This is mainly a small christmas gift for SusanneHolmes, Impractical Beekeeping, Zacha and Skyfullofstars and, of course, for all my lovely readers who have supported me throughout "The Plan" and "The Movement of Bees".
Many happy returns for all of you! And all the best for 2013!
eohippus
Raven´s Wisdom
Midnight strikes on Christmas Eve in London. Big Ben raises his old but resonant voice to count the hours, announcing the festivities have begun. From the Tower of London, a black shadow rises, flapping its wings in the cold winter air. It sails gleefully down on a North Sea breeze which is playing around the ancient brick walls, using its current to glide down towards the river. Elegantly, the black bird passes through bridges, narrowly avoiding stone and water. With a tiny move of its wings it settles on another breeze, to relax on the never-ceasing winds and to glide swiftly down towards the less urban parts of the river´s banks.
The black-feathered being has lived in the city all its life. It knows all the city´s streets from above, and is able to predict the paths the winds will take through the mass of stone, brick, and concrete. In its long and happy life, it has seen many strange sights and creatures, has heard many tales and songs. Tonight, though, it does not expect to meet an unusual sight, as this is the one night of the year in which the humans will stay in their nests, together with their kin, sharing their own lore and songs, not paying attention to the outside world for once.
This is the night the raven likes the most, for it can fly openly over deserted streets and buildings, imagining to sail over crags and mountains where the northern storms are toying with heather and grass. Alas, his obligations will not allow the raven to leave the capital to experience what it would be like to play with the northern winds. He has always dreamed of the northern mountains, though, and he loves to imagine what it would be like to live in a land which is more accommodating to the members of his clan than London can ever be.
Here, at the banks of the river, where the can smell the sea, the raven´s dreams are more intense than anywhere else in the city. Here, he feels the calls of his ancestors most strongly. Here, he feels more like a wild being and less like a pet. At the river, he feels free.
A tiny movement from below catches his sight, and he cocks his head to peek downwards. His sharp eyes distinguish the dark shade of a human being, huddled into a nook in a solid brick wall.
The raven draws a circle, diving deeper towards the lone figure, curious. He rarely sees humans on Christmas Eve. If he spots them, they are walking along briskly, hailing cabs, carrying parcels wrapped in bright paper. They are moving with a purpose, on their way to their kin, to huddle in their nests at this particular evening. But this human barely moves. Getting even more curious, the raven cocks his head, lands a well-calculated thirty centimeters away from the human male´s face, and examines the two-legged being with bright, intelligent eyes.
The flapping of another pair of wings interrupts his observations. He turns angrily, opening his beak in a gesture of intimidation. But its opponent, slightly smaller and a nearly indistinguishable shade of black lighter than himself, lowers his head and picks at a yellow stem of grass.
"A good day to you, Bran. May the winds support your wings wherever you go," the other bird says, using the appropriate greeting among corvids.
Bran cocks his head again, and hops away from the young male ´s face.
"Good to see you again, Megan. And a good wind to you, too. What is your business on this day of the year?" he answers politely.
Megan ruffles her feathers and looks at the human. "He is," she says. "He is not well."
Bran follows her gaze and raises one of his feet, resting on the other. "Why is it your concern?" he asks. "Why care for any of the two-legged hunters?"
"He is no hunter," Megan answers. "Nor a great eater, too, as far as I know. Whenever I meet him, he is tossing my clan more of his bread than he keeps for himself."
Bran shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "He looks cold," he says. "Has he not an aerie to live in, as the others?"
"No," Megan answers, and sharpens her beak on the cobblestoned pavement. "I heard him tell another human he has been kept in a cage recently. He prefers to fly free, he said, even if that means he can´t fly along with his kin."
"Interesting," Bran answers and hops nearer toward the man´s unmoving features. "I can see no movement," he says. "Are you sure he breathes?"
