The Legend of the Golden Raven: A Novella of The Wicker King

by K. Ancrum

  The Champion said nothing but steadily rode his horse into the water. The Wicker King took off his pack and arms and strapped them to the horse, choosing instead to swim beside it. When he made it to the shore, he shook the water from his eyes and looked for his Champion.

  The horse stood faithful in the sand, but his brother lay unmoving on the shore. The Wicker King rushed forth and pushed the water from his lungs until he’d pulled him back from death. As he looked upon the face he’d known since birth, the fear of loss burned the rage from his heart. He laid his brother gently beside a blackened tree and kept guard over him through the night.

  * * *

  Jack didn’t know that anything on earth could hurt so much as this.

  He stared at August and Rina as they lay in her bed. She appraised him boldly, her chin in the air. Begging him to react to her nakedness with her gaze. August just looked back at him warily.

  The gore crows were roosting on every inch of the room but the bed, watching him with their thousands of eyes. They were a sea of black feathers, gold talons, and white bone. They only appeared when it was time for judgment. The pain pounded in the side of his head and in the center of his chest as his eyes raked over the disheveled covers and miles of skin and Rina’s lit cigarette.

  Was he being punished for something? Did this have rules just like everything else? Must he sacrifice every inch of himself to win his freedom? His life, his sight, his heart? He began to back out of the room, but August held out his hand.

  “Come here,” he said, but Jack didn’t move. “It’s okay,” August said.

  August shifted over until there was enough room for him. Just like this was any other bed. Just like this was any other night. The crows stared at him, still. One sharpened its beak on Rina’s dresser menacingly.

  Jack took off his shoes and waded across the room. The crows shuffled out of his way, their bones clicking and wings fluttering. When he reached the bed, he pulled up the sheets and slipped in next to them.

  He had never been close to August in this way. Never smelled the salt of his skin, seen his hair finger-combed and draped over his eyes in this way. He felt greedy. This wasn’t meant for him—this was meant for her.

  “Are you okay? Did anything happen?” Rina asked.

  “No. I just…” Jack trailed off, looking embarrassed. “My head hurts.”

  “Do you want me to get some aspirin?” August asked. He started to get up.

  “No! No. I’m fine. Just … don’t go anywhere.”

  August nodded and slipped a hand onto his neck. Jack closed his eyes and breathed in the flowery scent of Rina’s pillowcase as August drew circles on his skin.

  The wave of pain ebbed and slowed to a manageable current, closer to where it ran most days. He stretched beneath the covers and shifted toward August like a sunflower chasing the light. August huffed a soft laugh.

  “Is he like this always?” Rina asked.

  “Most days.”

  She hummed in concern. “Can you take music right now?” she asked Jack.

  “It’s fine,” Jack said sleepily.

  There was some rusting and banging as Rina shifted around. Then she balanced a viola on her knees and began to play it like a guitar. She sang softly:

  There was a boy, a bitter boy,

  Who’s golden heart I saw gleaming,

  I thought I’d win the heart within,

  But now I know that I was dreaming.

  But I will rise, and I will sing,

  Until the day I can’t conceal it,

  Because I hold the saddest song,

  And wish to God I cannot feel it.

  Then the boy, the bitter boy,

  He came to me for rest and healing,

  He reached in his chest, deep in his breast,

  Held out the heart for me still gleaming.

  Then the boy, the bitter boy,

  He came to take the gleaming treasure,

  He reached in my chest, deep in my breast,

  And took the gleaming heart forever.

  But I will rise, and I will sing,

  Until the day I can’t conceal it,

  Because I hold the saddest song,

  And wish to God I cannot feel it.

  August lit another cigarette and refused to make eye contact with either of them.

  “Did you make that song?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Rina said as she put her viola down by the side of the bed. “It’s an English folk song. My parents live out there, so I go every summer to visit.”

  “I like it,” Jack said sleepily.

  Rina smiled.

  “I knew you would.”

  The gore crows cawed and took flight.

