Eyes of Crow

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  She shut her eyes but still heard her mother’s desperate struggle for the air her lungs refused to grant. A sound like a great wind arose then, swirling past Rhia, moving up, up, and she looked to see if the door had opened to a storm.

  She wished she had kept her eyes closed. Though no wind blew through the room, it was anything but calm. Tereus was trying to hold Mayra in his arms, but she pushed him away.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he murmured. “Let go. Just let go.” His voice, which had started in a whisper, grew louder. He seemed to bite back the words even as he uttered them. As Mayra’s struggles became more feeble, he was able to embrace her. He held her trembling body in his arms and rocked her, while Rhia and the twins stared in horror at their mother’s futile battle.

  At last Mayra fell silent and still. Tereus eased her onto the bed and closed her eyes, praying to himself as he did so. Whispers to Rhia’s left and right told her that Silina and Nilo were beseeching Crow to guide Mayra’s spirit home.

  She looked at Lycas. He stared straight ahead, his face frozen in grief. After a long moment, his gaze shifted to pierce Rhia, though his head did not move. This is what it would feel like to meet him in battle, she thought.

  When the others had finished praying, Lycas hissed, “You said she would live the night.”

  Tereus turned from Mayra. “Leave her alone.”

  “He’s right, Papa.” Rhia’s lip trembled. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “She wasn’t ready.” Lycas spit his words like venom. “Galen wasn’t coming back until morning to prepare her. Because of you.” He pointed to Mayra’s corner. “She shouldn’t have had to die like that!”

  “That’s enough.” Tereus’s voice resounded like a thunder clap. “I said leave her alone.”

  Lycas ignored him and focused his wrath on Rhia. “You couldn’t get the time right, you couldn’t even comfort her, all because you wouldn’t go for your Bestowing.”

  Nilo put a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “Maybe we should—”

  “So now your own mother dies in agony and fear.” Lycas tore out of Nilo’s grip and advanced on Rhia. “Are you happy now, you little coward?”

  Rhia’s sorrow turned to rage. She shrieked and flew at her brother.

  Tereus stepped between them, moving faster than she’d ever seen him. His arms stretched out to hold Rhia and Lycas at the tips of his fingers.

  “Not one more word.”

  His voice was quiet, little more than a whisper, but it held more strength than Rhia’s scream or Lycas’s shouts of recrimination.

  Silina moved toward Mayra, heaving the sigh of the habitually practical. “Preparations must be done. Rhia, help me, please.”

  Rhia turned and took several halting steps toward what had once been her mother. Her feet felt shackled. Behind her, Lycas wept great, racking sobs. The sound muffled, and Rhia guessed that Nilo had drawn his brother close against his shoulder.

  Her imagination of the scene would have to suffice, for she would not look at her brothers again tonight.

  06

  Rhia knelt while Galen sharpened the knife.

  Her scalp smarted from the leather band that pulled her hair into one long mass at the back of her head. Beside her, Lycas, Nilo and Tereus waited their turns.

  What seemed like half the village stood outside for their most beloved healer’s funeral to begin. Mayra would be buried here on the farm where she had raised her family for over twenty years, nestled in a bower of oak trees. Rhia tried to envision the place of peace that her mother’s soul would know forever. But all she saw and heard was the knife, its blade glinting in the light that trickled in from the window, its shing-shing-shing against the sharpening stone.

  The house was silent. This private part of the ceremony involved no chants, no songs, no celebration of Mayra’s life. The Shearing was somber, matter-of-fact.

  In theory, Rhia appreciated the custom of cutting one’s hair after the loss of a close relative—a parent, sibling, child or spouse. Not only did it provide an outward expression of grief, it allowed others to treat the mourners with the proper deference and sympathy. Such a wound should not be concealed.

