When Marie first saw the raven struggling under the mound of pebbles, she thought it was the strangest thing she would see that day. She couldn’t imagine how the raven had gotten there, its wings pinned at strange angles as it struggled under the weight of countless stones. Yet the stones themselves were stranger still. They were worn smooth, gleaming as if polished. They were unlike anything Marie had ever seen in this forest.
Marie’s grandmother had told her stories of ravens. Stories of how they kept the deeper evil of the forest out of their homes.
“When a raven calls, you listen,” she would say. “They speak in warnings to help us.”
But this raven seemed to be the one in need of help. Marie moved the stones, careful around the writhing bird. At first it snapped its beak at her. But as she made progress, it seemed more resigned to her help. It was disheveled, disgruntled, but unharmed. As Marie cleared the last of the stones, she was glad to see the raven shake its wings, clearing the bits of debris from its body. She watched it fly out beyond the treetops, certain she had seen the last of it.
Returning to her home, Marie thought nothing of the passing shadows, nothing of the cawings of corvids overhead. But when she arrived at her porch, she saw them: three stones, smooth and gleaming, waiting on the porch bannister.
Marie considered the stones carefully. She was sure they were the same strange ones that had trapped the raven. She remembered her grandmother’s collection of small and shining things left for her by the birds.
“Sometimes nature tests our gratitude,” her grandmother would say, “but the ravens repay their debts.”
Bringing the stones in, Marie had barely closed the door behind her when there was a knock. She opened the door, and there stood a young girl.
“Please,” the child said, “might I come in for a piece of bread?”
But Marie heard the raven call a warning. She gave the girl a stone. The stone turned to bread in the young girl’s hand, and Marie closed the door.
Again, she heard a knock. Opening the door, Marie saw a young woman standing at her doorstep.
“Please,” the stranger said, “might I come in for a drink of water?”
But again, the raven called. Marie gave the woman a stone, and it became a goblet of water. She closed the door.
Again, a knock. This time, Marie opened the door and saw an old woman.
“Please,” the woman said, “might I come in and rest for a time?”
Still the raven called, and Marie gave the woman her last stone. The stranger took the stone and sighed deeply. As Marie watched, the woman crumbled bit by bit, leaving behind a pile of stones, smooth and gleaming.
From all around, ravens came. They gathered the stones one by one. At last, only three stones remained. Just for her. Just in case.
∼ Miriam H. Harrison
© Copyright Miriam H. Harrison. All Rights Reserved.
Pen of the Damned 