The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

Bring to light what is black.

  With my Sight, I see Jo cue the white raven. Ren takes wing, flying widdershins around the circle. The breeze she stirs as she flies behind my back gives me goosebumps. Her flight symbolizes the turning back of time. Three times she encircles us then lands gracefully back onto her perch.

  Days of her first past lie hidden in shadow.

  The way is blocked.

  Her sight is fallow.

  Each step she takes must take her back,

  Back to what is not welcoming, what has been kept black.

  Blinded is she, held fast and tight.

  Turn back your silver wheel,

  Bring the first back to light!

  As above, so below.

  Step back a life.

  Now, you go!

  “I step back.” I take one step backward in the water.

  As above, so below.

  Step back a life.

  Now, you go!

  “I step back.” Once more backward, deeper into the stream, my feet sinking into the silky mud.

  As above, so below.

  Step back a life.

  Now, you go!

  “I step back.”

  This is repeated until I have taken twelve steps backward, going back through each life. The water is at hip level, and I keep my arms above it.

  As above, so below.

  As within, so without.

  As the universe, so the soul.

  Step back to your first life,

  Blinded no more you are!

  See all that you should,

  Know all that you are!

  It is YOUR life!

  It is your RIGHT to see!

  Days of the past are no longer hidden.

  As I will it, so mote it be!

  I remove the blindfold and drop it into the water. “I step back.” My voice is strong and determined.

  As I lift my foot to step back, hard pressure against it prevents me from stepping backward. Here it is, here is what I’ve done. With my eyes focused on the fire, I take a deep breath. As my lungs fill with air, I pull into myself the power of the natural world around me. I take from the water; from the giant boulders that dot the shoreline; from the crackling fire; from the solid, old trees that seem to lean in towards me; and from the black bear, the wolf, the mountain lion, and the owl that watch me. The gentle spirits Jo has called line the bank, their arms outstretched to me, giving me all they can offer. The surge of the collective power surrounds me, fills me. My skin burns with it, and my muscles strain to contain it. I push my foot backward, but the invisible wall is stronger. Raising my face to the moon, which seems to have doubled in size since she first appeared over the trees, I draw her energy down into me; Mother Moon gives it freely. The rush of her power makes me gasp. My eyes burn, but I do not close them. I must see, I must know.

  The power I hold roars in my ears; I hear nothing else. With my Sight, the block I have made becomes visible. It appears as a black scar across the light of the fire. Glaring at it, I push the immense power at the barrier, but it does not waver. I grow angry and frustrated, and the power wanes. I must not allow negativity to come or I will lose all of this.

  What other power can I draw from? Nature is giving me all she has and it’s not enough! I force my breathing to slow, force myself back to calm. As peace returns to my Spirit, I see something I had not seen before. The glowing auras of Jo, Sylvia, and Cal. I do not see Ren’s. Their energies radiate pink hues and are expanding outward and upward. Their love! That’s it! That is the one thing I have been missing, the one thing I have lacked in all of my lives. The power of love.

  Their love comes to me at the faintest call. When it joins with me, my body convulses. Making fists to steel myself, I focus the whole of this power at the block and drive my heel backward. There is a flash of bright, hot light as my foot pushes through and hits the muddy floor of the stream. I cry out from the momentary brightness.

  Then there is darkness. I see nothing—no fire, no moon, no friends. I feel nothing; I am neither cold nor hot—the exquisite burning sensation is gone. There is no sound; the roaring in my ears has stopped.

  Fear leaps up into my throat, and I clench my hands into fists again.

  Far before me, a pinprick of light appears. I know I must go towards it even though I am afraid.

  As if I were looking through a keyhole, I see myself, but a younger version—maybe thirteen or fourteen. She looks absolutely terrified. No, no, no. Not this. Not this, please. My skin prickles, and my breath catches in my throat.

