Then he remembered the priest's frightened predictions from the year before. He looked down at the coffin by his feet and shivered. Was it death that came to greet him? Or had he spent so much time with the dead that he could see the creatures from the other side that came seeping through the veils to meet his passengers? Or had it just been an illusion? A trick of his mind? Had he fallen into slumber there, by the oars, under the dizzying sun? The ferryman scooped cold water from the river with his palm and wet his brow while drifting further down the river. It made him feel a little better and the rhythm of his heart slowed down from having raced in fear. His gaze lingered on the coffin by his feet; drops of water had soaked into the wood and stained the pine with darker color. It was a woman in there, fairly young and dead from a fever. The next day she would be earthed, her family would come down this very stream, dressed in dark wool despite the warmth, to see her off. Husband and children, sisters and brothers. He did not think it was her spirit he had seen. It had been a man, he felt sure of it. A peculiar and pale man, but a man never the less.
Had it been another omen that he himself was soon to go? A creature of death so harshly painted among summer leaves?
The next day the ravens had returned. The ferryman lifted the oars off the water and scanned the trees with his gaze. He tried to make out if any of the croaking, large birds was his friend from before. In his hand was a half-eaten plum; they were ripe now, ready to be devoured. His heart pounded with a frightened kind of excitement though he did not dare to hope, to anticipate or assume that his friend was there among them. Ravens could be found in dozens, there was no good reason why his particular one should be there. Yet Simon did hope...just could not help but feel the hope uncurl in the pit of his stomach and bloom forth in his chest.
There were seven birds that he could see from the water. Seven big and beautiful birds. All of them sat up in the trees, among the branches, tasting the fruit with black beaks. The man looked at them, one by one, afraid that he wouldn't recognize it, even if it was there. But then the smallest of the birds suddenly took flight, rose from the tree and came flying down to him. The ferryman worried no more. Gone was the restless anger and the fear. He knew those lustrous feathers, knew the ridges on those feet. He had been in that body, felt the air yield and give in to the power of those wings. A bright smile formed on his lips and he greeted the raven warmly while the bird flew about the boat in excitement, sat down for a moment, restlessly moved a bit and circled the boat once more before finally calming down. Its claws curled around the grey wood as before.
The ferryman rowed the rest of the way to church with a new vigor and a chuckle in his throat. It was an amazing thing, this, he thought, that a friendship between man and a bird could become something like this. Not only had it survived winter's hardships but the raven had even let him have a taste of the magic of the sky. Just like some of the Sami people traveling the lands could take on a different form and travel like birds, salmon and even like the bear. His mother had once traded six silver spoons for answers, after the ferryman's father disappeared. The noaide she asked had called upon the spirits with his drum and left his body to travel like a hawk. When he came back to his body he told her that her husband was dead. They found the body washed up on a shore the next spring.
The ferryman felt humble and grateful that the bird would share this with him.
***
The priest became frightened when the dead arrived at church with the black bird back in the boat. His gaze darted nervously to the raven who, just as before, had left the boat and was waiting for the ferryman to finish his business in a nearby tree.
"He came back?" said the old man and wetted his lips nervously.
"That he did," said Simon.
"This does not bode well," the old man's voice was filled with his fear.
The ferryman shrugged. It was not important what the priest thought. Simon had nothing to lose in questions about salvation. The bond between him and his raven was more important.
***
The rest of the summer went as the one before; whenever the ferryman rowed the dead, the bird would come with him. The ferryman picked plums and ate, gave pieces to his winged companion who blinked and swallowed them whole. But the intimacy between them had increased. As was natural, when they had shared the same feathers in dreams.
One day while they were relaxing in the shade under trees, watching the crystal clear reflection in the water, the ferryman asked his friend, "Do you think the plums will grow down there?" He tossed a large plum seed into the water so it stirred the image of a peaceful fruit grove and made the slender trunks quiver on the water.
"It looks almost like the ass of a young man." Simon's fingers closed around a fat, blue fruit hanging above them and ripped it from the tree. He slowly caressed the tiny crack in the taut, smooth skin. The beast in his abdomen uncoiled and stretched its neck as he spoke, hissed like a serpent, hungry and alive. The raven looked at the man. Blinked once, twice. The ferryman blushed while his thumb made love to the fruit in his hand. "But one shouldn't talk like that," he declared and abruptly threw the plum away so it hit the water with a loud splashing sound. Ripples formed in the lazy river and he watched them form and fade with a dreamy gaze. Feeling all ashamed and self-conscious. It wasn't just any bird sitting there, looking at him, it was his bird, bright as any! And he felt certain that the raven had known exactly what he'd been thinking about. "Shouldn't talk like that," he repeated and reached for his oars. The raven just stared at him. His beak shone like polished jet. He opened it up and croaked hoarsely.
