raven lore

I glance up towards the March sky. No ravens. With each step I feel the heat on my shoulders. I find a spot in the shade. My first page of Daphne du Maurier.

“On December the third the wind changed overnight and it was winter. …and sitting on the cliff’s edge, [Nat Hocken]would watch the birds. Autumn was best for this, better than spring,”

Nat Hocken thinks the seasons send the birds messages. Autumn puts a spell on them.

Each word on the yellowed pages sinks in - ‘warning, ‘perish’, ‘death’. Rustling in a nearby tree startles me.

It’s nothing.

A ‘cry of terror’ and I turn the page. Nat has protected his daughters against the birds’ attack.

“Aah-Aah-aaaaahhh,” did I just hear a raven? I walk home, head bowed, fearing a peck from above. Metres away from my house, I notice a black shape. It’s a dead raven. The wings are outstretched and its head is to the side. Its stillness on the road overwhelms me.

Were the eight ravens mourning this dead creature?

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