The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  “No leave, you no leave her!”

  His denial and fear make him back further away. He is shaking his head at me, saying harsh words that humans use in times of stress. He looks up at the house one more time before he turns in the direction of his big machine.

  I sigh and bow my head as I watch him go. He will come back, I know this.

  His big machine disappears around the corner as my woman’s friend comes out. She is wringing her hands and her face is full of worry. My woman has told her that she must go see her mother. The old woman should not be alive, I know, it was her time. I am not certain that my woman should have done this. But her friend was screaming and crying—it hurt to watch her in so much pain. Humans die; that is the way of things. Nonetheless, humans do not like this.

  She sees me and stops, hand on her chest. She speaks a welcome and approaches me slowly. She tilts her head down at me. Her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are red but her heart is not as heavy as it was before.

  She is close now and reaches out with tentative fingers. I lean forward and touch my beak to them. She gasps and smiles. Her smile changes her face; she is young again.

  She thanks me and then apologizes; she must go, go fast. I nod my head and she smiles at my understanding.

  I watch her run home which is not far. She plods heavily and huffs, her many necklaces jingling loudly in the quiet night.

  I fly back to the ledge of my woman’s bedroom. She lies peacefully, asleep. My skin tingles with excitement under my feathers at being so close to my woman. I can look upon her this close and not feel my feathers being pulled from my body or my head splitting open. Her energy is greatly diminished by what she has done. And now, I will keep watch until I am pushed away once more.

  18

  It appears that I have broken, or at least fractured, a rib or two. The cuts and bruises are superficial albeit wicked looking. Sylvia has been fretting over me, and I find it more annoying than helpful. I insist that all I need is sleep and that if she mentions calling for an ambulance one more time, I am going turn her into a squirrel. Which turns out not to be a deterrent—she thinks being a squirrel would be awesome.

  Sylvia has made herself at home on the sofa bed and is tending to my every need, but no longer rushing to my bedside whenever she hears a grunt or yelp. It turns out that I am not a very good patient. I am the one who gives the advice and does the caregiving. I’m not good at being on the receiving end of these things.

  Sylvia gives me periodic updates on Jo’s visit with her mother. Jo is beside herself with happiness at being able to spend time with Matilda before death takes her. Both women know the truth, and their time together is bittersweet. But they are making the most of every moment, even if Matilda is confined to a hospital bed on doctor’s orders.

  My sleep is fitful; stabs of pain wake me each time I move. I dream the white raven is at my window watching over me. Surprisingly, it gives me a little peace.

  The next time I wake, Sylvia informs me I’ve been asleep for almost a full day. I tell her about my dream, and she points to the window. Perched there looking in is the white raven.

  My heart leaps into my throat, and my eyes instantly well with tears. I try to sit up, but that brings pricks of light in my vision, a stab of pain in my side, and pounding in my head. Sylvia pushes me back down gently, so I lie on my good side, staring at him. He jumps slightly but does not fly away. I’ve wanted to see this creature for so many lifetimes. He has shown me only the barest glimpse of him so many times, but for reasons I cannot fathom he shows himself to me now. A pleasant rush of goosebumps travel across my skin, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

  His eyes sparkle at me, his body quivering with excitement, seeming to be as thrilled with seeing me as I am him. He is magnificent—so much larger than a regular raven, and much brighter white than the ravens with leucism. His eyes are the same color as mine! How strange.

  “Hello,” I say.

  He hunches down and puts his forehead against the window, making a soft warbling sound deep in his throat. I don’t notice that tears are flowing until Sylvia rushes to my side asking me what is wrong. I can’t explain what I feel but I am not in pain. She pats my shoulder and goes downstairs.

  I blink away the tears and smile at the vision in my window.

  I am so—

  He screeches and jerks his head back, launching himself from the ledge.

  I jump up, or try to, only to be stopped by shooting pains. “I’m so sorry! Please come back!”