  But as Galen came toward her with the knife, she had to fight to keep from lurching away, from leaping to her feet and shrinking into the corner. She told herself it wasn’t vanity, that it was the pain of carrying a constant reminder of loss. But she thought of Arcas and wondered how he would view her without her long chestnut tresses, which she knew held most of her beauty.

  Galen twisted his hand into the rope of hair to maintain a better hold. She leaned forward to pull the hair taut and tried not to wince. Only children needed Galen’s apprentice to hold their heads. She would be brave. She would—

  The blade sliced the air with a whoosh. There was a slight tug at the back of her head, then the remains of her hair swung forward to caress her ears. She resisted the urge to touch it.

  Galen’s hand appeared before her, holding a lock of her hair in his palm. It looked longer and redder than she had expected. She took it from him reluctantly, as if it belonged to an unsavory stranger.

  From the corner of her left eye, she saw Lycas kneel straight as a fence post, gaze sharp and focused straight ahead, neck muscles tight. The blade sang, and Lycas’s body tilted forward from the release of tension. Black hair swept his chin.

  Rhia rolled the lock of hair between her thumb and first two fingers. Numbness was setting in at last.

  Later that morning, Rhia and her family gathered at the edge of the bower near the foot of Mayra’s grave. The other villagers, numbering in the hundreds, stood around the perimeter of the shady burial area. The sun, only halfway up the sky, filtered through the leaves to dapple the gravesite and promise an unusually warm day.

  Galen stepped forward through the crowd, followed by his apprentice, the young Hawk woman Berilla. They both wore ceremonial white robes with hawk feathers sewn into them, but while Berilla’s garment bore only a few small brown and black wing feathers, Galen’s held glorious red-tipped tail feathers that covered half his body. When he reached the head of the grave, he raised his arms to the side to signal silence. The feathers gave him the splendor of a hawk with wings outstretched.

  Rhia knelt with her father and brothers on the green woolen blanket laid out for them. The rest of the villagers remained standing and would continue to do so throughout the ceremony, even if it reached past sunset.

  When all was quiet, Galen began a low, mournful chant, a simple tune to calm and focus the minds of those gathered. The crow feather hung heavy around Rhia’s neck, and she longed to conceal it. Everyone knew that if she had gone for her Bestowing years ago, she might be taking part in the ceremony right now. She might have helped her mother.

  The chant finished, and Mayra was brought forth. Eight of the village’s older males carried her body, which was wrapped in a white shroud from head to feet. Rhia had spent hours the night before helping Silina apply thyme and bergamot oils to her mother’s skin and wrapping her body in strips of scented cloth.

  On top of Mayra’s chest and stomach lay dozens of blossoms—blue coneflower and chicory, lacy white wild carrot—and over her throat, the otter fetish that Arcas had carved for her years before. Many of the flowers fell as the men moved her, leaving a colorful trail. The otter remained in place. The men laid Mayra’s body next to the grave and stepped back into the crowd.

  Galen began to sing her spirit home. Berilla drummed the rhythm while an elderly man played the haunting melody on a wooden flute. The voices of the villagers—everyone but Rhia, Tereus and the twins—rose together to lift Mayra’s spirit into the winds, high enough that Crow would find it and carry it home. They would sing until a crow came into sight nearby, called, then flew away.

  Without one of its People to do the beckoning, however, the bird’s appearance could take hours. Crows could not be summoned and directed like sheepdogs. Rhia hoped the Spirit would have mercy o
n them all and send one of His minions quickly.

  The drummer thumped and the voices sang, never flagging. The sun rose in the sky until its rays angled through the opening in the trees, tingling Rhia’s newly exposed neck, which would no doubt be red by the ceremony’s end. A drop of sweat trickled from her temple past her ear, and her knees throbbed beneath her. She chided herself for noticing physical complaints when her mother was forever beyond the pains and pleasures of the body. But it was easier to concentrate on the ache in her legs than the hurt in her heart and the stinging behind her eyes that made them full and hot.

