Eyes of Crow

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Rhia nodded. “You think someone killed Etar because they thought it was the only way to get him out of power.”

  Kerza pressed her lips together in a tight line, as if holding back a storm of sobs.

  Rhia touched her hand. “Why are you telling me this? Why do you think I of all people can help you?”

  The Wolf woman drew in a deep, shaky breath through her nose. “The three Council members who tried to pass the measure were Zilus the Hawk, Razvin the Fox…”

  Rhia’s eyes widened. Could the man who abandoned her mother and brothers still harbor such treachery?

  “…and Coranna.”

  Rhia let go of Kerza’s hand and stepped back. “You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know what to think. But I know you spend time with Razvin and Coranna. All I ask is for you to keep your eyes open. Tell Marek what you learn, and he’ll tell me.” She grasped Rhia’s elbow, her fingers like claws. “You owe Coranna your loyalty. But a Crow’s greatest duty is to the dead.” Kerza suddenly cocked her head to the side. Her nostrils flared. “Someone’s coming. I must go.”

  She disappeared, winking out in a moment rather than shimmering, as Marek did at sunset. The hand released Rhia, who reached out to feel the air around her. Nothing.

  Her merely human senses told her no one was approaching, but she crept into the outhouse just the same, as if it were her purpose all along. She locked the door, then sat on the wooden seat, listening, too frightened even to relieve herself.

  If Etar’s death had been dealt by a purposeful human hand, rather than the whim of Crow’s flight, then it could not be Rhia’s fault. No one ever spoke of murder as Crow’s will—illness, accidents, even wars could be the result of spiritual forces beyond any individual’s control. But Crow did not raise the hand of one man to slay another. To believe otherwise would exonerate the murderer as a mere tool of the Spirits.

  She gathered her nerve and crept back to the pyre, where Coranna waited, as still as the stone beside her and the body that lay upon it.

  When the eastern horizon began to glow, the village came to life. Waiting at the pyre, Rhia saw distant figures descend ladders from their homes. As they approached, each person, even the children, bent to pick up as many branches and twigs as he or she could carry.

  Coranna stood at the head of the pyre, now in the pure white ceremonial robe that Marek had fetched for her. Crow feathers lined the seam that ran from her wrists to her neck. She gestured for Rhia to take a position at the pyre’s foot.

  The sun rose over the hillside, casting a red-orange glow that outshone the torches’ pale brilliance. Coranna softly intoned the chant of the body, while one by one, the Kalindons approached the pyre, mounted the platform and stood for a few moments next to the body. They uttered hushed prayers, then placed the wood they had gathered next to the pyre. Some lay flowers or herbs on Etar’s chest.

  Last to proceed were Etar’s sister and children. They all bore cropped hair and looked as if they had not slept. Kerza avoided Rhia’s gaze. The three each placed an owl feather on his breast, tucking them into the blanket so they wouldn’t blow away. Then they took their places nearby, standing rather than kneeling, no doubt because of Thera’s pregnancy.

  Coranna held her arms out to the crowd. “We gather to mourn Etar’s death and celebrate his life, for both shall touch us forever. It is on our behalf alone, not his, that we mourn, for Etar himself has journeyed to the Other Side, to a new and glorious existence.” She lowered her arms. “He was a man of wisdom, of humor, of justice. His service on the village Council lasted twenty years, most of them as leader, the longest tenure in memory. He found ways to fulfill our people’s wishes and still be true to his Spirit. If I may speak for all Council members, we have been blessed and humbled by his service.”

  The other elders nodded—including Razvin. His piety and grief had a forced quality—at least to Rhia—as if he were trying too hard to mourn. She couldn’t identify Zilus the Hawk, and as for Coranna…the thought that she could be a murderer was too terrible.

  Other Kalindons came forward to speak of Etar, extolling his wisdom and lamenting the void that he had left behind. His son Pirrik told of Etar’s devotion to his late wife, who had preceded him to the Other Side seven years before.

  When Pirrik stepped down, pale and unsteady, Coranna returned to the head of the pyre. “We will now sing home his soul.”