  It is almost an hour before he returns, and I beg his forgiveness.

  We are both silent, simply staring at each other. My face aches from smiling. I recall the moment in Matilda’s home when I saw him, his stark white feathers glowing like a beacon in a storm. Which is exactly what he was. He showed me the safe, knowing it would protect us. I assume he traveled through the Veil, as all ravens can, to come to my aid. I have been wrong to suspect him, to think he was a party to my curse. In his presence, seeing him fully for the first time, I feel only love from this bird.

  I long to speak to him; I have so many questions. For almost all of my many lives, I’ve wanted this: his presence, his company. I don’t know what motivated him to show himself finally but I hope this is a sign that he’ll stay.

  Sylvia comes in with a tray, announcing that it is dinner time. She glances at the window and stops, seeing the white raven. “Wow! He’s still here. Very cool.”

  He is watching everything; each step and movement from Sylvia is closely monitored. She arranges the pillows behind my back, and I wince while repositioning. He squawks angrily and flashes his wings.

  “Oh, don’t get your wings in a bunch, I didn’t hurt her,” she says, pursing her lips at him, and he settles down, still eyeing her intently.

  With the white raven near, I am so happy. It is as if there has been a piece missing in my life that is now back. I feel whole, complete. Looking at his soft face, the constant battle I wage with the emotional tides that run through me have subsided; I am at peace with myself. He leans his forehead against the glass; the sweet gesture makes my heart swell.

  By the third day of my convalescence, he seems antsy. He fidgets a great deal and paces back and forth on the ledge. Late afternoon comes, and he is shaking his head, stabbing his beak into the old wood. I ask him what is wrong because he looks to be in pain, and he answers with only mournful sounds. I dare not try anything magickal on him; simply speaking into his mind caused him to flee. I watch helplessly as he writhes against the glass.

  When twilight approaches, he leaps from the sill with a pained croak.

  I cry out when he leaves. Somehow, I know that he will not return. My sobs come hard and from deep within as if a close friend has just died. Sylvia comes to console me, but I have no words for what I feel in my very soul. I want to scream at the unfairness of it but I’m not certain what exactly is unfair. She goes outside to look for him. When she comes back, she tells me he’s settled in the large tree in the backyard of the house across the street, panting hard, with his head hanging low.

  I ask her to let me be alone. As my sobs subside with a final deep inhale, I realize my ribs no longer hurt. Easing myself from the bed and removing my sleep shirt, I look at my naked self in the full-length mirror. The bruises are fading, now a sick yellow and purple color, in great blobs around my arms, sides, back, and legs. The cuts are only lines of dry scabs that itch. I am healing faster than usual and I wonder if the white raven has anything to do with that. I glance to the window in the reflection, hoping he is there, but of course he is not.

  Sitting back down on the bed, I wave my hand in the direction of the bathroom. The faucet in the tub turns on, and the stopper lodges itself into the drain. Maggie decides her vigil is over now and she heads silently down the stairs. Night is settling in, and that means playtime with the fairies. She’s missed the last several days having been at my side.

  I lie in bed the whole next day, not out of pain but ou
t of depression. The appearance of my long-elusive companion had me dancing on clouds. With his resumed absence, I am hollow, empty.

  Sylvia comes up the stairs slowly. She enters my bedroom, phone in both hands, texting intently. She raises her face to me, tears streaming down.

  “Grandma’s gone,” she says, inhaling a sob. “In her sleep.”

  Her shoulders shudder as she lets the flood of tears come. I put my arms around her and hold her tight. I hadn’t felt the woman’s death nor the despair Jo must be feeling. I have been so mired in self-pity that I missed the anguish of my friend. Guiding Sylvia to the bed, I sit down with her and pull her head into my neck, stroking her hair. No words to comfort her come to me, so I rock her lightly. Arial comes to sit on Sylvia’s lap and pushes her head into her breast. Sylvia cries harder.