  No one met her gaze except Arcas. His face held a mixture of sadness and shame. He must have figured out, as she had, what the two of them had been doing when Mayra began to die. She wanted to dash across the funeral ground into his arms. It would ease his pain, if not hers, and she needed to make someone feel better rather than worse. Such would be her role—turning death, the most inescapable reality, into an acceptable part of life.

  But how could she move people to accept death when she herself wanted to rail and rave against it, to beat her fists and forehead against the earth in futile defense of the person it had just consumed?

  Though she was not supposed to join in, Rhia closed her eyes and sang the chant in her mind, reaching out to the Crow Spirit and begging Him to send one of His kind to end this torture of her neighbors and friends.

  A half minute later, a crow called overhead, from the topmost branch of a hickory tree. The chant faded, and the relief, while not expressed aloud, was palpable as everyone looked up to confirm the source of the sound.

  The bird cawed a few more times, its head and chest bobbing with each throaty utterance. An unseen crow, probably its mate, returned the call from down the hill. As the crow took off, the branch shook, and a single dead leaf floated to the ground. Autumn was on its way.

  The bird passed the bower, wings thumping the air, at once the softest and harshest sound Rhia had ever heard.

  A choked cry from her left signaled Tereus’s final surrender to grief. She wrapped her arms around her father’s neck, and they sobbed into each other’s shoulders as Mayra’s body was gently lowered into the grave.

  Her father’s pain rolled off him in waves. Tereus had claimed many times that he would never remarry if he outlived Mayra. Rhia believed it now, and wept for his emptiness.

  A feast was held on the hillside after the ceremony. Villagers made a long line for the water and ale, their throats no doubt raw from singing.

  Tereus and Rhia sat on their front step, on display—or so it felt to her. The funeral attendees filed past to greet them, but as soon as her father took one of them to the paddock to see the new yearling, the parade dwindled. Her brothers had retreated to a far corner of the farmyard, clearly preferring solitude.

  Arcas soon joined Rhia.

  “Are you sure you want to be seen with me?” she asked.

  “I’m sure I want to be with you.”

  She gestured to the villagers, who had banded together in groups of eight or twelve to eat. “No one will even look at me, much less share my company. My own brothers haven’t spoken to me since she died.”

  Arcas studied the frayed hem of his sleeve. “They’re grieving. Don’t expect them to make sense.”

  “But something doesn’t fit. We were getting along last night. I thought they’d forgiven me for not having the power to help her. Then she told them something that set them off.”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  Rhia looked across the field at the twins. They sat alone, with no food or drink, Lycas scowling and Nilo directing his stony gaze at the ground in front of him. The village tailor and her husband the horse healer approached the twins to offer condolences. The villagers received polite nods but no words, so they hurried back to the feast as soon as courtesy would allow.

  Rhia turned back to Arcas, who made a conciliatory gesture. “They do seem less than receptive right now,” he said.

  “Arcas, may I speak with Rhia alone?”

  She looked up to see Galen, still in his ceremonial white robe. Arcas slid away after giving Rhia’s hand a surreptitious squeeze.

  The older man eased himself to sit beside her. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed last night. I wanted to give your family some time alone, but—”

  “But you shouldn’t have trusted my judgment.”

  His voice held a heavy weight. “Our powers can become cloudy when we turn them on those we love.”

  “Must I never love anyone, then, so that I won’t fail them when they die?”

  Galen shook his head. “You can learn to separate your feelings from your magic. But it will always be harder with some. Not impossible, just hard.”

  Rhia looked to the east, where the pale green valley met the Great Forest. “I wanted Mother to see another sunrise. It was her favorite time of day.”

  “They say that the Other Side is more beautiful than a thousand sunrises, though that’s no consolation.” When she didn’t reply, he asked quietly, “Are you ready, then? To travel to Kalindos and train with Coranna?”

  Ready? She would never feel ready to live among the wild Kalindons, to learn to wield her powers by watching people die.

  Nonetheless…

  “When do I leave?”

