My mother used to tell me about ravens. She would regale me with tales of clever birds, feathers as harsh as blades, who knew secrets that no one whispered. She would spin tales of wonder, awe, and death, and after every story, she would always say the same thing. “If a raven dooms you to death, give them offerings. Every raven’s heart will betray their desire – give them gold, something shiny and lustrous, a moonlit coin, or a brass button. It will keep death's old friend at bay.” I used to be scared by that myth. To me, Death was synonymous with ravens. Every time I saw one, I was reminded of my mother's fable. But as much as I was scared, I was also enthralled. Walking home from school one day, I chanced upon a raven, dark as night, and instead of seeing demise, I saw only beauty. Over time, my mind had softened, loosened, until I had forgotten that I was ever scared of the raven’s omen. I should have held that fear closer to my heart; otherwise, I would never have met death so personally.
*****
Everyone knows ravens are harbingers of doom. When a raven dies, their comrades gather around their dead body, beady eyes marking each change. By staring at their deceased friend, they are able to find what caused their demise. They remember to stay away from whatever killed their companion, and ravens never forget. Especially not faces.
Like the raven, I, too, never forget a face. I remember each and every person like one remembers their own name, and though I might never speak to them, I know where I last saw them, what they were wearing, and where I might see them again. My mother told me that forgetting would bring down the ire of the old myths, and now I commit every face to memory, following the ways of my ancestors and heeding the cautions of my mother's tales.
So when I walked past the stranger on the road the first time, I was instantly wary. Their face demanded that I remember, but it was like someone had scratched out their features and replaced it with a blank canvas. My mind was screaming at me that something was wrong about this person. The second time I saw them, it felt like something was itching the back of my neck, clawing at my consciousness, like talons scratching at dirt. I couldn’t see them very clearly, and now, trying to think back on their figure, I still can’t remember their face. It was the only person my mind couldn't remember. Something was ancient, dark, and foreboding, and when I met their gaze, it felt as though their eyes saw so far into my soul, I didn’t know how I had ever thought this was just an ordinary stranger. A fraction after their eyes left mine, they turned away, vanishing around a corner. It was like a curtain had been pulled over the encounter; my mind went hazy, blank, and I pulled my gray wool coat around me tighter and walked home.
*****
When I woke up the next morning, the sky was a dull gray, like the sun didn’t want to try, and the clouds were too weary to leave. As I looked out my window across the street, I noticed the number of ravens perched on the branches of the huge trees lining the sidewalk. Their pitch-black feathers seemed like spots of void splattered around the branches, and their beady eyes were all trained directly at my house, at my window, at me. When a raven watches you, its harsh beak pointed in your direction like a challenge, the old myths say it means you are destined for death. I knew then what this meant. The conspiracy of ravens kept watching me, and I watched them right back. I was still scared, but it wasn’t at all hard to admit they were beautiful, if an omen of death could be called that. I could see their talons were menacingly sharp, but still their blue-black glossy feathers were shining brighter than stars, and I couldn’t look away.
Almost as if tugged, my sight drifted to look under the bows of the biggest tree, and there, I saw the same stranger. A raven was perched on their shoulder, and as they stared at me, their hand reached up to pet the feathers of the bird. My heart hammered, but I didn’t look away, not as they crossed the road and walked toward my house. I only glanced away from the window when I heard them knock, and knowing that it was rude to ignore death when it was at your doorstep, I numbly walked down my stairs and to the front door, pausing before it silently. Willing my shoulders to relax, I twisted the doorknob and opened the door. The man, for that was what he was, as I could see clearer now, stood staring before me, a passive smile on his face. He reached his hand out, almost carelessly, as though it was a simple politeness.
Before thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed my old back door key, a golden, bronzey colored thing I left lying in a tray on my side table, and dropped it in his open palm. He looked down, staring at my offering, almost surprised. When we locked eyes again, they seemed to swim in starlight, the gold reflecting in the depths of an inky black void, before he turned around and walked down the porch steps, and then across the street, and behind the big tree. All at once, a cacophonous cry came from the beaks of each and every raven, before they took off flying, leaving only a residue of myth and fable. I knew, then, that my offering had been accepted by Death, and in exchange, I had been given what only death could give: time. I smiled.
*****
Everyone knows ravens are harbingers of doom. When a raven dies, their comrades gather around their dead body, beady eyes marking each change. By staring at their deceased friend, they are able to find what caused their demise. They remember to stay away from whatever killed their companion, and ravens never forget. Especially not faces.
Like the raven, I, too, never forget a face. I remember each and every person like one remembers their own name, and though I might never speak to them, I know where I last saw them, what they were wearing, and where I might see them again. My mother told me that forgetting would bring down the ire of the old myths, and now I commit every face to memory, following the ways of my ancestors and heeding the cautions of my mother's tales.
So when I walked past the stranger on the road the first time, I was instantly wary. Their face demanded that I remember, but it was like someone had scratched out their features and replaced it with a blank canvas. My mind was screaming at me that something was wrong about this person. The second time I saw them, it felt like something was itching the back of my neck, clawing at my consciousness, like talons scratching at dirt. I couldn’t see them very clearly, and now, trying to think back on their figure, I still can’t remember their face. It was the only person my mind couldn't remember. Something was ancient, dark, and foreboding, and when I met their gaze, it felt as though their eyes saw so far into my soul, I didn’t know how I had ever thought this was just an ordinary stranger. A fraction after their eyes left mine, they turned away, vanishing around a corner. It was like a curtain had been pulled over the encounter; my mind went hazy, blank, and I pulled my gray wool coat around me tighter and walked home.
*****
When I woke up the next morning, the sky was a dull gray, like the sun didn’t want to try, and the clouds were too weary to leave. As I looked out my window across the street, I noticed the number of ravens perched on the branches of the huge trees lining the sidewalk. Their pitch-black feathers seemed like spots of void splattered around the branches, and their beady eyes were all trained directly at my house, at my window, at me. When a raven watches you, its harsh beak pointed in your direction like a challenge, the old myths say it means you are destined for death. I knew then what this meant. The conspiracy of ravens kept watching me, and I watched them right back. I was still scared, but it wasn’t at all hard to admit they were beautiful, if an omen of death could be called that. I could see their talons were menacingly sharp, but still their blue-black glossy feathers were shining brighter than stars, and I couldn’t look away.
Almost as if tugged, my sight drifted to look under the bows of the biggest tree, and there, I saw the same stranger. A raven was perched on their shoulder, and as they stared at me, their hand reached up to pet the feathers of the bird. My heart hammered, but I didn’t look away, not as they crossed the road and walked toward my house. I only glanced away from the window when I heard them knock, and knowing that it was rude to ignore death when it was at your doorstep, I numbly walked down my stairs and to the front door, pausing before it silently. Willing my shoulders to relax, I twisted the doorknob and opened the door. The man, for that was what he was, as I could see clearer now, stood staring before me, a passive smile on his face. He reached his hand out, almost carelessly, as though it was a simple politeness.
Before thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed my old back door key, a golden, bronzey colored thing I left lying in a tray on my side table, and dropped it in his open palm. He looked down, staring at my offering, almost surprised. When we locked eyes again, they seemed to swim in starlight, the gold reflecting in the depths of an inky black void, before he turned around and walked down the porch steps, and then across the street, and behind the big tree. All at once, a cacophonous cry came from the beaks of each and every raven, before they took off flying, leaving only a residue of myth and fable. I knew, then, that my offering had been accepted by Death, and in exchange, I had been given what only death could give: time. I smiled.