Darkness here, and nothing more.
My wings do not pierce the
darkness, but become a part of it. My entire body becomes one with the
increasing blackness as I make my way through the night. I am moved by the
peace, the solitude, and the hint of beautiful sadness that only the dark can
bring. The blackness deepens and I know that the night is ideal; it’s the
perfect shade of black, so silent, so secretive…and so treacherous. It’s the
kind of deep black night in which weary travelers are led astray, those who
wander are lost, and fools are swallowed up by the darkness. It’s the kind of
night that gives way to thoughts of fear, of hopelessness, of unseen hobgoblins
lurking in the shadows…and of tragedy.
I
find my perch on a branch completely enveloped by the dark. To the ordinary
observer, I am nothing more than a spot of black paint in the image of the
night. Such an ordinary observer could not know that I am watching, waiting,
and anticipating the next unlikely visitor that the darkness will send to me.
My feathers are ruffled by the winds of the early spring night and the chill
strikes me so deep in my bones. The atmosphere is so perfect that it brings a
tear to my eye.
And
then he comes to me, a spry-looking young man, his hands jammed into his
pockets and his hair tousled by the wind. He tries to hide the fear in his
eyes, as young men are apt to do. But there is nobody to hide from except for
me, and it’s no use trying to hide fear from me. The young men are the most amusing,
as they never realize that their fear is as plain as the light of the moon
until you play with them a bit, and then they understand that they are not as
tough and collected as they would like to be. I emerge from the darkness and
perch on an old log just an arm’s length away from this young man. I call out
to him.
He
glances at me for only a moment, but in that moment, I can see the terror. He’d
like to think that I am only a bird, but I am a raven. Ravens are the
harbingers of death and despair, the night birds that lead the lost to their
doom. But he is not ready to reveal his fear. He passes me by and walks off
into the night, and I follow him. I perch on a low-hanging branch and call out
to him again.
He
will not look at me. He is a fool, with his head held high. He will not look at
me until I abandon this form that melts into the darkness a little too well. First
I shed my birdy talons, then the thick black feathers on my chest. I cast aside
my wings and my beak, and a plait of long black hair forms from the feathers on
my head. In a raven’s place now stands a woman, with skin as pale as the light
of the moon.
“Young
man!”
He
starts, and then he turns to look at me. His eyes are wide enough to pierce the
night, and so hopelessly confused that I cannot help but laugh. “Oh, what an
amusing character you are!” I say, before tightly wrapping my arm around the
young man’s shoulder. “I do believe that I am going to have my share of fun
with you!”
My,
does the little imp ever struggle and fuss! The fool that he is wants to run
off into the night. But I know the night and its ways much better than he ever
could. “Stop your fussing!” I order him, and pull back on his arm when he
attempts to tear away from me. “My company is preferable to the cruelty of the
night! Run away, and the darkness will surely consume you!”
“I
don’t care!” he insists. “Just let me go! Leave me alone!”
I
wrap both arms around him to keep him from running loose, and I lift him from
the ground as if he’s nothing but a mere toddler. He screams, but there is no
one around to hear him but the darkness, which does not care. My arms are
wrapped around his legs and he cannot kick. His arms are firmly pressed against
my torso and he cannot strike out. I can feel him trembling like a leaf in the
wind. Even in my firm grasp, the fool struggles, but it’s all in vain. When he
realizes that he cannot escape, he begins to cry. Alas, his façade of bravery
has been stripped away, revealing who he truly is! The foolish young man who
was so sure of himself in the night is now nothing more than a frightened
little boy, and I do not feel the least bit sorry for him. In fact, I am
greatly amused by his predicament.
Together,
the young man and I proceed into the darkness. He looks up at me with his desperate
eyes, still filled with tears, and says, “What are you going to do with me?”
“What
do you think I plan to do with you?” I inquire.
“I
don’t know,” he chokes out. “You’re kidnapping me.”
“Am
I, now?”
“Of
course you are.” I can feel him shudder.
I
don’t provide any further comment. One thing that the night has taught me is
that silence can easily play with one’s mind; the mind is forced to fill in the
blanks by itself without a voice or a sound to do so, and the mind cannot
always be trusted. We are both silent for the rest of the way to my home, and I
know that his mind is filling in the blanks.
In
the darkest area of the forest, where very little light reaches even in the
day, we reach the secluded little manor that I call home. I carry my guest
inside and gently set him down on the soft black couch. I am not worried that
he will flee, as I have effectively eliminated his hope of escape. He looks up
at me with the eyes of a frightened child. He is still trembling.
I
proceed to my piano, its white keys providing a subtle contrast to the rest of
my black world. I place my fingers on the keys. The dirge comes so naturally to
me that it’s as if it plays of its own accord. “Black is the color of the
painted darkness in the picture of the night,” I say over the sound of the
dirge. “It is the color of the unknown, that great beast so feared by all. It
is the color of uncertainty, of the cold fear that strikes you in every bone,
every muscle. It is the color of ebony coffins, mourning clothes, the hidden
journey of the dead into places unknown…”
“Why
tell me this?” the young man asks.
“But
alas, black is the color of the comfort of sleep,” I continue. “It is the color
of the feathers of the wise old raven; that clever bird knows that the painted
darkness can be a thing of beauty, while others may call it an eyesore. The
darkness cannot be good or bad. It cannot be your friend and it cannot be your
enemy. Like the raven, you can never be sure of its intentions.”
“What
are you saying?” the young man asks rather defensively. “Are you talking about
yourself? Are you talking about me?”
“I
speak of the night,” I elaborate, “and how beneath its painted blackness, it is
an entity of pure grey. It must be respected, for you never know its true
nature. It must be heeded, for you never know its motives. It cannot be tamed,
nor can it be reasoned with. But it can offer you safety and comfort just as it
can offer you peril and unease.” With that, my dirge ends and I shed a single
tear.
“I
understand now,” the young man says. “I get it. You’re telling me to be more
careful at night.”
There
is nothing more for me to say. One by one, I blow out the dim candles lined up
along the polished stone wall. In the meager light of the final candle, I can
see my guest’s eyes begin to fall. Enveloped by the uneasy darkness of a room,
he will feel warm blankets wrapped around him as he falls into the comforting
darkness of sleep. When he awakens, it will be light, and I will be gone.
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