  * * *

  Beyond the country gates, all was not well. The council, driven by fear, had cloistered themselves behind the golden doors of the palace. Milk animals had gone dry for lack of food. Children were dying of a mysterious coughing sickness. The sun’s brightness could not overcome the impending shadow. Beasts from the wild wood came closer and closer to the gates to hunt.

  The kingdom was dying.

  A plague of flies had come to feast on the bodies. The council quarreled constantly. They didn’t have faith in their gods, the Gorgon, or the prophecy. Like most powerful men in fear, their thoughts ran toward violence. Half wanted to wait for the king’s return, half wanted to gather warriors and force the Gorgon to burn down what was left of the wild wood. One of the councilmen wanted to call upon dark magic to fight the Cloven King. There was so much shouting that no one noticed the eldest member of the council slipping away and out into the city.

  He traveled up the mountain, his old bones creaking terribly in the freezing wind. He journeyed until he reached the Gorgon’s cave, then he threw himself upon the beast’s mercy.

  The Gorgon received him with great sorrow. The king and his champion move slowly—burdened by strife. The cloven king comes upon them. All will be lost due to the weakness of men. To your quarrelsome nature and selfishness. “What hope lies for all who live in the light?”

  But, the Gorgon would not answer him.

  The councilman went down from the mountain and back to the city hall. When he arrived, he learned that the council had voted in his absence. They would test the might of the Cloven King by calling on the forces of dark magic.

  The eldest councilman protested. But he was outnumbered, and his voice was silenced.

  * * *

  They tried to fix it themselves.

  August suggested fire, suggested they burn their way to freedom from this world. Jack suggested water, to test the bridge between life and death and maybe find a doorway through. Water was safer than fire, so they went with that first.

  Now August was hacking his way back to life in Jack’s arms, while the crows watched in judgment. Still, the earth melted from steel and plastic, to wood and mud, while the sky faded to black. They weren’t free. They might never be. The rustling of the gore crows was always around him now. He hadn’t seen any of the silver birds in weeks.

  August flopped over to lay beside him on the bathroom floor, water staining his shirt. Jack cradled his face in his hand and wondered at the last time he’d seen August’s eyes.

  “Hey.” August coughed. “How are you doing?”

  Jack sniffed and covered his eyes. A thousand needles prickled behind them and threatened to fall down his cheeks.

  “Don’t ask me that,” he whispered, his voice catching on the words.

  August reached up and pulled Jack’s hands down. Curling his fingers weakly around Jack’s wrist. “I have to.” August breathed. “I always will.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the river, the Champion and the Wicker King rode slowly through the black.

  “Do you hear the wraiths?” the Champion asked again.

  He did. It was a sound like wind rattling through many bones. Like the dying screams of warriors slain in the hunt. “They come in a torrent of thousands. The city wi
ll be extinguished in a moment. We cannot fight them, we can only outrun them,” the Champion declared.

  The Wicker King said nothing. He knew what was at stake. They pushed on through the depths of the cloven kingdom. Not even the worrig hunted this far into the dark. There was nothing but the sound of wraiths, dead trees, mud, and a host of red-eyed ravens that flew in a blanket above their head, beady eyes watching them as they moved. The Cloven King’s spies.

  “Do you feel the Rapturous Blue yet?” the Wicker King asked. “It is buried in the black soil beyond the gates of the Cloven King’s palace grounds. We must steal it from him before he learns it is there.

  “Have you gotten good at stealing, brother?”

  “I am good at many things.”

  The Champion replied wryly, and the Wicker King loved him more for it. The Cloven King’s castle loomed high above the forest. The stink of sorcery was so strong that their cloths could not contain it. The ground was black; the sky was black. It was a blackness that was foul. So unlike the familiar darkness they’d known from the nights within their own kingdom. As soon as they passed between the gates, the Champion broke out into a gallop. The Wicker King followed close behind, their horses kicking up black dust with every beat of their hooves. The moment the Champion’s feet touched the earth, the ravens above turned to face them. A great and fearsome cawing filled the air.