  My view opens more, like the drawing back of thick curtains, to reveal the reasons for her terror. She is bound hand and foot to an old tree, her hands overhead, pulled tight with rope. Her wrists bleed as do her ankles. She wears only a thin white nightdress, torn and filthy. She is screaming, pulling at her bonds, at something not yet in my vision. Her screams plead and beg; tracks of tears and dirt streak her face. I do not hear too much sound yet, but it is increasing slowly as the view widens. I need not hear her words—I feel her fright and pain intensely, for it had been mine and still lives buried within me, forgotten until this moment.

  It grips my heart, and I gasp from the pain. My chest burns, my lungs strain for breath. Am I to relive this whole thing? I cannot, I must not! I try to turn away, to turn back to Jo, into the safety of Cal’s arms, but I cannot move. I am bound in place by an invisible force, just as the younger me is bound by handmade rope.

  The full sounds of the scene rush at me as the images sharpen and everything around the young girl comes into focus. The black curtains are now gone, revealing the scene of a ritual, but one not as benevolent as this one.

  She screams at two people. They are certainly my parents, for the love and agony in their faces is unmistakable, despite the blonde hair. I choke at the sight of them. My mother’s mouth is purple and black, a trickle of blood along one side, her eyes red and swollen from long bouts of crying, and her clothes torn at the shoulder and waist. My father fares worse, his arm hanging beside him limp, his shoulder misshapen, and his back slumped. His forehead and one side of his face are caked thick with dried blood and dirt, his pants are torn in many places and blood has soaked through. They are bound as well, but around the neck, with the same rope that binds their daughter. Both are straining against it. My mother’s hands clutch the rope in a vain attempt to keep the noose from cutting into her as she strains to reach her terrified daughter.

  My father is yelling at a small group of men who are carrying what looks to be a large, wooden trough. As they set it heavily on the ground, I hear what sounds like chains within it. These men step aside, bowing low and backing away, for three men are coming towards the center where the trough was placed. I recoil from them. Their hate slaps me hard in the face. I try to gulp air but I feel suffocated, strangled by the weight of these men’s malevolent natures. As if I were a rabbit and they the hounds set upon me, I want to run. I want as much distance between them as I can manage from four swift limbs built for speed. But I am held fast and I have no powers, no magick to help me or protect me.

  But I am not the one that needs protecting, that is certain. The young girl is the object of their wrath. They order a great pile of wood be set afire. Their harsh and deep voices cut into my soul. These ancient men mean to hurt me, hurt her, under the pretense of ridding their village of a great evil. Their simple brown robes are tattered and faded, and necklaces made of animal bone rattle against their chests.

  As the bonfire roars to life, I see where we are. The night is black—no moon or even stars are visible—and the cleared area within the tight group of leafless trees is lit only by the bonfire and torches arranged in a wide circle. Other people are there, the whole village it seems, tightly packed into the clearing. Children peek between their parents’ legs and around protective arms. Some are crying, most are silent, transfixed by a sight they have never seen before. The adults all wear the same expression, that of justifiable righteousness masking their
ignorant fear.

  Buckets of water are brought by the same servants, heads bowed, shoulders slumped, doing the bidding of their unkind masters. They stack the pails within arm’s reach of the trough.

  One of the thin, decrepit men raises an arm to the sky demanding silence, and he is quickly obeyed. His sleeve tumbles to his shoulder, revealing twisted trails of faded black symbols and runic script, looking wicked despite their age. He speaks words I don’t understand in a language I can’t remember. His other arm shoots out towards the crowd, and people part as a young boy with a frightened but determined face brings forth a small wooden cage. The cage is so small that the creature within it cannot move.

  I can’t discern what is in the cage, but my gut tells me immediately. There is white under the muck that covers most of it. It is a bird, a white raven.

  Pain grips my chest. I remember this bird! This is my best friend, my only friend, save for my parents, and I love her desperately. She is terrified and rightly so. These men have no kind plans for her. One man snatches the cage from the boy and struts over to the middle of the circle. He holds the cage up, shouting vitriol to the rapt villagers, and it twitches under his grip, the bird frightened beyond reason and desperate to be free. My younger self screams, pleads, cries for the creature to be released, not to be hurt, for she is an innocent soul. I cannot understand the words I use, but I know what I am saying. The man laughs without mirth, admonishing the girl for her use of the word innocent.