  She began the chant to call Crow, as Galen had at Mayra’s funeral. Rhia joined in, tentatively at first, in case the words or inflections differed from those of her home, but this ritual was identical even to the rhythms of the breath. Soon the others lifted their voices to the cold morning air.

  Unlike the day they buried her mother, a crow appeared right away calling over and over. Rhia watched it swoop low through the forest, passing through patches of morning sun that glistened violet off its wings.

  For a moment she wished she could follow it into the sky. Then she looked at the grateful faces of the Kalindons, the people who had given up a bit of their lives for her, and knew with certainty that her place was in this world.

  28

  The party—now only a wake—resumed as if it had never stopped, albeit at a muted level of revelry. Rhia helped Coranna and Marek gather more wood for the funeral pyre. Much of it was damp from melted snow and had to be dried by hand using the torches.

  She laid an armful of dry wood at the foot of the pyre and examined the raised stone platform on which it stood. It bore the scorch marks of many funerals—she wondered how many bodies had turned to ashes here. Her mind cleared, and she felt the traces of souls who had lingered close to earth after the deaths of their bodies. One remained.

  Coranna stepped quietly onto the platform next to her. “We have enough wood for now. Marek is making a reserve pile in case the night is damp.”

  Rhia kept her gaze on Etar’s face. “Why do some of them stay?”

  “A few wait because of unfinished business or an over-attachment to this world. It’s part of a Crow person’s duty to encourage them to cross over completely.”

  “Why has he stayed?”

  Coranna hesitated. “Perhaps he wants to see his grandchild born.”

  “I hope that’s why.” Rhia wanted to utter the alternative—he remained because someone had shoved him from this world.

  “Etar has not spoken to me from the Other Side,” Coranna said. “If he lingers after Thera has her baby, I will contact him to determine his soul’s intentions.”

  Rhia forced herself to ask, “Why not now?”

  Coranna gave her a long look. “I need privacy, and special materials. I prefer to perform that ritual at home.”

  “Tomorrow, then? I’ll help with anything you need.”

  The Crow woman’s gaze darkened. “Tomorrow, yes.”

  Rhia gestured to Etar. “Do they ever stay for good?”

  “No. Crow wouldn’t allow it.” Her head gave a little bow. “Our Spirit’s patience and understanding are enormous as it is.”

  Rhia bowed her head in imitation and restrained her thousand-and-one other questions.

  “We’re finished for now,” Coranna said, loudly enough for Marek to hear. “Go and join the wake, both of you.”

  Rhia stepped off the platform and turned to Coranna. “Are you coming?”

  “I’ll be along shortly.” Coranna turned back to the pyre, and as she did, the façade of composure fell from her face.

  When they were out of her earshot, Rhia told Marek, “I spoke with Kerza last night.” She hesitated, not knowing if she could tell Marek she questioned his Wolf mentor’s motives. But if she couldn’t trust the man who had been willing to give up everything for her, she was truly alone here.

  “I don’t know who to believe,” she said. “Kerza suspects Coranna and Razvin, and someone named Zilus.” He nodded. “But why should I believe Kerza?” she asked him.

  “What she says is true, about the term limit conflict. Council meetings are p
ublic.”

  “I’ve asked Coranna to contact Etar.” To his surprised look she replied, “He still lingers near this world. Maybe he has something to tell us.”

  “I hope so. It’s a lot of rituals for Coranna to do in such a short time. She brought you back to life, now she’s handling the funeral of one of her best friends—”

  “Were Coranna and Etar more than friends?”

  “Sometimes.” They glanced back at Coranna’s figure, glowing white in a patch of sunlight. “He’s the closest person to her to die since her daughter.”

  “I didn’t know about her daughter.” Shame coursed through her, for her indifference and suspicions. “I never asked Coranna about her.”

  “Them, not her. Coranna had two daughters, but only one survived to have her own children. The younger daughter died before I was born, a fever of some sort. The older one died in the same fire that killed my parents. Coranna had to call her spirit home along with all the others.”