  “The Cloven King comes!” the Champion shouted, falling to his feet and digging frantically. A mighty roar pieced the air and the doors of the Cloven King’s castle flew open. The air was so charged with sorcery it stung the eyes and rattled the teeth. The Cloven King charged fast toward them. He drew his blade and let out a stream of foul curses that set the Wicker King’s horse screaming and knocked him from its back. The Champion bade the Wicker King to buy him time. The Wicker King unsheathed his blade. The Cloven King swung at him from above. The blow was so fierce that the clang of their swords blew the dust up from the ground. The Cloven King was swift, and he did not speak but to utter painful spells that left the Wicker King bleeding and covered in welts. The Champion dug swiftly, still.

  The Wicker King fought hard and valiantly, but the Cloven King had the upper hand. A craven and sorcerous creature was he. The Cloven King cut quickly and ferociously, slicing his accursed blade through the steel of arms and into flesh. They fought at length but the Wicker King was driven to his knees. The Cloven King cut the Wicker King deep across the side, then stuck his whole hand into the wound. When the pain had so overwhelmed the Wicker King that he could fight no longer, the Cloven King reached forward and snatched out both the Wicker King’s eyes. Blinding him. As the Cloven King lifted his sword for the killing blow, the Champion pulled the Rapturous Blue from the soil. The Cloven King fell back from the low glow. The Champion held the Rapturous Blue higher, and it crackled back to life as it accepted his claim. As the stone grew brighter, the Cloven King fell farther away, back into the darkness. He tilted his head up to the sky and called out to his wraiths.

  The Champion lifted the Wicker King from the dust and placed him on his own horse. He leaped onto the king’s own royal steed. As the wraiths swirled in the sky and the Cloven King prepared for battle, they made off back toward the light of the kingdom. The Wicker King clutched the horse tightly, though his lifeblood was leaving him. He mourned the loss of his sight, because he could not steer. But the beast was from the wild wood. It was swift and it knew its way home. They ran at a fever pitch without rest, thundering through the darkness, the wraiths rattling and howling behind them. Once they reached the gates of the kingdom, it was clear that much had changed in their absence. A storm was brewing above the city hall and the streets, and wind stank of sorcery. The Champion pulled the Wicker King from his horse and led him through the castle to the council halls. The councilmen had gathered in the front room. They were pooling their power, changing the mettle of their flesh to challenge the Cloven King’s might with sorcery. They were becoming monsters. The Champion burst into the room with the Wicker King at his side.

  “The Cloven King approaches!”

  The council paid him no heed and continued their work. The Wicker King himself faltered in step and fell to the ground. He no longer had the strength to hold himself aloft. His wounds streamed, his face was red with blood.

  * * *

  There is nothing that can prepare you for the sound of fire.

  It howls and growls and screams. Beats against your eardrums, snatches the breath from your lungs. There are strings and horns and drums.

  The toy factory spat out the glass like it was ready to die. Sucking in air and choking out smoke.

  Jack tilted his head up to look at the moon. The gore crows rushed past it, their numbers thick like a sea covering the whole sky. The smallest of slivers glittered through their bones. He couldn’t see August in the building, so there was nothing left but him and this gnawing world that just took and took and took.

  “Is this enough?” he shrieked. “Have you taken all you need? We have given all we have to give! There is nothing left.”

  The toy factory was rocked by an explosion. Brick fell down in chunks as the side of the building collapsed. It struck fear into Jack’s heart and suddenly he realized that he had not given all that he had to give.

  “Please don’t take him. Pleasedonttakehimpleasedonttakehimplease. Please.” I’d give anything but that. Take my eyes; take my voice; take my hands; take it all. If the stars exist behind the night and there is a king who grants the wishes of kings, if hope is a tether that binds to the light, I’d pay all the years I have left in darkness, please don’t take him from—

  August kicked out the glass and came tumbling through the window. Jack caught him before he hit the ground and pulled him to his feet.

