Raven - part i

I saw the raven on the day of my arrival, and it’s been a constant companion ever since. It may seem silly to many of you, but there’s something comforting about the bird. It follows me everywhere I go, no matter the time of day or night. It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane in a world gone mad. Even in this six-by-eight feet cell, I know the raven’s here. High up on the wall, between the tiny bars, it sits, gently singing to me. On brighter days, the raven’s shadow creeps across the wall to keep me company. I have no idea why the raven stays when I can no longer service its needs but stay it does. Whilst people may have come and gone, the raven is forever.

~

I pulled up alongside the path that led to the small two roomed cottage - more of a shack than a cottage really. It sat back from the country lane about six hundred yards, nestled in a small clearing; barely visible from the road. That, of course, was one of the major attractions for me. I liked my privacy then, as I do now. I’d just turned off the engine when the raven landed on the bonnet of my 1971 MGB GT with something akin to a tinkle. It hopped up the bonnet and stopped just shy of my window. It fixed me with its beady stare, head cocked like the old Labrador we had when I was a kid. It opened its beak and a soft caw escaped into the ether.

I’d fully expected the bird to scarper when I opened the door, but it just sat there, watching. I slammed the door a little harder than usual in an effort to startle the raven, but it simply cocked its head the other way and ruffled its feathers.

I grinned and shrugged. After all, it was just a bird. My possessions had arrived last week, and the movers had assured me everything had been delivered and arranged as per my instructions. I turned my attentions to my new abode. The dilapidated gate sat on the ground at one end thanks to a rusted-out hinge. Placing a hand on top of the mossy gatepost, I swung my legs up and over the gate and landed on the crazy paving path beyond. An auspicious beginning, I thought. I turned and glanced at the bonnet of my car to find that the raven had gone. Obviously not as impressed with my athletic prowess as I was.

When I turned back around, the raven reappeared, landing on the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn that the cheeky little bugger winked at me…

I ambled up the path, weaving between the trees until I reached the cottage. I couldn’t tell you now what had possessed me to buy the place, but I do remember my feelings when I took sight of it that day. I shivered and wondered what the hell I’d done. The stone walls were mossy, and ivy snaked its way across almost every surface. The wooden window boxes were rotten and spewing soil and roots. The door itself was rusty, coppery colour and looked weathered to within an inch of serviceable life. However, when I inserted the key, it slid in smoothly and turned without a hitch.

Ducking my head, I entered the building. The gloom was oppressive. No natural light. I’d have to prune back the trees and shrubbery which had encroached on the dwelling since it had last been occupied. That wouldn’t be a problem, I had plenty of time on my hands and it would provide a welcome break from my writing when the dreaded block came calling, as it always did. The interior was musty, and I went to open a window but the low branches of the trees outside impinged on my ability to do so.

I flicked the light switch, and nothing happened. I sighed. What had I been thinking? Get away from the city, as far away as possible, away from the memory of her… I didn’t let my mind take me back there. I couldn’t, not then. Everything was too raw.

A tapping at the window drew my attention. Perched on a rotting piece of wood from the window box sat the raven. I bent down to look through the grimy glass at the bird. It cocked its head once more and fluttered a wing in the direction of the road.

Good idea, I thought, amused at the actions of this avian companion. There wasn’t much I could do at the cottage as the afternoon was drawing to a close and the long shadows of dusk crept over the land. I fumbled the switch off again, just in case, closed the door behind me, waiting for the reassuring click,  and strode down the path back toward the car.

The raven was waiting on the bonnet for me, again. I climbed into the MGB, started the engine, and slid the car into gear. I headed off for Little Waldon, the nearest village with a pub that I knew of and a bed for the night. As I sped around the country roads, I occasionally glanced out the side windows, marvelling at the sight of the raven keeping me company on my journey.