  The third man approaches the cage with a gleaming knife in his upraised hand. I scream. We scream. The curve of the blade is menacing by itself, but the hand that holds it makes the image all that more evil. His skeletal hand is marked with the red and black bruises that come with thinning skin and old age. His forearm bears the same faded tattooing as his brethren. The man’s raised voice is deep and frightening; his words are few but meaningful to the crowd. They angrily agree with his words and the deed he is about to do. He thrusts the knife towards the cage, sinking it deep within. The bird makes a sound so piercing that it burns into my brain, echoed by the scream from my younger self pulling against her bonds.

  “Ren!” the younger me screams.

  The bird’s wail quickly fades into a mournful cry as life leaves her helpless body. The sadness of that sound leaves me feeling soulless, empty to my core. The man keeps the knife in her breast as he takes the cage from his fellow. He walks to the trough and, holding the cage over it, removes the blade. The bird’s warm blood, looking black in this light, pours as water into its emptiness. He shakes the cage mercilessly, ensuring every last drop has left the poor creature.

  Once satisfied, he tosses the cage to the side as if it were nothing. The cage breaks apart when it hits the ground, leaving the lifeless body splayed upon the dirt. The sight shatters the bound girl. Her knees buckle and she crumples, hanging limply by her upstretched arms.

  The three men, standing abreast, approach the young girl. The one still holds the now bloody knife. My parents are screaming, crying, begging, straining uselessly against the ropes at their throats. The mob is quite the opposite; they are shouting for death, for the purging of evil demons, for the release from the curse their village is under.

  Two of the men grab the girl at arms’ length. I smell their fear. Underneath their bluster and audacity, they are nothing but frightened little men—afraid, to their very bones, of a young girl who can do things they cannot without potions or chants, sacrifices or bloodletting. But she is evil, they profess, for too many harvests have gone bad, too much livestock has fallen sick and died, too many babes have been born without breath since she has come of age. It is her! There are demons inside her, you can even see them! Her raven-black hair, the unnatural color of her eyes, the works she can do with just a single thought.

  These words whip the already frenzied crowd up even more. They are justified in this ritual, ridding themselves of demonic magick. Kill her, kill her now! She must be purged from their lives for peace and prosperity to return.

  The third man with the knife cuts the bonds of the girl, and she immediately returns to life. Kicking and screaming, she is calling for her mother and father to save her, but the men’s grips are iron and she cannot free herself. I strain against the force that holds me. I can stop them, I must save her! Screaming soundlessly at the vile scene before me, I feel warmth on my lip and taste blood in my mouth.

  With much effort and shouting, for the girl fights against them like a wild cat, they lift her over the trough. One man calls for aid and his followers run to him. It takes six of them to push her down into it. They shackle her to the bottom around the ankles, wrists, and neck. I cannot see this, but I hear the chains and feel the cold iron upon my skin.

  The three take positions around the trough—the one with the knife at its head, two on each side at the other end. Each one’s hands lift to the black sky, and they chant. Their words silence the frothing crowd; their voices are guttural and low, rising slowly, evenly. The cadence is mesmerizing, and the throng falls into a trance-like state, eyes fixed upon the basin, not hearing the screams and cries of the girl chained within.

  One by one, the buckets of water are emptied into it. My mother falls to her knees. My father shouts furiously, cursing the men with every word.

  Bucket by bucket, the trough slowly fills. The three men do not look down at it but up only, their wicked chant crescendoing. I am gagging, my mouth is full of moldy water. I cannot breathe! I struggle against it, but I cannot move, cannot lift my head from the water for breath. More water pummels my face, and I can only gasp and gulp, desperate for air, but my throat filling with water instead. My brain is on fire, my heart is racing madly, deafening me, I hear nothing else. My lungs burn. I cannot breathe!

