Call of the Crow

CH1: Dying Light

This land is unkind.

Amongst the ragged chunks of slate, the sand and salted earth choke the grass and trees until the ground is bare. Sheer and giant rocks form naked and steep mountains, sharp edges keen to tear skin and break bone of ill-fated climbers. Ocean winds rage unencumbered across a desolate landscape.

Somewhere in this stone mountain range, atop a wide plateau, there is an impossible building. Half is seemingly without walls or a roof; just a mosaic of tiles crafted by unknown and ancient hands. Here Sybylla stands, listening to the distant low rumble and hush of violent waves against jagged rock, invisible walls protecting her from the wind and chill. She watches the silvery solemn moon, cool tiles beneath her feet, ignoring the ever-present and dull ache in her bones.

"What do you see?" Aeson's rich baritone voice rings out behind her.

She sighs and closes her eyes, sinking into a familiar vision. Lightning pierces the blackness behind her eyelids, jagged and unfading. A porcelain face emerges, dark intelligent eyes peering out; almost like an unkempt doll come to life. The woman with the delicate face lifts up her palms. Blood pours soundlessly onto her hands.

Sybylla looks down into the woman's right hand: a dark cloud rolls across fertile lands, smothering it with disease. She hears the wheezing struggle for breath and cries of the desperate. The black cloud blankets the entire Eastern Cluster, choking every state. Out of her bloody palm a woman's face emerges; sharp, bird-like, eyes luminously green with ashen hair. She stares at Sybylla lifelessly.

Sybylla looks down into the woman's bloody left palm: a great fire snaps and cackles angrily under the watch of crying crows. The bird-like woman is alive, leading an army of blue painted faces: a portent of death for the ancient forests and the Nahmakal people. Their blood becomes a river rushing towards the arid and dead centre of the land, bringing life to something monstrous from a long-forgotten age. It is hungry, so it eats, and eats, and eats, until there is nothing left but dying light.

"Nothing new." Sybylla opens her eyes. "All we can do tonight is try to lessen the suffering. The rest is out of our hands."

Aeson now stands beside her, as imposing and impressive as the stone mountains. Moonlight gleams on his bare head and ebony skin. He offers the wise wizard his arm in a slowed, purposeful movement; acute awareness of his powerful frame lends him a certain cautiousness. Sybylla takes the witches arm and together they walk: Aeson solid and strong, Sybylla ancient and diminutive.

They enter a room made of smooth stone, as if it had been chiselled and carved out of the mountain itself. In the centre a round table rises seamlessly from the floor. Great yawning windows look out into the night. The walls glow and softly illuminate seven figures seated on cushioned slate chairs. The low murmur of conversation fades as Aeson and Sybylla take their seats.

"Welcome to Wildes Meer." Sybylla says, resting her aged and knotted hands on the cold table. "We appreciate you all making the journey here. I'm sure you value your time so allow me to get straight to the point." Sybylla glances over her guests: expensive silks in reds, golds, and purples of the southern states sit on one side, and the rugged furs, silvers, and blues of the northern states sit on the other. Seeing no objection, she continues.

"This is the second year without sufficient rain. I know the harvest for each state has fallen well short of what we'd hoped." Her statement is met with murmurs and nods of agreement. "Until the next rains, we need to make sure the Eastern Cluster is fed."

"With what, exactly? Paralia has enough for its own people until the next harvest, and we have nothing in reserve." Dressed in deep burgundy with gold threaded through chestnut braids, the melodic voice of Queen Medea belies her deep and cold cunning.

"Those of us with enough for our own people have nothing to give for those who don't, and I am not prepared to take food out of my people's mouths." White and purple fabrics are draped over Chalu's slender frame. His olive skin and tight dark curls are left bare of gold and jewels: a calculated choice, appealing to the upper class and common people of Mirros.