  He brought his lips to the blisters on the palms of August’s hands. “Thank you,” he mumbled into each kiss. “Thank you.…”

  August buried his face in Jack’s chest, curling up against him to hide from the heat of the flames. Jack held him back just as tight, fingers digging into his shoulders, wrapping around his waist, clutching at his hair.

  “Is it over? Is it over? Is it over?” August cried.

  It had to be. Dear God, it just had to.

  * * *

  The Champion hefted the weight of his king onto his own back and ran toward the stand, bones screaming from poor use. The townspeople came out to watch as a blanket of ravens covered their skies. The wraiths poured over the golden wall from all directions and the first death cries began piercing the sky. The Cloven King charged the wall, crumbling the soft metal to dust in a torrent of magic and force. His fearsome stallions and battalion came raging through, flanked on all sides with Worrig and other beasts from the wild wood. But the Champion was swift of foot. He was crafted for this moment. He flew toward the center of the kingdom as if propelled by the gods themselves. But the arms around his neck grew weaker until he could hold his king no longer.

  Though it pained him greatly, the Champion drew the Wicker King from his back and gently placed him on the ground. He took his last steps toward the stand and placed the Rapturous Blue upon its crystal ledgers. The prophecy had been fulfilled. As soon as his hands fell from the gem, a great and blinding light washed over them all. It spread up and out, covering the entire kingdom, far beyond the wall. It spilled through the cracks and into the forest, burning away the black fog that blocked out the suns. It touched the far reaches of the Cloven kingdom, purging it of foul sorcery and bringing life back to the soil. The light spilled over all the world and the age of men began again.

  The Cloven King, brittle with dark magic, could not withstand the might and withered away in the brightness. Wraiths fell from the sky, and their ancient bones littered the streets. All the worrig and other beasts turned tail and fled into the green of the wood, where they would soon grow to be gentle things that grazed instead of hunted. The townspeople and the council gathered in the square. The Wicker King lay still on the steps of the
capital. The Champion descended quickly and went to his side, but he found that his king was lost.

  With a terrible howl, the Champion threw his head back and feathers sprouted from him. His feet turned to claws and his arms to wings as golden, and powerful, and beautiful as the light that touched them all. The Champion shed his clothes and gloves and stepped from beneath them, a glorious golden raven as tall as a man. It lifted the Wicker King’s body onto its back and took off into the air.

  The townspeople watched as the two kings flew off toward the sun. They were never seen again.

  * * *

  Once upon a time, August Bateman walked out into the sun. Jack watched as he tilted his head up and took a deep breath. There were no more silver birds, no more butterflies, no more gore crows, none of it. But as the light played with August’s dark hair, Jack could swear he heard singing.

  “You like the taste of freedom?” Jack joked.

  “Second best thing I’ve ever had.” August grinned.

  “What’s the first?” Jack asked, blushing.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  Jack watched as August walked to the car and threw open the door. He looked exactly the same. It was like those ten months had never even happened. Like they never even needed to.

  “You’re the love of my life, you know,” he said bravely.

  August just looked at him and shrugged. “I know.”

  * * *

  As the years passed, the earth sprung up anew, and magic faded from the world. The Gorgon retreated deep into the mountains, and the second sun, a large meteoroid, finally flew by and blinked out of sight. Kingdoms rose and fell. The Wicker King and his raven brother were forgotten by the people, but the land is not so frail as man. Their triumph over the darkness and the legend of their sacrifice would ring out in story and song, still: in the rocks and streams, in the wind and soil, anywhere there were trees that grew tall in the golden light.

  Forever, until the end of time.

  About the Author

  K. Ancrum grew up in Chicago Illinois, under the illusory rigor of the Chicago Public School system. She attended Dominican University to study Fashion Merchandizing, but was lured into getting an English degree after spending too many nights experimenting with hard literary criticism and hanging out with unsavory types, like poetry students. Currently, she lives in Andersonville and writes books at work when no one is looking. She is the author of The Wicker King. You can sign up for email updates here.