  “At spring thaw. By the time your mourning period is over, it will be well into winter, when it’s best not to travel. I’ll take you into the forest myself.”

  Rhia knew she should be grateful that the Council Leader had taken a special interest in her, though she suspected it was more for her value as a Crow than for any belief in her ability.

  “But first,” he said, “I must train you in ways of the Spirits. How to journey within, visit their dwelling places in the Spirit World.”

  Rhia touched the ends of her shorn hair for the first time. The training would let her escape, give her somewhere to put the pain where it couldn’t prick her heart.

  Now she was truly ready.

  07

  Throughout the next month, Galen taught Rhia the rituals and observances known to the adults of Asermos. She learned chants and prayers to achieve tranquility, without which she might misinterpret or even ignore the Spirits’ messages.

  Galen also took her into the forest to teach her survival skills, for she would remain alone there for three days and nights before her Bestowing. He demonstrated how to gather wood and start a fire, and how to purify stream water to rid it of animal wastes. He showed her the path to Kalindos, which made her frown—it appeared to be uphill all the way.

  Other practical knowledge included handling encounters with large forest dwellers such as wolves, cougars and bears. Of these she feared wolves most, though she knew they posed the smallest threat.

  Her favorite lessons, however, focused on spiritual rather than physical challenges. With Galen’s guidance, she embarked on trance-induced journeys to the Spirit World. A lifetime of worship rituals, observed without question or deviation, had made the Spirits feel distant and indifferent, especially as she grew out of childhood. Now They came alive within her, each with unique qualities, until They seemed like old friends. She had missed much by postponing her journey into adulthood, and she struggled not to brood over the lost years.

  After one particularly arduous but rewarding session at Galen’s house, Rhia stepped outside and squinted into the harsh afternoon sun. Dizzy from the glare, she fumbled to shut the door behind her.

  A rustle of grass came from her left. “There you are.”

  Rhia turned slowly toward the voice, contemplating the statement. Here I am. But where is here? Who am I?

  Arcas touched her arm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She gazed at him. He looked new, sharp, as if someone had traced the outline of his body with a fine-pointed piece of charcoal.

  “Communing with Spirits, I see.” He brushed back a curl from her forehead. “Your eyes shine.”

  She blinked. His outline was fading
now, and his edges began to flow into the background of the house and trees.

  “Forgive me,” she said, “I’m a bit…” She flapped her hand in a circle near her head to indicate her state of mind.

  Arcas laughed. “You’ll get used to it. Do you have time to take a walk?”

  “Your father said I should contemplate what I learned today. I imagine he meant alone.”

  “I won’t keep you long. Promise.”

  Rhia hesitated. She wanted to hear nothing inside her head but her own thoughts, to dwell within her new experience. But she also wanted to share the encounters with someone who had recently made the same journey.

  Besides, she missed Arcas. They had spent little time together in the month since Mayra’s funeral. When she wasn’t training with Galen, Rhia stayed close to home, both to help with the farm and household duties and to share comfort with her father in their mourning.

  “A short walk.” She glanced back at Galen’s house to make sure he didn’t see her disobedience.

  They followed a path leading down the hill toward the sheep pen. A long-haired black-and-tan dog squeezed under the fence and bounded over to greet them.

  “Fili!” Arcas scolded. With a series of hand gestures, he instructed the dog to return to the flock. Fili snapped to attention and obeyed.

  “That’s amazing,” Rhia said. “She does it just because you said so. Our hounds have to have a good reason. They do things because they want to.”

  “Fili’s a sheepdog, a lot smarter than a hound. She wants what I want.”

  “Hmm.” All in all, Rhia preferred the hounds’ independence, and thought that the ability to take orders was a poor measure of intelligence for human or beast.

  She shook the remaining clouds from her mind. “Was it like this for you? Journeying?”

  “Like what?”

  “Everything’s different. I look around, and this world seems less substantial. Less real.”