"Fuck reserves. Not all of us will make it to the next cycle." Raghnall is a bear of a man, pale furs adding bulk to an already burly body. Tangled auburn hair and wisps of blue paint add to his animal wildness, echoed in all three Nahrboden chiefs. If Erik and Hellar are annoyed at Raghnall's blunt outburst, they don't show it.

"We will all have enough, if we ration and distribute resources." Sybylla responds calmly.

With a sharp and sarcastic cackle, Medea says: "And what would you have us tell our people? So sorry, the Northerners forgot to leave enough reserves for themselves so you must feed them from your own plate?"

Raghnall growls, but is silenced by Erik's raised hand. Hellar leans back, bearing her teeth in a sardonic smile. The "refined" southerners are always the first to antagonise the "less civilised" north.

"No, we'd simply have you remind them how the north saved you last time the Nahmakal razed your cities to the ground." His blue paint and furs speak of the common ancestry between Akritau and Nahrboden; but King Aldrich is paler, blonder, and more wiry than his heavy-set cousins.

"There is only so long the events of the past can be held over our heads." Medea responds. The table descends into heated discussion.

Clattering voices fade as Sybylla raises her hand and continues: "We have sent envoys to the Northern Cluster. They've faired much better than us, and are willing to make a trade."

"A trade? Is the pass not flooded?" Erik's voice is low, never needing to raise it to command a room.

"The pass opens again in four months. We need only ration until then. With that in mind, the southern states have more than enough to redistribute to prevent widespread starvation." Sybylla meets Erik's sharp and piercing gaze.

"You are going to need to give me something worth my time if I need to ration food to my own people," Medea huffs.

The night drags on. People drift into small groups, and then fade into their rooms. Eventually, only Aeson and Chalu remain. They stand, feet at the edge of the sheer cliff, Chalu barely reaching Aeson's giant shoulder. They're so close they nearly touch, each acutely aware of the other. They barely breathe in a shared and longing silence, unwilling to break this unspoken spell.

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CH2: FALLEN HEROES Mirros

Reika thinks school is a prison and the sentence is boredom: religion class especially. Students sit in stiff wooden chairs tucked underneath compact individual desks, arranged in neat rows like a farmer’s crop. Reika hides herself near the back of the yellowed classroom, uninterested, sketching a crow in her notebook.

Large and looming, Mr. Fedel slowly paces back and forth in front of the blackboard like a laboured metronome. “Our gods are wise warriors, and we are made in their image.” His nasally voice speaks with the tone of unarguable authority. “Thus, the glory of our humanity lies in proving ourselves worthy of our visage.”

“The gods keep us on this hostile land for that reason. We are made to fight, to overcome, to conquer. It is our destiny to tame nature and rule over the lesser non-humans.” Mr. Fedel scans his audience, several pairs of eyes looking back; all except for Reika. He bristles at the disrespect.

He lumbers towards Reika’s desk, students turning in their chairs to follow him. “It is also our destiny to rule over ourselves. But, how can humanity do this, when we are designed to fight? How do we conquer our own natures so that we do not turn on ourselves?”

A shadow falls on Reika’s desk and she’s suddenly aware of the silence. She looks up; Mr. Fedel stares down his nose at her, unsurprised and unimpressed. “Reika. Since you’re not paying attention, can I assume you’re already an expert on this subject?”

"Uhhhm..."

"Good. So, given our discussion this lesson, what would you say is humanity's greatest threat?" Mr. Fedel clasps his hands behind his back, arching a single eyebrow.

Reika, having not heard a single word, searches her mind desperately for an answer. The stare of her classmates presses hotly into her skin, Mr. Fedel doesn’t move; Reika offers the only answer she can think of: “uhh…. Bears?”

Students giggle and Mr. Fedel raises both his eyebrows. Reika feels her cheeks glow warmly.

“No.” Mr. Fedel replies, stepping away; his point has been made. "Who can answer the question? Yes, Anura."

"Wouldn't humanity's greatest threat be humanity itself?"

