Edgar

A short story told from a raven's perspective, revealing the origins of the Edgar Collection.

Foreword by me. Story by my husband.

forword

Things escalated quickly!

It all started on my way to work, taking in a small moment of peace before stepping into the office. By that, I mean I fed some stunning ravens flying through the park on my way.

Then I stopped working for the company, and I found myself missing those majestic creatures until one day, there he was. Edgar, in all his mighty beauty, staring down at me from the top of the roof. Right then and there, I made myself a promise:

We would become friends.

Now, a couple of months later, the family has grown into a gang consisting of:

Ravens — Edgar, Alan & Poe Poe

Jackdaws — Maary & Henry (yes, it is a double “a,” as you shall read it with the voice of an elderly Victorian laady), Johann, Wolfgang, Goethe, Charlie & Bukowski.

However, at this point, we’re running out of names, as we’ve helped bring up a whole new generation of magpies, jays, great tits, and other delightful creatures.

Safe to say, the flock has been keeping me busy lately—and definitely inspired.

So much so that I needed Edgar immortalized in paint. And here we are: the brushes came out, and I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t make a collection out of it as well.

However, this is not what this is about.

I would love to share with you a short story my husband wrote.

I’ll hand over the “mic” to my husband.

Humans believe they are the ones who give us names as though a sound escaping their mouths could alter the air itself. Still, I’ll indulge them, in a way that is, because this Lady is special. She named me Edgar.

I am older than her garden, older than the ivy patiently climbing along the backwall, older even than the stories told long ago when evenings soften and coffee gets cold in the morning. Not older in years of course, by all means. Only in the way us crows, ravens and jackdaws measure time. You see, we do not count birthdays. We gather wind directions, the scent of rain, the colors of winters no one else remembers. Every morning we alight upon the same post, not out of habit but because loyalty is a form of freedom.

And then she comes out, every morning of every day. The Lady. Bright smile, the sweetest tone. We know humans far better than they imagine, yet among ourselves we call her something else. The Keeper. The one who stands still, who listens without asking. Before the first seed touches the earth, we already know what ‘s coming. Peanuts. Kibble. Apple.

Attention is proof of love and she possesses it in abundance. We descend like scattered thoughts, chattering without end like a stream that has forgotten where the sea begins. The young ones behave as though every bite is the last the world will ever see. Magpies on the other hand always seem to arrive like actors expecting applause before they have spoken or done the littlest of things.

I of course let them all. A king does not eat first. A king observes. The young ones, by the way, never call me king. To them I am sort of a dark branch because I always seem to know where tomorrow’s wind will come from. I never tell them the truth though, I simply pay attention. It is an ancient secret. Wisdom almost always resembles magic.

One chatty morning one of the many young jackdaws asked why humans feed us. He wondered whether it was out of guilt. Maybe out of boredom another suggested. One of the oldest magpies was most certain it was pride. It had to be. I just slowly shook my feathers. No, because some hearts do not end when the voice starts to speak, I replied. A long silence followed, a very rare occurrence.

A jackdaw stands in the fountain, joyfully falling apart beneath the fresh water. Droplets burst into the air like tiny stars, each one briefly beautifully captured by the morning light. I remember something my mother once told me. Water remembers every wing that it ever touched. Perhaps it wasn’t true. Perhaps the most beautiful truths are the ones that no need proof.

The Keeper often watches us as though it seems she is trying to relearn a language she once knew before memory became speech. From a past life. We seem to share an ancient bond with the trees.

There are nights when the moon hangs so low every single creature begins to whisper. Then we fly, because then the sky opens its hidden chambers. Above the sleeping houses another world exists, where the departed crows, ravens and jackdaws still fly. Not as ghosts but as thoughts that have never quite stopped being thought.

In that world I see my grandfather. His feathers woven from starlight and morning mist. If I climb high enough he flies beside me for a while. But he never speaks. He has no need. Some conversations are simply too wide for sound. He just reminds me that every beat of a wing changes the heavens ever so slightly and every landing alters the earth. The humans below never notice, except for the Keeper. She understands the roots of an oak just as well as we do.

Some days the Keeper is not around. No movement behind the window. No footsteps. No whistle. The young ones always grow restless, but I don’t. Patience is the language in which trust is written.

Eventually the door always opens and when she sees us, she smiles. Ah… that smile. Humans imagine a smile is something a face performs. They are wrong. A true smile changes gravity itself, makes snow fall more lightly.

I do not fly to the food. All the young ones and the parents do by all means and rightly so. I just keep checking in. Close enough, far enough. An old understanding that may well have existed before humans ever learned to speak and before birds discovered song. I see her and nod. A gesture so small she will likely have not seen it. Among my kind, it is an oath. I see you. Not for what you give but for the way you see and look.

As another morning unfolds like the slow opening of a great wing, I remember what even the oldest crows, ravens or jackdaws sometimes forget. The world is held together by the quiet rituals of care. A hand scattering seed. A bird returning. A fountain where heaven and earth meet each day. Perhaps that is all immortality has ever meant. Not to live forever but to return so faithfully the world itself expects you in every possible way.

I shall be here again, long before the sun has thought its very first thought. And when the young ones ask me why I’ll always be there from afar, I shall ruffle my feathers, assume my most majestic expression and reply that someone always must keep an eye on the sun, while the Keeper will have a look over my shoulder each time.

by M.W.R.H