  There is a darkness creeping in, and it soothes me. My struggles slow, my pounding heart wanes, the fire in my lungs burns less. I feel a peace coming. It is warm and comforting, and I want to give myself to it. My chest heaves again reflexively, still wanting for breath. The water is no longer cold and biting.

  I count the beats of my heart, they grow fewer as the comfort settles through me. There is one, then another, and then just one more…

  The world explodes around me. Light and heat expand from my body. An unimaginable pain rips through my very soul. My scream is swallowed up by the sound of the blast. The trough disintegrates, the water turns instantly to steam. Shocked screams are snuffed out; no one has time to run. The bodies of my three assailants blow apart upon contact with the light and fire, their faces twisted in horror.

  All in the wake of the explosion are similarly dispatched. My parents. Their agony and torment is replaced by peace and the quiet comfort that death brings. Far out it reaches—the buildings in the village blast apart as if they were naught but matchsticks. Trees flatten, fields are laid waste, animals—both livestock and wild—succumb to a quick and unexpected end.

  In less than a breath, it is over. The sky remains black. There is no light, no sound, no wind. There is nothing except a charred ring in the blackened earth where the trough had been.

  33

  “Aven! Aven!” Cal’s voice is panicked. Strong arms pull me out of the water. I am gagging, I have no strength at all; I cannot push myself up to help him get me to the bank. He struggles to pull me and we fall to the ground. I vomit water and blood. Rocks cut into my palms and knees.

  Sylvia is crying out for her mother. Through my own haze and the flames of the still roaring fire, I see Jo on the ground. I call to her but no sound comes out. My throat burns. I push at Cal with the little strength I have mustered, motioning for him to go to Jo. He protests but I push him again. I try to tell him I am fine but no words come.

  But I am not fine. My mind reels from the onslaught of an entire life, short as it was, coming back to me all at once. And the reality of how I died. How I was murdered. And the dreadful knowledge of all those lives I took when I died. There will be no reprieve for me. I am cursed forever. I vomit again. Cal
grabs my robe from the ground and places it around me. I push at him again to go to Jo. Pulling the cold velvet around me, I lie on my side and hug my knees to my chest.

  I crane my head to see Jo, but the fire is in the way. My Sight shows Jo on her back with Sylvia shaking her shoulders, slapping her sharply on each cheek. Tears stream down Sylvia’s face. Cal pushes her aside gently to check Jo’s vitals. She is breathing and her pulse is strong. Her body isn’t what worries Sylvia. What did she see, what did she feel that put her in such a state? Sylvia’s questions go unanswered. Cal tries to reassure Sylvia that her mother is fine, physically. Cal wants to move her into the tent, but Sylvia refuses. Jo is much better served under the light of the full moon. Cal growls but orders her to get a sleeping bag, extra blankets, and a pillow. He barks at her, snapping her out of her panic.

  My friend, what is wrong? There is nothing but silence. I search for her Spirit; perhaps it journeyed from her body. I sense nothing. My head pounds with each use of power. There’s a warm trickle from my nose, and I taste blood on my lips. Calling out to Jo again sends a jolt of pain through my head. I need to rest, just for a moment, then I’ll be fine. Just for a moment.

  When I bolt awake, I know the sun has risen despite the gray light filtering through the tent. I am still naked, wrapped in my robe but tucked within a sleeping bag. Gasping for breath and sweating, my fingernails dig into my palms. I throw off the covers and burst from the tent.

  Hearing my movements, Cal comes towards the tent just in time to catch me before I hit the ground. The scenery around me blurs and swirls; waves of nausea beat within my stomach. Cal is speaking, but I can’t make out what he says. He lowers me to the ground, cradling me in his arms. He is stroking my hair and back as my vision clears. The nausea subsides slowly; I inhale deeply to quell my stomach and the rushing of blood to my head. Sounds are returning. Cal’s words are soothing, asking me to slow my breathing and to calm down, everything is fine. Jo is fine.