"Ye-" Mr. Fedel is interrupted by the high-pitched bell, prompting a wave of movement. Scraping chairs and shuffling feet drown him out – something about homework. Reika doesn’t care. She is free.

She rushes to her locker. Nervousness and anticipation and excitement all flutter in her chest at once, her pulse thundering in her ears. She sees Amihan standing in front of their lockers. Her heart stops, gripped by this moment: *she's waiting for me*.

Amihan turns and smiles, and Reika's heart starts again.

Side-by-side, they walk the asphalt road home under vibrant canopies of red and green. They are unlikely friends; Amihan is lithe and tall with deep coffee skin and almond eyes. Reika is small and delicate, porcelain skin contrasting a shock of dark and unruly hair, like an unkempt doll. Amihan draws people into her orbit, her beauty and amiable nature like gravity. Reika sets them on edge with blunt and fierce intelligence.

Reika finishes her story about Mr. Fedel. Amihan's laugh is like good music; uninhibited and real and magic. Still, Reika sees the ever-present sadness that haunts her, sitting on the edges of her smile. Reika wants to hold her beautiful face in her hands until that sorrow melts away.

"You have got to pay more attention in class!" Amihan says, finally catching her breath.

"I'd pay more attention if Mr. Fedel bothered to be more interesting." Reika responds dryly. Amihan shakes her head.

They come to the dreaded but familiar fork in the road; Reika must go left, and Amihan must go right. They hug goodbye; Reika is acutely aware of Amihan's form pressing into her, a pleasant pins and needles running along her skin. Then they part, each heading home.

---

Reika's home is one of many. Sturdy and stout, brick and mortar, lining the wide and quiet street; each home a pocket of someone else's life. The houses are not opulent, but they are larger than most; people here don't struggle for their next meal.

Reika steps into the empty house. She trudges into her room, drops her school bag on the ground, and flops unceremoniously onto her bed.

On her first night here, her father led her to this furnished room with a pink and purple bed spread. She loves it, even though it isn’t something she would pick for herself, because it comes from him. As a small child she revered anything that had come from him; a necklace, a hat, a bracelet; small pieces of him she could hold onto in the long dark months of his absences. The same way, she suspects, that her brother and sister did. The reverence evolved into a faith; none of the bad stuff will matter when he comes for them. Immovable belief buoyed her through violence, rage, assaults, and abandonment.

She was fourteen when he finally did come. There was guilt and panic and anxiety: and an overwhelming relief, like the gasp for air that comes after holding a breath for too long.

She runs her hands along the thick seams of woven concentric patterns of her quilt. She senses his resistance to them; a single man unfamiliar with the inner workings of three teenagers he doesn't know anymore. The awkwardness of learning how to navigate around and live with one another is compounded by nightmares and friction and fear of emotion. But, her father will do as duty asks; he'll keep them clothed and fed and alive.

She rubs rough yarn beneath her fingers, trying to feel every fibre. Some of her earliest memories play in her mind; his frightening temper, the clatter of thrown objects, the roar of his voice. She knows it boils beneath his surface so she tries to stay small. Except she can't, because her wounds are not small; they overflow, flooding her world and everyone in it, gushing out as defiance and anger and sadness.

Still, she believes in him; they're family. It's all going to be ok somehow.

She turns on her back and stares at the ceiling. She hears the heavy front door and the thudding drop of boots on tile; he's home. She doesn't move. Not until the smell of dinner pulls her from her bed.

---

Reika loves dinner time.

Reika, her father Caden, brother Everett, and sister Amaliah take their seats around the wooden table. It’s Amaliah’s turn to cook; even Reika begrudgingly admits she’s good at it.

Reika enthusiastically takes up her cutlery and hacks at her chicken. If the food is good, the table is silent. Tonight, they can hear a pin drop.

Unfortunately, they hear the heavy slap of chicken falling off Reika’s plate instead, followed promptly by an exasperated “oh shit!”

“Reika! Language!” Caden says, with a barely concealed grin of amusement.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

“REIKA!”