Megan ruffles her feathers once more. "This one thinks he flies best when he poisons himself," she answers. "He prefers to fly in his dreams." She hops nearer, too, and carefully picks at the human´s sleeve. "See the tiny hole there? This is where the poison gets in. But it won´t come out, so he falls asleep and won´t know that he is cold and alone." She takes two careful steps and stands in front of the young man´s face. "See, he breathes. My tail feathers move."
"I see they do, yes," Bran replies. "But only slightly." He lowers his head and thinks. Then he hops nearer toward the human – and nearly flaps away again, as the young men´s eyes open and his sharp, ice-blue gaze meets Bran´s black pupils. The raven freezes, but the human just frowns, turns his head and claws one hand over his chest, mumbling uncoordinated words, before he turns on his back and lies still again.
"One thing is clear," Bran says. "He needs his kin."
Megan cocks her head in approval. "What else do you read in him?" she asks, and Bran sends her a sharp gaze. But the crow is not intimidated by the bigger bird´s stony stare. "Come on," she says. "You ravens are all fortune-tellers. Surely you know his fortune, too."
Slightly flattered, Bran picks at his breast feathers. "I don´t know…" he says. "I haven´t been asked to tell a human´s fortune for a long time."
"Then do it for me," Megan says. "You know, my skein likes him. They have followed him all year, and he has always been kind." She cocks her head, regarding the man´s pale features and his black hair. "The younger ones have even asked us if he might be the raven prince from our fairy tales."
"The raven prince." Bran has never believed in raven lore, but one look at the human´s features could actually convince him that there might be some truth in it. He recounts the old story. "There once was a boy with raven-black hair and the observation skills and wisdom of the raven. His brother was sharp as a hawk. The elder used to shot down on his prey without a second thought of failure, his accuracy gaining him the respect of his father and peers. But the younger was more careful, observing and analyzing, cornering his prey, but never with the same sense of finality as the elder brother would. That was because the younger knew to doubt, and most of all, himself. His talent for observation was wasted, because he saw and knew so much that he couldn´t focus. Thus, he poisoned himself, and kept his distance from his kin as not to hurt and not get hurt in turn. He learned to stay cold and unattached. But the truth was that he had a warm, beating heart, and that he cared. Alas, after taking too much poison he forgot his essence, his knowledge and talents. He walked the streets as a dead man, a shadow of his former self. His black hair lost its shine, his mind its sharpness. He was doomed to fail, as he had anticipated so long ago."
"And could he be saved?" Megan asks, and Bran cocks his head, ruffling his feathers again.
"Some of us said that he is still walking among the hunters, a shadow of the man he used to be," he replies. "But some say, he is yet to wake from his state of fatal dreaming." He hops nearer again, and tugs lightly at a strand of the man´s hair. "If he does wake, there´s hope. See, he really has raven hair," he points out, and Megan opens her beak, acknowledging him.
"So he is the right one?" she asks, and Bran lets the strand of hair go and picks at the cobblestones.
"If he is the right one, he will be saved," he answers. "He will stop poisoning himself. And he will find some next of kin. A buzzard, watching over the town´s safety. A falcon, wounded in fight, loyal and fierce. And he will soar with his brother, the hawk. There is only one thing…"
Megan looks at Bran and scratches her head with one foot. "You look worried," she says. "His fate is not an easy one, then?"
"No. There is another prince, his equal in cunning, but with a black heart. He will do whatever he can to fight the raven prince." Brans eyes cloud, as if in pain, and he treads back and forth on his two feet, concentrating on the future. "I can see a battle, upwards in the sky," he finally announces huskily. "A battle for power. A battle for life and death. The raven prince will tumble and fall. And he will lose his only friend, the falcon. His newly-built aerie, too. He will be forced to travel long and wide." The raven´s eyes open again, and Megan sees the sharp gaze Bran sends towards the human. "If he survives, he will be changed," he says. "He will keep his wisdom, but lose his doubts."
