy beautiful words. One of his favorites was called “Solitary Reaper” by William Wordsworth, and he had read it over many times. One of those times, I was able to read it over his shoulder, so to speak:

  Behold her, single in the field,

  Yon solitary Highland Lass

  Reaping and singing by herself;

  Stop here, or gently pass!

  Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

  And sings a melancholy strain;

  O listen! for the vale profound

  Is overflowing with the sound.

  No nightingale did ever chaunt

  More welcome notes to weary bands

  Of travellers in some shady haunt,

  Among Arabian sands:

  A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

  In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

  Breaking the silence of the seas

  Among the farthest Hebrides.

  Will no one tell me what she sings? -

  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

  For old, unhappy, far-off things,

  And battles long ago:

  Or is it some more humble lay,

  Familiar matter of to-day?

  Some natural sorry, loss, or pain,

  That has been, and may be again?

  Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang

  As if her song could have no ending;

  I saw her singing at her work,

  And o’er the sickle bending; -

  I listened, motionless and still;

  And, as I mounted up the hill,

  The music in my heart I bore,

  Long after it was heard no more.