The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  “It’s not meant as an ultimatum, Cal. But the fact remains that I am a witch.” With that, I pass my left hand over the tray on the coffee table. The nearly empty whiskey bottle rises and tilts over as a rocks glass slides smoothly underneath it. A short pour of the amber liquid fills the glass as a glittering ball of ice forms within it. Cal’s eyes are wide, and he scoots back in the seat as the glass levitates towards him.

  “I think you need this.” I eye him with no small amount of amusement.

  His mouth falls open, and he looks ready to bolt at any minute.

  “Don’t panic. Just take a deep breath.” My words are calm and quiet. “There is magick all around us, Cal. While only a few can truly tap into it, no one can do what I can do with it.” The glass glides to the table and settles with a clink against the stone. “I will not hide it or hide who I truly am, so I’ve been alone for a very long time. You have no idea how long,” I choke on these last words then swallow. “I like you, Cal, very much. And I know you like me too.” I had a hundred more things I wanted to say to him but they have all vanished now.

  His eyes close and he leans back again. I take this moment to study him; his eyes sport dark crescents underneath, and there’s a distinct five o’clock shadow across his jaw. The muscles in his neck are tight, and both his shirt and shorts look as if they were piled up on the floor for some time. I can’t fathom where his imagination has led him since the night of the tornado, and it doesn’t look as if the journey has been particularly pleasant.

  In an instant, he is out of the lounger and stepping around the table. I start at his sudden movements. He bends over me and grabs my face between his palms. His lips crash onto mine. His mouth is hard, desperate. My body comes up to meet his and one of his arms goes around my waist, holding me tight. My arms are around his neck, my hands in his hair.

  He puts a knee on the chaise and leans me back, laying me down without letting go or allowing his lips to leave mine. The space between us is warm and filled with electricity. I am suddenly nervous; it has been so very long. The butterflies in my stomach threaten to ruin this moment. I focus on his warm palm against my cheek, the natural smell of his skin, the darting of his tongue—all of it sending pleasant shivers across my skin. His hardness presses against my thigh, and I lift my hip slightly to push into it. He groans and his lips move down to my neck. His teeth graze my skin and I grip his head. His mouth gets more aggressive and I open my leg outward for him to maneuver on top of me, which he doesn’t hesitate to do.

  My body is moving much faster than my brain, so I turn my brain off. My body is hungry, starved for this, and I won’t let it stop the pleasure for supposed logical or rational reasons. If this is a one-night stand, so be it.

  I release all of my pent up lust onto him and he does not shy away—quite the opposite. He responds with his own deep desire, and we hold on to each other for fear that if one lets go, the other will be gone. Our bodies are in perfect rhythm, like the tidal flows and the moon. Few words are exchanged, none needing to be said. The tidal waves crash against the rocks time after time until they are spent and dawn peeks over the horizon.

  We lie on the double chaise, our naked bodies entwined, and watch the sky turn from dark blue to the pastel colors of morning. We whisper to each other and giggle on occasion, with him acting like a kid given a treasured secret to hold. He is giddy and so am I, having been released from both the tension and the nervousness. His laughter is infectious and he teases me, marveling at his ability to make me moan. I smack him playfully and straddle his hips, challenging his perceived abilities. He accepts the challenge with a mischievous grin.

  I awake with the sun full on my face and a cat staring at me from the foot of the chaise. She is sniffing his toes as they twitch in his sleep. Her stance is threatening to attack the dangerous digits when I give her a warning hiss. She lets out a disgruntled mew and jumps down.

  I wake him with a lingering kiss. His hands travel up and down my back, his short nails leaving chills in their tracks.

  “I really hate to do this, but don’t you have to get to work?”

  He makes a noise in his throat, squeezing me tight. “Nope. I run the place. I go in when I want.”

  I lay my head on his chest, savoring the feeling of his hands on me. After a few minutes, he sighs and emits an expletive. “I do need to go. I forgot that Trish is taking today off.”

  “Reality calls,” I say with much regret and untangle myself from him.