  Rhia stopped and covered her face. “I never asked you, either, how your mother and father died.”

  “I didn’t expect you to. I didn’t ask about your mother’s death. Figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

  Was she ready? Ready to admit her greatest error, her deepest shame? She looked at Marek’s patient face.

  “What happened to Coranna’s grandchildren?” she asked him.

  “Her son-in-law took them to Tiros to live with his family. Said he wouldn’t watch his children die in this forsaken place.” Marek shook his head. “It broke Coranna’s heart. She could have gone with them, but she wouldn’t leave Kalindos. This is home, she said, for better or worse.”

  Rhia looked at the mist-draped forest, at the Kalindons moving as one around the bonfire, and understood.

  Bellies full and thirsts quenched, Rhia and Marek sat near the fire while Zilus the Hawk captivated the crowd with stories, most of which featured Etar as a younger and considerably less wise Owl. Zilus’s pointed gray beard bobbed as he recreated exaggerated scenes, complete with imitated voices. Before long, everyone was laughing and toasting Etar’s memory. Rhia found it hard to believe that Zilus held anything but fondness for his fellow Council member, but perhaps that was the impression he was trying to convey.

  As the shadows in the forest lengthened, Zilus grew solemn, and many of the Kalindons leaned forward.

  “Is this a special part?” Rhia whispered to Marek.

  “He always finishes with the story of the Descendants. Likes to go out with a dramatic flourish.”

  Rhia knew the story but perked up to hear how the Kalindons told it.

  “Once upon a time,” Zilus said, “all people in the world were one. Everyone had animal magic the way we do in Kalindos, the way the people of Asermos do,” he gestured to Rhia, “and the people of Tiros and Velekos. We traded in peace and rarely fought, unless it was over a mate.” He nudged the elderly woman sitting next to him, who laughed and returned a soft shove.

  “But one day,” Zilus continued, “a fishing party traveling south from Velekos was beset by a terrible storm that carried them out across the Southern Sea, all the way to the other shore. When the clouds lifted, the men fell on the deck of their boat and blessed the Spirits that had spared their lives. Then they stood.”

  He paused and looked the children in the eye, one by one. “What do you think they saw?” he asked, drawing out each word.

  Rhia knew the answer: a golden shore near the mouth of another river, a land where the weather was always warm, a paradise untouched by humans—though not for long.

  “They saw,” Zilus said, “a shining city on the golden shore, a city with buildings of white stone that reflected the sun so brightly it hurt to look at it. A city that was empty.”

  “Wait,” Rhia whispered to Marek, “does he mean they saw it in their imagination?”

  “No.” He squinted at her. “They saw it. It was there.”

  “They didn’t build the city?”

  Someone behind her made a shushing noise. She pressed her lips together and leaned forward to hear Zilus tell more.

  “The fishermen rowed to the city and stepped within. They walked on roads paved with solid stone and imagined how quickly their carts could roll over such paths. They saw enormous houses and imagined how quickly they could fill them with children and servants. And lastly, they came to the largest building of all. It was so huge, if you stood in the center of it, you couldn’t see the outer walls.”

  The eyes of the youngest children widened at the thought.

  “And in that building,” Zilus said, “were stone statues of people—men and women who each wielded a different weapon. One man, a spear, one woman, a bow and arrow. One man looked as if he held the lightning itself in his hand. The statues bore no chips, no marks, not so much as a speck of dust. It was as if the former inhabitants had vanished that very day.

  “The fishermen fell to their knees, thanking these statues they thought were gods for delivering them from the storm and bringing them to this city.”

  “Did the gods answer?” asked a little girl to Zilus’s left.

  He tweaked her nose. “No, silly, they were just statues. But the fishermen believed they were gods. They believed so hard they brought those carvings to life in their own minds.”

  “They worshiped a bunch of statues?” a boy said with disdain. “What did the Spirits do?”