“SORRY!”

Caden covers his mouth to hide his amused smile.

“How did you do that?” Everett asks, shaking his head.

“I don’t know… I think I kinda just… missed my mouth?” Reika responds.

“How? That’s like throwing a pebble into a great crevasse and missing.” Caden retorts. Everyone laughs.

“Hey!” Reika exclaims, but she’s smiling; everyone is in a good mood tonight. She leans down and scoops the chicken back onto her plate. Amaliah frowns in disgust. Reika looks her directly in the eye: “what, did you want it?”

“Ew. No.” She physically edges away, clearly unamused, making Reika smile even wider.

“Reika, leave your sister alone.” Caden says.

“Just being nice!” Reika replies, shovelling the floor chicken into her mouth.

They fall into contented silence, punctuated by the scraping of metal cutlery on crockery. Moments like these give Reika hope.

It doesn't last long.

Caden watches on, hesistant. He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. Pretending to fuss over some steamed vegetables he says: “you’re grandmother is on her way down. She’ll be here in a few days.”

Everyone becomes still. Caden continues to eat like nothing was said. Everett takes this cue, shifting his focus back to his food. Amaliah and Reika exchange glances; there are very few things on which they agreed, and this is one of them: grandmother is never a good omen.

“Why?” Reika asks, placing her cutlery down firmly on her plate.

“She’s just coming down to help out with a few things.” There is an edge in his voice, a warning: do not push this. Reika frowns.

They are not close to Rozamond, she lives too far away for that. Instead, she appears in times of family crisis. For many years she successfully ensured no one outside the family knew about Reika's mother's manic and violent episodes: and those that did know were assured the children were merely a little "dramatic", were they brave enough to say anything at all.

Reika sees Rozamond as a harbinger of doom, like the cawing of crows over the dying. There is only one reason for Rozamond to come: Caden saving them from their mother makes the family look bad.

The joyous atmosphere is snuffed out. The hunger deep in Reika’s stomach turns to a rumbling rage. Reika doesn't understand why Caden would let her come here. He must know the only thing Rozamond wants is to have them sent back and play their roles as Good Upstanding Children. Without saying a word, Reika rises from the table and walks to her room.

“Reika, take care of your plate, please.” Caden says firmly. Reika does not respond, does not slow down.

“REIKA!” He snaps. Reika walks into her room and slams the door.

“For fuck’s sake!” She hears Caden from the kitchen. She feels the twist of fear that always accompanies his temper, but her anger is more powerful. Sparks of lightening dance between her fingertips.

In her mind she remembers her mother’s screaming and manic laughing, her hands around Reika’s neck, black spots invading her vision.

*Why don't I matter?*

A seething helplessness fuels the grief over who her family is not, and the grief fuels the rage. The lightening hums angrily, brightening and thickening and threatening to burst out of her hands. She clenches her hands into fists, taking a deep shaking breath, closing her eyes against her flickering bedroom lights. Distantly, she hears Caden yell something about *what is fuckin wrong with these lights* but she doesn’t register it. It takes everything she has to push the wild anger down; bury, bury, bury. The loud humming stops. The lightening is gone. The anger is replaced with exhaustion.

There is nothing left but her tears and a vague fear of herself.

---

She eventually falls into a fitful sleep. She dreams of twisting black branches reaching out of thick fog. Trees contort around themselves, bowing beneath oppressive mist. A crow stands on a thorny twig, cawing out a long and deep drone, staring at Reika. She moves towards it. It flutters and flies from one buckled branch to another, leading her further into the dead forest until they emerge into a clearing. A giant skeletal tree rises from the dirt with a wide and gaping hollow at its centre, reminding Reika of a screaming face. She follows the crow into the deep dark mouth. Her shadow dances in firelight but there are no flames: the flickering glow illuminating two doors, one covered in luminous moss and the other in purple vine. Low rumbling thunder emanates from behind the vivid moss. She steps towards it.