  22

  After taking a long shower and donning bright, flowing clothes to reflect my mood, I trot down the stairs, humming a made-up tune. Halfway down, I realize how sore my hips and back are, and a wide grin curves my lips. I flush at the memory of last night’s exploits.

  “What’s that shit-eating grin all about?” Sylvia eyes me suspiciously.

  “You’re starting to talk like your mother,” I say, ignoring her question.

  Sylvia makes a repulsed face and harrumphs, turning back to lean over her thick binder on the counter.

  “I figured you’d be too hung over to be here today.” I lean against the opposite side of the counter, peering at her papers.

  “Oh, my Goddess,” Sylvia expels dramatically. “I probably would be if I hadn’t made myself puke when I got home.”

  It’s my turn to make the repulsed face.

  “What? It really helps. Gets rid of all—well, most—of the booze before it gets into your bloodstream,” she states with a great deal of confidence.

  “Whatever you say, dear.” I shake my head.

  “Now you are starting to talk like my mother.”

  I push myself back from the counter and cast my gaze lazily around the shop. “Speaking of, where is she? Does she do your little trick too?”

  “Nah. I think she’s still in her sacred space. Been there all night. I heard some crazy shit coming from that room early this morning.” Sylvia is no fool; she knows never to bother her mother at any time when she’s in her space, regardless of what she may hear.

  I decide not to text her if she is indeed in there. “I’ll set out the open sign.”

  Maggie’s in the yard, lying in the sun by the aster bush. She raises her big head when she hears me, then lets it fall back to the ground. I give her a ‘good morning’ and she ignores me. She’s still upset by my telling of our shared story last night. She doesn’t like to remember that horrible day.

  Before I can heave the wrought iron sign into place, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Cal wishing me a good morning and confirming our plans for tonight. My grin is refreshed and my heart flutters in my chest.

  I have only just pushed my phone back into my pocket when it quivers again. I open the gate and set the sign on the sidewalk before reaching for it. It’s Jo. Her message is unusually short and full of abbreviations. The woman refuses to use ‘text lingo’ as she calls it, preferring to type out full words and phrases. She’s asking me to come over as soon as possible; she’s emphatic.

  I send a silent message to Sylvia, telling her that I’m going over to see her mom, and I jog the short block to her house. My legs are wobbly this morning. More thoughts of last night give me pleasant shivers. A flash of Cal’s naked body passes across my eyes. My steps falter, and I laugh at myself.

  Jo’s garden is a mess, unkempt and wild. She likes it that way, saying she’d prefer Nature take it over rather than forcing it to bend to her will with constant grooming. If you ask me, she just doesn’t want to get all hot and sweaty. The focal point is a three-tiered pink granite waterfall with a pair of entwined doves as its crown. This once-grand piece of artwork has no pump and is peppered with chips and scratches along its scalloped edges. But it serves nicely as a luxurious bird bath, and you won’t hear any of the avian residents complaining about its looks.

  I don’t bother to knock; she’ll be alerted to my entrance by the painful creaking of the screen door. If somehow she manages to not hear the door, my footfalls on the ancient wood floor
are impossible to miss. I hesitate at the door to her sacred room. She’s not called out a greeting or acknowledged me yet. A lick of panic travels up my back.

  “Jo?” There’s a few seconds of shuffling and something falls before the door flies open.

  “About damn time!” Jo’s eyes flit to me as she turns back to the disarray of the room. I am choked by the heavy incense haze hanging in the small space. I cough and wave my hand around to get some air circulation going. She looks as disheveled as her surroundings. Her hair is a high, tangled mass, as if she’d been ruffling it with her fingers over and over. Her makeup is obviously from yesterday, and the black mascara has melted below her eyes. She is pale—looking older than I’ve ever seen her. The floor is a riot of pillows strewn everywhere; opened books, both large and small; weathered astrological charts with their corners held down by crystals of varying types and colors; and tall, fat black pillar candles standing as watchtowers at the four cardinal points.