  After the worst of her crying subsides, she tells me that Jo will head back after the coven picks up the body of her mother. Matilda is to have a proper witch’s burial, as is their family tradition. This is done in secret, deep in the woods, far away from any eyes that wouldn’t understand and the law that wouldn’t allow it.

  “Go help your mother, sweetie. I’ll buy your plane ticket,” I say, my cheek lying atop her head.

  She wipes the tears from her face. “No, no, that’s too much. I couldn’t let you.”

  “Shush. She needs you. I’ll not let you refuse.”

  After a tight hug, she stiffens and then jumps up, realization spreading across her face.

  “Oh, my Goddess, the grand opening invitations will be delivered tomorrow. They need to go out ASAP! It’s, like, less than two months away. There are so many Halloween parties, people need to be invited sooner rather than later.” Sylvia stares at me with urgent eyes.

  “I’m perfectly capable of addressing envelopes and putting them in the mail, believe it or not.” I usher her out the door.

  With a long hug, she leaves, escorted by Arial. While the cat most often acts aloof and uncaring, it’s a big show. Arial leads Sylvia all the way home as if the girl didn’t know where she was going.

  It’s been over a week since the tornado. I have put my feelings regarding the white raven aside and have written Cal off completely. I lament what could have been—something that I have a hard time not doing—then get irritated at myself for doing it.

  Jo and Sylvia will be back soon and they will have my full attention. I’ve closed the shop and cleaned Jo’s house. She’ll be furious with me but that’s just tough. When I opened Sylvia’s bedroom door, the chaos that assaulted my eyes made me back away and close the door.

  When they arrive late in the night, Maggie, Arial, and I are waiting on Jo’s front porch. Jo starts to cry the moment she sees me. We hug long and hard in the driveway. Between sobs, she apologizes for the way she reacted, and I am crying also, begging her forgiveness for yelling at her. Sylvia wraps her arms around us and joins in.

  True to form, Jo is livid that I not only cleaned her house but did laundry and made dinner. Her exhaustion quickly wins out over her anger as does the smell of lasagna and garlic bread. Sylvia is disappointed her room wasn’t cleaned.

  Between mouthfuls, Jo recounts the wonderful time she had with her mother—the card games she let her win, the long talks, the peaceful meditations. She chokes up on occasion then stuffs more garlic bread in her mouth, washing it down with a slug of red wine. She says the coven came to transport Matilda’s body. They will call Jo when they reach Massachusetts.

  “May I come to the farewell ritual?” I ask.

  Jo snarls and takes another gulp of wine. “No. I am so pissed about that. I told them you were the one that saved her and should make an exception, but Claudia—” Jo bites her tongue and takes a breath. “The new high priestess bitch won’t allow it,” she spits out. “Family and coven only.”

  “It’s okay, really. I’ve had dealings with covens in the past, and I know how much they value their secrecy.”

  Jo lets out a derisive snort and stabs a lump of lasagna with her fork.

  I am secretly relieved. Although I would go to support my friend, I don’t relish the idea of seeing another burning body on a pyre or choking on the stench of burning flesh. Just the memory of that smell turns my stomach.

  Jo gets the call the next afternoon. They’re still packed and need nothing more than a few changes of clothes and their ritual robes. I wave at the back of their car as they head for some mysterious and secluded part of western Massachusetts.

  19

  I have watched night and day, waiting and waiting, for my woman’s friend and her daughter to return.

  I am sleeping on the porch railing when I hear her small machine. The bright lights of the machine blind me as she turns into the drive. They both see me. They are pointing.

  I hop and open my wings. Speak to you! Speak with you!

  The woman’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open. The woman and the girl get out of the machine and walk to me carefully as if they might scare me away.

  I bow my head at the woman, looking at her eyes. We speak?

  The woman only nods and asks her daughter to go into the house. I hop to the end of the railing by the swing. She walks still more carefully onto the porch. The boards creak loud. I watch her come. She sits slowly onto the swing. It creaks more.