  “Well, that’s the sad part. The Spirits of these men felt forsaken. So they took their magic back.” Zilus’s hand snatched the air. “That’s what happens when we don’t honor them. The Spirits grant us their Aspects, and they can take them away if we aren’t worthy.” He folded his hands. “Now you’d probably like to hear what happened to the fishermen.”

  Everyone nodded, although most knew the end of the story.

  “They returned to Velekos and told everyone what they had seen. Word spread, to Asermos, Tiros and even to Kalindos. Many of our people were seduced by the idea of an easier life, one that would depend less on the cycles of the seasons, less on what they considered the whims of the Spirits. They left their villages for this shining white city in the south, and as they departed, so did their magic depart from them.

  “And to this day, the Descendants, as we call them, have no magic.”

  “Will they ever come back?” asked the little girl.

  Zilus gave her a wistful half smile. “Not in peace, I’m afraid.” He raised his empty meloxa mug. “My throat is dry. I thank you for your attention, and thank you even more for refilling my drink.”

  The musicians warmed up, and the crowd moved back to clear a space for dancing.

  Rhia turned to Marek and drank in the sight of him while it lasted, for the sun was about to disappear. “In Asermos we’re taught that the Descendants built the white city on the shore they found. That they created the gods in their own image.”

  “Interesting.” Marek frowned at the bottom of his mug, which he could see due to the absence of meloxa. “Either way, they’re there now and bound to be trouble someday.”

  “But if they didn’t build the city, who did?”

  “The people before the Reawakening, of course.”

  The giraffe had told Rhia of such inhabitants. It was hard to doubt a Spirit, but the teachings of her childhood remained rooted inside her. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Then if you ever meet a Descendant, you should ask them which is the true story.”

  “Maybe neither is exactly true.”

  Marek looked to the west. “Time to light the pyre, at sunset.” He took her hand. “Stay with me after I disappear?”

  She kissed him, long and sweet, and when she opened her eyes, he had vanished.

  Along with most of the villagers, they made their way to the pyre. Etar had been placed inside and the upper stone slab removed. Juniper branches covered and surrounded the body, along with the dry wood they had collected today.

  The crowd quieted. Without a word, C
oranna lowered a torch to the base of the pyre. Marek and Rhia did the same at their positions. The oil-soaked wood snapped and cracked, and the heat formed a wall that threatened to push Rhia off her feet. She stepped back from the platform and watched through the slats of the pyre as the flames ate their way toward Etar’s body.

  When the fire reached the edge of his blanket, a great whoosh went up. Coranna had doused his garments with meloxa to hasten the flames. Bits of cloth floated upwards before bursting into small showers of ash.

  Within moments, Etar’s skin cracked and blackened, peeling away from his flesh. Rhia wanted to run from the sight and the stench, which was barely allayed by the fragrant juniper branches. But no one else turned away, and no one showed disgust—only sadness—so she watched with them, honoring Etar during his body’s last moments.

  The evening wind blew brisk and dry, feeding the flames’ frenzy. Eventually the corpse was little more than a charred skeleton. Each time another joint fell apart and the body shifted, Rhia jumped a little at the sudden movement. Her heart slammed against her own ribs, which she was more conscious of than ever. Inside her were the same bones that split and crumbled in the nearby flames.

  Slowly the fire dwindled to embers around what little remained of Etar—many small bone fragments amid a scattering of gray ashes. The crowd dispersed, most of them heading back to the clearing to eat and drink in a greatly subdued mood.

  Rhia couldn’t move, much less eat and drink. Coranna brought forth a clay container that resembled a large vase with a cover. She started to call Rhia, then stopped when she saw her face. Instead she beckoned to Marek.

  Rhia forced her feet to unfreeze and took an unsteady step. Her stomach pitched at the movement, but nothing would stop her from fulfilling her duty. She approached the pyre, whose stone platform pulsed hot, and stood next to Coranna.

  The Crow woman held up the clay container. “We’ll gather a bit of the ashes now, then tomorrow morning, after the stones have cooled, we’ll collect whatever hasn’t blown away.” She reached the vessel toward the pyre. “Hold my sleeve, please.”