A Raven’s Journal- Three: The Body

This stone river’s song is not only separate from, but outright defiant against the Claymother. It follows no harmony. It branches, curves, rises and falls all on its own accord. I assumed it would surely end as it approached a steep rock wall, but it went through the cliffside. Through. 

Night is upon me. I have lost the water. I am sorry, Partner. It is just us and the stone river and the towering conifers. I feel unwell. Perhaps it is the smell of death nearby. Perhaps it is the hunger I have abandoned. Death can mean food if it’s fresh enough.

I follow the smell to a furry heap resting the smooth stone surface. No, “resting” is the wrong word. This creature, perhaps once a raccoon, has been obliterated. Something ripped it open and threw its innards about in a random spray, claiming nothing for nourishment. Here on this lifeless stone, no worms may find it, no fungus grows; the raccoon’s gory death is suspended in time.

Though it pains me to admit, that bobcat was more respectful to you, Partner. I am glad you did not die this way. This is death without renewal. This screams directly in the face of the Claymother.

I must eat it to correct this tragedy.

 

 

 

A Raven’s Journal- Two: The Stone River

The rippling hills below become smooth. The river which guides me widens and slows. I should find the world’s edge by next morning. Tonight, I will gather strength with food and sleep in case relations with the gulls turn ugly. There’s always food on a riverbank.

I pull my wings in close and let myself fall. For a moment, I feel as if I should keep falling and plunge into the river. Something snags my attention, a strange gap in the trees. My wings open, catch the air and I hover.

There is a secondary river parallel to the main. It is not like other rivers. This one cuts exactly along the hillside, impossibly straight and impossibly silent.

I align my flight with the river and follow its movement. This is no river. Rivers do not go up. Rivers do not lay still unless they are frozen, and nothing in the lowlands freezes during summer. No, this sings a song separate from the Claymother. It is cold and dissonant like me.

Upon landing on its banks, I test its composition with my beak. Stone. That explains the stasis. Perhaps there are stone rivers just as there are water rivers. There are old rumors of mountains weeping hot stone, and this does smell infernal, but there is no evidence of burning. This is too precise for fire. What can it be, Partner?

The song of this strange thing begins to dance with my own. It at once harmonizes with my isolation and pulls me onward, carving holes in my assumptions. This feels like hunger, though hunger is attuned to the Claymother’s song. It is no longer food I crave.