  “What is going on?” I stare around. “Have you even slept?”

  She doesn’t respond; she’s rummaging around on all fours, looking for something. With an exasperated sigh, Jo pulls herself onto a footstool and looks at me. When she does, her haggard look answers my question.

  “I know why you are cursed,” she says matter-of-factly, as if she were a bank teller giving me my account balance.

  Those are words I never expected to hear from her…or anyone. I can only gape at her. We hear clawing across the roof as I stand before her, struck dumb. Her eyes flutter to the ceiling then back to me.

  I am holding my breath, simply blinking at her. It takes me a minute to find my voice. “I’m sorry. Can you please repeat that?”

  With hands on her knees, she pushes herself up with some effort. “Come on. I need to get out of here.” She passes without looking at me. I am frozen in place, and my hands are numb; I still can’t believe what she’s said. The back screen door slams, jolting me from my paralysis.

  I nearly run to catch up. She’s under the great white ash tree, her face turned up to it, basking in the shade and clearing her lungs of incense. I stand on the concrete steps by the back door, and I am afraid. My hands are trembling. Her energy is different—it crackles with electricity, something I’ve not seen in her before. She’s rigid as a bowstring, and there’s a pall of dread surrounding her.

  She tries to rake her fingers through her hair, but they get caught within the tangles. So she ruffles it more, making an aggravated sound. The resulting look she gives me is like that of a crazed hermit who has finally seen a person after years of solitude.

  I can’t decide what I am actually afraid of—her at this moment or what she has to tell me.

  Her eyes flit to the roof above me. I know the white raven is there. I take a few steps towards her, wringing my hands.

  “Yeah, I know.” She shifts her weight, looking at the ground.

  “You have something awful to tell me. I can tell. It’s pulsing from you with every heartbeat.” My heart beats in my ears, and my palms are sweating.

  She only nods, still looking at the ground, moving her foot back and forth across the grass.

  I don’t press her. I don’t want to. Standing in the middle of the yard, I feel naked and raw.

  “I’ve been meditating, vision walking.”

  I nod. She’s told me of that last one.

  “And I’ve spoken to the white raven.” With that she looks up at me, her eyes red and very tired.

  “You’ve spoken to him?” I’m shocked…and jealous.

  “It’s a she, actually.” She looks up again at the roof, and I turn involuntarily. There is nothing there.

  My mouth opens to throw questions at her, but her hands go up, motioning for patience. I snap my mouth closed.

  “Let me see if I can make this short.” She grips her hands in front of her, rubbing her fingers, and wanders around in the shade of the ash.

  “I don’t want the short version!” I say, louder than I meant.

  “I told you about the first vision—when I was chained to the ground with a torch-carrying mob after me and a gigantic white raven about to claw my eyes out. Well, I needed more information, more details, so I’ve done two more walks. One real doozy last night, or this morning, I don’t know.” Her hand wipes her forehead, and she closes her eyes. “The night we got back from Mom’s ritual, the white raven was waiting for me. She wanted to talk. She asked me to help her to be able to get near you, if I could.”

  I step forward, mouth open, but she stops me again with a hand. “We’ll talk about that one later. I’m sorry, I’m all over the place. This is tough.”

  My patience is raw and bleeding, but I make myself wait and try to slow my breathing.

  “She told me some things as we talked, and those got me thinking. So I did another walk. There were more shackles, but this time I was in water and cloaked figures were all around me. I couldn’t see their faces, but I felt like they were judging me. A smaller white raven was there, but this time, it simply watched everything. Then blood started coming from its eyes.” Her whole body shivers. “So many conflicting images in all these visions. It’s hard to make out what they are trying to tell me.” She closes her eyes again and shakes her head.

  “But I think I have,” she mutters, barely audible. She inhales through her nose and then looks at me fiercely. Her face is stern but that hardness is slipping. Her chin quivers, and her eyes glisten with the onset of tears.

  “Jo, please.” I rush to her, gripping her forearms. She gasps and clings to me as if to keep herself from falling.

