by Coty Schwabe
the snake to Burk, but did not fetch it. Instead, the pup crossed over to him and nuzzled his arm.
Hesitantly, Burk reached out his hand. He touched first his fingertips to the coyote’s fur, and the dog lowered its head. He ran his hand along the coyote’s head, between its ears and down its back. It began to growl, and Burk let off. However, the stupid beast kept rubbing its head against his chest.
Eventually, it stopped, and laid down next to him, panting. “You’re not leaving are you?” Burk was unsure if it understood; the pup stared up at him with those magnificent eyes of his. “Fine then.”
Burk reached into his jacket and brought out the meat strips he had. He tossed one in the dirt, but the coyote still wouldn’t take it. “Too good to eat your own kind? Or is it because they’re your parents?” The young dog tilted its head and whined. “Your loss.”
Burk put one in his mouth and chewed it. The roughness rubbed his taste buds harshly. Swallowing was damn near impossible, so he chewed and chewed and chewed until the pulp was ground up enough to slide down his throat. The food almost made him retch, and he had to take long, deep breaths to keep from doing so.
As he sat there, Burk stared out at the never ending desert. Out in the far, far north, probably a few dozen miles or more, a large red rock plateau rose like an anvil. To the south, the peak of a solitary grey mountain poked out of the rising desert ground. The highway continued east and west; it was a hard line back the way he came, but snaked at an angle up ahead.
He stared west, thinking of how far he’d come over since the Wrath. How had he survived this long? And why?
He felt his eyes opening less and less, and when he finally fell asleep he dreamed the strangest thing:
Somehow he’d transformed into a raven, with great wide wings and dressed in a full suit of onyx. His talons felt as sharp as needles and his eyes saw in distorted colors.
But he could smell – oh how he could smell.
Every breath brought the smells of life: the desert sand, the dust in the air, the smell of cacti, and best of all: the smell of other life. He was already flying when he came into the dream. He flapped without thinking, looking down on his own body, with that stupid mutt looking up at him in his bird form. He cawed, and the dog barked.
It didn’t matter. He could fly.
It was night then. The night around him was a thick dark blanket, and the only guiding lights were the monstrous, full moon to the north, and the thousands of visible stars that filled the sky. He cared very little for all this. He only wanted the smell.
The scent came to him again, drifting on the evening breeze. This scent was so delicious, so satisfying, that he had to follow it. It smelled of meat and blood and fat.
It smelled of a meal.
He trailed the scent, flying against the breeze as it came. Burk couldn’t recall ever flying before, not like this, but the feeling was indescribable. He could feel every change in temperature, every shift in the wind as the current rose and fell, rose and fell, throwing him high up, then dropping him down low. The entire affair was a dance with an invisible partner, and he rode it, flapping here and there only when needed, but most of the time he simply rode, with wings extended; sliding first over one current, then another, as a surfer of the wind.
The scent curved with every directional change, and drew Burk into the desert away from the road. The scent led him over miles of sand as the raven flies (or as he flew) and he knew he was getting close.
Stronger the scent became. And heavier. If his beak could salivate, it surely would have as he drew nigh to the incredible feast that he was about to attend; invited or not. The scent promised to fill his hungry belly; a feast like no other.
Smoke rose in the distance; thick dark smoke that rose in a single plume. Whatever was being cooked came from that fire. Now the scent of food was mixed with the acrid yet slightly sweet smell of dry burning wood.
Burk let himself fall with the current and dove to get under the smoke.
The smoke came from the center of a large tree. The tree was an odd tree: completely red, and made of brick; along its trunk and branches mismatched red bricks created the structure. But, the leaves were just as curious: where normal green leaves would reside, shingles ruled instead. When he’d cleared the canopy, Burk found many nests of various materials and colors among the branches.
Then he noticed other ravens standing around the fire. Not just a few, but hundreds of them. Many of them were eating, others were cawing into the dark of night. None of them paid any attention to his arrival. Burk landed on a branch near the center of the tree, watching the fire dance. Whatever cooked in the middle of those dancing flames was what he’d come for. He couldn’t make it out, so he hopped along the branch passing other ravens eating. One would toss a piece of meat back, and swallow it whole. Another ripped a sliver of meat from a bone, tearing it free with its sharp, powerful beak.