***
As lovely as summer had been, the autumn that followed it was terrible, windy and full of rain. The sky showered the world in cold water and the ferryman's job was no longer peaceful. It was hard work just to maneuver the boat with the bad visibility and the wind. Sometimes there was fog as well, veils of vapor drifting across the water. Green leaves with yellowing edges plastered to the wood of the boat and the coffins. The ravens were all gone to safer, warmer places. All but one, who found his shelter at the bottom of the ferryman's boat, pressed against the coffins. He was looking very small and sorry now, with his wet feathers plastered to his body, his chest was always puffed up and ragged. Simon was even more amazed than before at the bird's behavior. He wondered why it was that the wild creature had taken such a liking to him that he fought the storms to be with him? The raven was still waiting to join him every time he passed by, hidden among the leaves of the plum trees, picking at the rain-washed fruits with his beak.
The weather reminded the ferryman of the dead of winter and he was in no way anticipating the cruelest of seasons. Once again, he worried what would come of his bird when ice licked the river frozen. He told the raven that. It cocked its head and made a jump, closer to the man. Once or twice the man touched him. His fingers stroked the black feathers. The bird watched him intensely, but did not seem to fear his touch, as he stood still while the callused hand petted him.
Then one day, about a year after he had first met the raven, came the storm.
The morning had been quiet, more so than usual. It was as if the sky held its breath. The ferryman could feel the stirring, the tension in the air when he walked down the slope from his house to the river with the oars resting on his shoulder. His woolen sweater was already damp from the air, though it did not rain, and the nature around him was unusually quiet. Even the birds held their peace.
The only sound as he began his trip to collect the coffin of an old man who had died from a fall, was the sound of water clashing with wood and himself working the oars. Then, later, when the coffin was placed in the bottom of the boat and the ferryman was rowing it to church, the weather suddenly hit, fast and furious like a drunken blow, careless and merciless, whipping the stream into a frenzy.
Simon Ferryman fought while his boat was forced from one side of the river to the other, dancing on sudden whims of air and water. He cursed out aloud and clenched his teeth, hu
ddled down on his seat while straining his muscles to force the boat to go where he wanted it to. He tried to make it to shore, but the stream was as cursed, as if playing with him! Every time he was close to land, it would force him away from it, blowing him, the coffin and the boat to the other side.
He started to feel frightened. It didn't feel quite natural, how nature had suddenly turned on him. He wondered if it was the man in the coffin that was cursed, or if it was an omen his death had not been natural? Then came the rain and there was no more time for thinking, as the boat now rocked so hard and out of control Simon had to lay down his oars and use all his might just to hold on to the wood with his red, cold fingers, and pray he would not lose his grip and fall over board. He screamed out loud with fear and frustration. The boat filled with water and the rain whipped his face with icy needles.
Soon came the plum grove, and just as the boat passed the wind-bent trees, the wooden coffin silently slid off the rocking boat and into the fury of river and rain. The ferryman acted on instinct, not reason. He threw himself after the dead. It was his job after all, to see them safe to the grave.
The river was freezing and he gasped for air; the coffin he saw no more, just the grayish water that foamed around him, soaked into his woolen clothes and made them heavy and hard to move in. The water filled his shoes as well and made him sink faster. He panicked and fought for air in the wind-whipped water, fought to stay on the surface long enough to fill his lungs before he was forced down in the cold river again. Once, he saw his boat, rocking as wildly as before, far away from him now. Drifting helpless, an empty shell...
***
Once, when he was not quite a child, but not an adult either, a young man was taken from one of the nearby farms. Taken, by strangers. Thieves and killers. When they found him, dead, there were rumors he had been raped. Taken by the men...
Simon had seen the thieves, before they had done their evil deeds. He had been gathering wood in the forest and quickly hid when a party of strange, dark men he did not know arrived. They were six but had but one horse. He remembered he'd thought they looked scary and wild, standing there on the brown leaves covering the forest ground. Filthy. Dressed in a mixture of linen and fur. Runaway slaves from a foreign ship, he had guessed then. They looked like that; like caged animals let loose. Yet there was something about them, especially one of them; a dark man with long hair and just a scar for one of his eyes. His face had a lovely built despite the missing eye. Simon could see glimpses of naked skin where his clothes did not quite fit.
Later, when the young man was dead and rumors had it they had done those unspeakable things to him, Simon went mad with a jealous rage. Where he should have felt pity, his eyes filled with tears of anger. Why couldn't they have taken him instead?
He was thinking of the one-eyed man. It was a bitter thought that there had been a beautiful man, so close to him, who probably did not fear touching a boy. In his youth's folly he had thought painful death a small price to pay for he had never really heard of such things between men before, yet it answered all his questions and named all his longings. He knew from that day on, that he was born wrong. And that he was willing to die for that "wrong". Sacrifice his very life to experience the touch of man on his body. The Devil lived and danced in his blood.
In secret, Simon hid in the forest, closed his eyes and pretended he was being taken by the one-eyed thief, bent over a rock or up against a trunk. Guilt blossomed when he remembered the dead boy, but it didn't keep him from touching himself. The passion was all too strong for that. He asked the Devil to bring the killer back. Dreamt that he would see him again one day. In the forest. Beautiful and wild as before. But the Devil never answered his prayers... Someone said the thieves had been hanged for the murder, but others said that was not true.