  “Aven, Aven.” Her battle with what to say is plain, and she pales. “You have taken so many lives. So many.” She squeezes her eyes closed and the tears spill. “You will have to live for each life you have taken.”

  As if punched in the chest, I let go of her and stagger backward.

  “What?” My hands are fists and clouds are building above us.

  She raises her hands to beg for calm and for me to listen. “You are special, unique, rare. You have powers no one else has, or should have. Those lives weren’t meant to be taken by you. Oh, Aven. You went against Nature.”

  “I have protected myself! I have exacted justice!” The sky churns with dark clouds and a rumble of thunder comes from deep within.

  “The white raven is always with you. She is the usher of spirits, ravens are. She stays with you, waiting for the next soul who needs guidance.”

  With that, I scream. Jo cringes against the tree. The ground quakes below our feet and flames leap from my hands. I whirl around, looking for that fucking bird. I want to kill it. How dare it follow me, stalk me, waiting for my next victim. I shriek again at the thought of this.

  “Aven, I am so, so sorry.” Jo recoils from me, sliding roughly down the tree to the ground.

  “What are you saying?” I whip back around, staring at her in disbelief. “Are you telling me that for every life I’ve taken, justly or not, I must live one? Are you telling me I’m fucked?” Do I even know how many lives this is? Two hundred and twenty-six. The number comes to me unbidden. No, no! My mind is swimming with my past deeds. I teeter on my feet and squeeze my eyes shut, gripping my head as I shake it, pushing these thoughts away.

  Jo buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  I straighten. “But that can’t be. I don’t accept it.” As I say those words, my heart tells me differently. I’ve taken so many lives—I did go against Nature—and there are always consequences. Despite my feelings of justification for those killings, taking another’s life has a price. Unwanted images flash across my mind: the old inquisitor’s face twisted in pain as my mind squeezes his pounding heart, a screaming man’s bloody manhood after he’d raped one of my mothers, a column of fire with agonized screams from within. I fight back the urge to vomit.

  Jo is rising, using the trunk to help her up, when I leap towards the sky. I have to get away. I burst upward, the force pummeling th
e great tree and knocking over the granite water fountain. It crashes against the paver stones and breaks apart.

  It’s not fair, it’s not right! I scream in my head. The wind stings my face as I propel myself skyward as fast as I can. The stinging is a welcome sensation; it is something else to feel besides this.

  I never allowed myself to think that what I had done was wrong. What they had done was wrong, surely! I do know that a few innocents were caught within the realm of my revenge, and I am truly sorry for those. But haven’t I relived those few lives who were innocent? There weren’t many, there couldn’t have been.

  Two hundred and twenty-six. I will have to live two hundred and thirteen more times—die two hundred and fourteen more times.

  As I punch through the dark, churning clouds, I release my rage. The scream that comes does not arise from my throat but from deep within my Spirit. It explodes across the sky, taking the clouds with it. Lightning crackles from me with each anguished cry, and thunder quakes with every breath. When my energy is spent, when I can’t scream anymore, I let myself fall.

  I want this body to shatter, to splatter across the ground in a thousand unrecognizable pieces. I want to feel the pain of it—I deserve it. And maybe, just maybe, the force from the distance I’m falling will make my Spirit shatter also and then it will be done, over, finished. But no matter how much I hope, it won’t make it true.

  There is screaming in the distance. Is that Jo? No, it can’t be—I am far too high to hear anything other than the roaring rush in my ears. But it is Jo screaming, screaming into my mind. She is begging, pleading for something that I’m not listening to. Jo. I see her round, happy face, eyes squinted in a perpetual smile, her crow’s-feet and laugh lines almost touching. Sylvia’s face flashes by; she is laughing and hugging her mother. Cal’s sharp blue eyes fill my vision—I remember the way he looks at me, and my heart swells. These images bring a lump in my throat, and I shake my head to rid myself of them. I don’t deserve their love, any of them. I have killed, murdered, and I am doomed because of it. My curse will last for an eternity.