  I bob my head at her. You not scare me. Do not be scared of me too.

  She nods again, mouth still open.

  Can you help me? Need help from you.

  The woman takes a deep breath with her eyes closed. I see the calm come over her. Her energy is softening, she is relaxing.

  Hello? Her eyes open at me, questioning.

  Hello.

  She smiles wide. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be talking to you!

  I bob again. Humans are silly.

  You say you need help from me?

  If you can. Can you? I tilt my head at her.

  I will try my best!

  Her excitement is loud in my head.

  When my woman was injured— Her brows pinch and she looks confused.

  Your friend. She is my woman.

  She nods in understanding but her look is still confused.

  When she was injured, I could come near her. My heart beats faster at the memory. I have never done that. This was the first time. I was so happy. Happy, happy! I hop around the railing; the memory is so wonderful. Cannot now. I am no longer able now. I have tried but it hurts just like it always has. You are a strong witch, good witch. Can you help me be near her again?

  Her lips pinch together. I need to understand better. May I ask you some questions?

  Yes, yes.

  Okay, are you the same white raven that has been in all of her lives?

  I nod. Her eyebrows go up on her forehead.

  Are you the same bird I saw in the vision of Aven taking Patricia’s body? And when she helped my mother, you were there?

  I nod again, hopping. Yes! I helped! Yes!

  Yes, you did! Thank you so very much! Having those stolen moments with her is something I’ll never be able to thank you enough for. Her eyes became glossy and water spills from them. She wipes her cheeks and takes a few deep breaths.

  Okay. She breathes in again heavily. Are you a spirit? A ghost?

  I have form. I bleed.

  Interesting. Hmm, so, it sounds like you are immortal and can also travel through the Veil. But you aren’t able to get near her? Ever?

  I shake my head. Never, never. Until she was hurt.

  What happens when you try to go near her?

  Pain, pain. Everywhere. Like my feathers are being pulled out, like my heart is squeezed tight, like my head will split. I hang my head and shake my body. The memories of the pains will never go away.

  Her face turns sad and her mouth frowns. She thinks for a moment. How long were you able to be near her when she was injured?

  I think of how many sunrises and sunsets it was. Three days almost.

  What did it feel like? What happen
ed?

  I shiver. It came on slowly, I could feel it coming. But then the push came, along with the pain. I had to fly!

  The push?

  Yes. It feels like she is pushing at me, pushing me away.

  The woman makes the ‘hmm’ noise again and her hand goes to the black red rock around her neck. She is thinking.

  Do you follow her through all her lives?

  Yes. Mostly, yes. Sometimes, when she returns, I cannot find her. I travel, I fly, I live. Then, always, I feel her energy and find her.

  Do you have a message for her? The woman’s fingers spin the black red stone.

  I tilt my head, not understanding.

  Is there something you need to say to her? Is that why you follow her?

  I follow because I must. I must.

  I see. She is nodding again but her eyes seem far away. The stone glows within like an ember.

  I hop to make her look at me. Your questions answered? You help me now?

  She is quiet for many heartbeats, not looking at me. I am anxious now, pacing on the railing. Finally, I scream at her and flash my wings. She jumps and the stone drops from her fingers. The ember dies.

  I’m so sorry. She raises her palms to me. I may be able to help if what I assume is right. Aven has very strong energy. Very. I see it, I feel it too. It might be too much for you. I think that when she was hurt in the tornado, her energy weakened enough for you to be able to come near.

  I bob my head many times. This makes sense to me.

  She puts her hand to her forehead and sighs. Let me think on it. I am so tired. I will see what I can do. Then she looks at me with drooping eyes. I promise.

  I bow my head and nod. She needs rest I see. Her energy is dull and flat, and dark crescents lie below her eyes. I nod again and leap into the air.

  The night is cool and my heart feels light in my chest. I wish to fly, fly high. I have some hope now, of being close again to my woman, and my heart is happy.