***
It was warm and sunny when he woke up. He was neither wet, nor cold. His mind felt clouded. He was dizzy, but not sick. Above his head he saw glossy leaves and ripe fruits. The sun's golden rays filtered to the branches, and under his naked body, the grass was soft, a vivid green. The silence was complete. He turned his head in the bright light. The river was there, but stilled. It did now flow, was just water mirroring the sun, like silver. The ferryman gave a quiet sound of fear and curled up on the warm grass.
The strange man stood by the trunk of a plum tree, half-hidden behind it, shy and peculiar looking. He was naked just as the ferryman, his black gaze was unreadable and his thin lips closely pressed together. The dark hair hung over his shoulders and covered most of his chest. The fingers that clutched at the bark were long and thin with almond shaped nails.
"Am I dead now?" Simon's voice was hoarse and frightened.
"Not quite," the young man answered, his voice was quiet and soft. He let go of the safety of the trees and stepped forth. It was an awkward walk, his weight on his toes and not on his heels. He cocked his head and measured the man. "I pulled you out of the river," he said, "and I brought you here."
"Am I going to die?" The man asked. It felt as if all his strength was drained from his body, and even the lightest, smallest movement was an effort.
"I do not think so," the man shrugged and moved closer. "I know what you think, but I am not death," he said. His sincere gaze sought for the ferryman's, pleadingly. "Your priest is very wrong about me."
Simon Ferryman raised his head, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. Amazement, fear and a spark of joy mingled in his heart when he stretched out his hand toward the raven.
"My friend!" He said in a shivering voice. "To think I did not recognize you!" Tears stood in his eyes and the raven, still hesitant and shy, slowly closed the gap between them. Sat down to his knees and touched the man's hand, held it with his own. So very pale that hand, the man mused. So pale and graceful and smooth to the touch. "The priest," the ferryman smiled, "is wrong about many things..."
The raven bent forth then, and in a secretive manner he whispered to the man, "I cannot enter the graveyard!"
"But why?" Simon asked. The words sowed a new seed of fear in his heart, yet he was clutching at the fingers in his hand, as if afraid that the other male would suddenly disappear.
The raven smiled a little; it was a lovely smile, just a twist of his lips. His gaze twinkled and he used his free hand to brush the hair from one of his ears.
"I am not allowed," he whispered in that same intimate voice. "It is not for people like me." His ear was sharply pointed.
"I never knew elven people to be ravens," the ferryman shifted on the ground. His fear quickly yielded to amazement and surprise. To the magic of the frozen time that embraced him like a warm, safe presence.
"Oh, but we are not!" The raven's eyes widened. "It is just us, me and my brothers, being denied real death by a curse. We are twelve brothers in all, but some do not remember anymore, what we were…like I do.”
"I can see that you do. Remember, that is..." Simon smiled slightly. He squeezed the raven's fine hand and looked at him, awestruck and taken with his peculiar, elven beauty. Trying hard to grasp the fact that his strange friend was not really a bird, but neither a man as himself. "How did it happen?" he asked. "How did you become a bird?"
"It was a long time ago," the elf looked away, as if his own words were painful to him, the memories too much. "It was in the old land, where we lived, my brothers and I, in the mountains. It was a fair land, covered in purple flowers and red moss. The soil was wet and the rocks streaked with silver. We liked it very much, but it was not ours. One day an old man in a blue cloak lined with wolf's fur came and told us the land was his. He was not human. Neither was he of our kind. He had magic from the dawn of time."
"A god?" the man asked him.
"You might call him that, yes," the elf smiled. "To us he was merely stronger, and older. He claimed the land and the land yielded to him, and so it was his."
"Were you sorry?"
"No, it was how it was," the elf shrugged. "We never did ask many questions,
or struggle to make things just," he stated. "We are like the birch and the stars and the rainbow, the water and the moon at night. We are, but we do not act in the worlds like you do. To us, breathing and living, just being, is rewarding... This old man, this god, he never took from us, he just told us that he was the owner of the land. "
"And what happened?" Simon shifted on the ground.
"Nothing...But years went by and soon there were humans. Some of them came to our mountain. One did, in particular, a young woman. My brother had taken a liking to this girl who drifted about alone up there, sometimes crossing over and visiting our realms through the veils that usually separates us... I think he loved her, but my brother wasn't like me. He had already then a taste for meat; he ate it from the animals' bones and yearned for it when he could not have it. He had taken death into his body, and so, when men came and searched for the woman, he ate them. He killed them first and ate their flesh." The elf's voice was calm but the ferryman felt sick.
"But it was not you?" the man asked to be certain.
"No..." his eyes widened. "But that was not easy to tell for an untrained eye," he continued. "Since I and my brothers are so much alike..."
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