Feathers were scattered everywhere, strewn about the tree carelessly. He turned to the fire. A large piece of meat was cooking in the flames. The other ravens spun the spit over the flame with their beaks, laughing all the while. What was so funny? There was no telling what type of animal had been placed on the spit, for its skin and features had been burned away, and the flames danced around it. Whatever it was, he wanted some.
Suddenly there came a loud “Ca-Caw” from his right. A raven, dressed completely in scarlet instead of black, arrested the attention of all others. The rest stopped eating, stopped moving, and focused on this strange looking brother. The only sound that remained was the crackling of flames, which cast dancing bird-shadows in all directions.
This new raven cawed loudly once more, thrusting its wings to the sky. Burk had no idea what was happening, but the others did; they all cawed along, howling at the full moon above. The scarlet raven hopped aside, and two others emerged, prodding a white dove with their beaks. Fear was in the dove, Burk could see it in its eyes, but the dove made no sound as they poked at it and shoved it closer to the fire.
The scarlet raven strutted before the dove, twisting its head as it did so. It cawed again, a loud raucous noise that caused the others to erupt in a loud chorus. In his small bird stomach, Burk felt an ominous pit growing; something other than hunger pains. The scarlet raven hopped around the dove, to continuous cheering.
Something was about to happen.
Burk tried to move, to fly, to run, but found he couldn’t; his dream was in control, not him. If only he’d learned to lucid dream, like those weirdos he’d met in Cali, he might control it.
He shook his head, and tried to scream, to cry out, to caw, but nothing came. Dread filled him, but he could do nothing. He’d been rendered powerless within his own dream.
The scarlet raven cawed and lifted its wings high up once more. Every one of their fellow ravens echoed the chorus. Then the dove did something that set Burk’s blood to ice:
It looked straight at him. It squeaked something quiet; something in the bird language, something he shouldn’t have understood, but somehow, some way, he did.
Save me.
And with that, eye contact unbroken, the scarlet raven kicked the white dove into the flames. The dove fell in, silent as a lamb, and the flames overtook it.
Burk cried out in dismay, a startling, ear-piercing shriek that scared even him. This time, he did not go unnoticed. At once, all beady eyes fell upon him, like he’d suddenly appeared amongst them. The scarlet raven cawed in a threatening voice – a growl if you could call it that – and as one, the other ravens were upon him.
Some dove towards him, bearing claws, scratching his feathers; others pecked at his neck, his face, his feet. Burk tried to cover himself with his wings, to shield himself, but it did little; so very little. The others plucked his feathers from his wings and back; each one removed brought a stab of pain.
Then the claws began to connect, to cut, and he could feel each slash, each stab, each peck, with horrifying clarity; dream or no, he could feel the pain; it writhed
up and down his back and neck and his little bird bones.
Then the scarlet one cawed again and as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Burk could barely stand. He bled from a dozen wounds, and over ninety percent of his body was barren of his feathers. He was shamed and naked. Were they showing him mercy?
Before he had time to wonder this, he felt the kick as they shoved him forward with outstretched wings into the fire.
11
He woke up swatting at invisible flames and screaming.
The pup rose as well, tense and growling.
He calmed down as he realized that he was awake again, and looked about. Slowly the phantom pain eased.
Night had fallen, but he was unsure of what time it was. “Still alive,” he whispered. He got up and stretched, popping his joints and shaking the stiffness out of his bones.
He set out, continuing along the road, just as he’d done a hundred times before, only this time he was not alone. The coyote pup trotted beside him, not two feet away. “Snake. That’s your name.” The coyote tilted its head as it looked up at him. “Got a problem with that?”
Snake only panted in reply.
12
The road began its northeastern slant after some time, and Burk sustained his course… at first. The dryness in his throat and mouth made even breathing hurt. All of his joints hurt, and his head was already throbbing. While none of this