Bran keeps silent, and Megan, the crow, senses that there is another thing the raven doesn´t want to say. She hops nearer, a sudden breeze ruffling her wings.
"What is wrong?" she asks, and the bigger bird shakes his head.
"He needs to choose life first," he says, and there is a certain amount of worrying in his voice. "But I am afraid he might not." He hops away and spreads his wings in a gesture of finality. "He does no longer believe that life has a promise to keep. He wants to die."
"Can´t you help?" the crow asks, and Bran shakes his head. "I can only see the future, but I can´t decide on the hunter´s fate," he replies sadly. "He needs to take his life into his own hands." He turns to hop away towards a good starting spot.
"I am sorry for you and your kin, Megan. You might most probably lose his company," he says and cocks his head. "May the wind always carry you."
"And may your wings always sprout feathers," the crow answers, and both birds spread their wings and fly away.
Sherlock groans and stirs. He looks into the stars above, wondering for a long second where he is, when he remembers the club, his dealer, the lonely spot near the Thames where he decided it would be safe to shoot up, avoiding the all-encompassing presence of Mycroft´s CCTV cameras.
Mycroft a hawk? He remembers the strange dream he had, a crow and a raven talking about a man with raven hair. About him, in fact. He shakes his head. He really must have been on a bad trip if he imagined birds talking about his fate and future. Gingerly, he raises, already feeling a heavy headache building up, the aftermath of his last hit. As he staggers to his feet, he spots his mobile lying on the ground next to him, accompanied by a large black feather. He hesitates and lowers himself down again, carefully avoiding moving too quickly.
He picks up the feather to rub it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. However improbable - indeed. The feather is certainly big enough to be a raven´s. Hasn´t he watched the crows earlier today when he passed through Hyde Park? Don´t they always sound as if they were talking to each other?
But do crows ever talk to ravens? Or to humans? He shakes his head, disregarding these ridiculous assumptions. Surely animals don´t speak to humans, as much as humans might like to speak to animals. If he really starts believing that crows would like to engage in a conversation with him, he actually might already be losing his mind. He laughs at the absurdity of his assumptions, but the crow´s words of his dream rewind in his head. "My skein likes him. They have followed him all year, and he has always been kind." Sherlock imagines being surrounded by a flock of crows, and he smiles wrily at the thought that birds should be a substitute for family and friends. Very apt, he thinks, he, the freak, followed by winged creatures commonly associated with sorcerers. He has always felt to be out of tune with his fellow humans, outcast because of his inexplicable talents. In the end, he has chosen to stay an outcast, and he´s quite happy with it.
Except that his highs have lately ceased to evoke the same euphoria they have provided earlier and he needs to up the dosage, despite the risk. Except that he has become so very tired of the vicious circle of want and withdrawal. Except he has started to get scared of what he is doing to himself.
Thoughtfully, Sherlock turns the feather in his left hand, and grabs the phone with his right. He blinks when he sees the device is displaying Mycroft´s number. He shakes his head in disbelief, for hasn´t he deleted the all too familiar digits a fortnight ago? He shivers in the cold winter air and the words of the raven rerun in his mind. "He will keep his wisdom, but lose his doubts." A sharp pain runs through his torso, and he gasps for breath, suddenly horrified of collapsing again in this god-forsaken spot, of lying helpless in the dirt and cold. It takes him another second, but then he determinedly pushes the button for "call".
When the line is answered, his labored breath immediately comes easier, and he feels tears of relief pooling in the corners of his eyes at the sound of his brother´s voice.
He is not prepared for the amount of relief Mycroft manages to convey through a few simple words, and neither is he prepared for his feeling of certainty of having taken the right decision.
Feeling weak and utterly exhausted, he sinks back against the brick wall, the black feather still in his hand, starting to drowse and dream of two big, black birds who are talking to each other.
The dream of the raven and the crow will stay with him for a long time, cementing his resolution to finally get clean.