The Chronicles of Raven:

Part Two: It’s Like Flipping a Coin

(Excerpt)

I: The Way to “Her”

There was a time in history, a little over a century ago, long enough ago that nobody knows for sure how much said about it is true , how much myth, where everyone was filled with dread and fear. House values plummeted and the stock market went haywire, and morality and values were tossed about frivolously. The world seemed to be turning towards destruction despite the leaders of the free world’s speeches crying out for optimism and bravery.

     It is hard to imagine now, as I wander through this haunted country, that there was so much fear about losing your home, feeding your children, or whether you could ever retire.

     This was all long before I was born, long before the world became the festering hole I grew to manhood in, before the two wars I fought to keep this country free and the Second Civil War that broke its back.

     Now that the flicker in time and space known as The Turning has left the world nearly empty, I walk into almost any house I want now and find plenty to eat. It is not a crime for there are no laws. Nothing belongs to anyone and everything belongs to all of us who remain.

     There is no reason to track time any longer, but doing so remains one of my obsessions. My uncannily accurate internal clock tells me it has been ten months and twenty two days since I left Jenny behind. More accurately, since she chose to leave my protection and believe the Murmurer that took her away was the spirit of her own mother.

     I know better, and still mourn her decision. Since I have killed my twin Murmurer and yet remain alive, I must be correct that there is something more ominous in their nature than the simple common belief they are basically a part of us, disrupted by the Turning, and they are making us whole again when we succumb to their calling.

     The sun shines down oppressively, implacable and oblivious to the nature of humankind’s predicament. Forces of nature move forward at their usual pace and intensity, as if there are still the same amount of humans here requiring oxygen, light and nutrition.

     “Really,” I have said so many times as I wander the roads of doom, to myself or aloud, makes no difference, since nobody hears me. “Whoever’s in charge, when is it over? Run the numbers.”

     I haven’t run into anyone for twelve days—a new record—and haven’t spoken a word to another human being for almost two months. I haven’t been troubled much by Murmurers since the incident ten months ago. They seem to have given up on me.

     But now I am harassed by a new breed of creatures. That was why I carefully stated earlier I have not conversed with another human for a while. These new pests love to talk. For lack of a better name I call them The Hollow Men.

     Yes, the literary allusion is intentional. I may have spent most of my life as a grunt, but I am surprisingly well read. I have often thought of the poem by the same name because the Turning indeed seems like Eliot’s vision of the world ending in a whimper, not a bang.

     Allusion aside, these creatures are descriptively hollow as well, or a better word might be transparent or translucent, depending on how the light of day is cast upon them. They are often nearly invisible but they also seem to be able to control the level of light passing through them. They make themselves visible enough when it suits them.

     The Hollow Men’s skin must be similar to that of a chameleon, for another trick they are known to pull is to blend into the scenery, their skin literally becoming an exact match of any object, dead or alive, behind or in front of them. For this reason, I seem to encounter them more when I wander through woods, parks, cemeteries, places I haunt when I leave the roads. They seem more at home there, though I do not know why. Like the Murmurers, they don’t answer questions regarding their own natures. That is not part of their agenda. When these oddities do choose to travel on the roads, they always keep a good distance and can easily be passed off as figments of my imagination.

     No big deal, one might say, once you know they are there what’s the big deal if these odd mirages pop in and out of view once in a while? Let them be. The same principle would hold true for the Murmurers if they just went around, carrying out their business and leaving me alone. The offense comes, from both bothersome species, with what comes out of their mouths.

     And all of them seem to know my name, or at least my commonly used boot camp name. I don’t like the disadvantage this poses in our interactions.

     Yesterday’s experience is no different.

     I simply want to walk into these woods and fill my bottles with water from a nearby stream. Greeted once again by the sounds of birds, the wind in the trees, perhaps the occasional rustling of some small animal, I fill my three water bottles, keeping alert for any signs of danger.

     Then, a few hundred feet downstream, I see three of the Hollow Men shimmering in the light through the trees. I try to ignore them but one of them speaks.

     “Raven,” it says softly.

     I continue my avoidance, but then my name is repeated, much louder, frightening away many of the birds in the trees between the creatures and myself.

     “What do you want this time?” I mumble back finally.

     “I am here for your benefit, Raven.”

     “Really?” I answer, my voice loaded with sarcasm.

     “We are here to assist you, yes,” says another of them.

     “Then stop speaking in riddles.” Throwing the last of the three full bottles on the ground, I walk closer to them.

     “I do not understand the word ‘riddle.’”

     I laugh lightly and smirk at the one doing most of the talking. I am right in front of them now. They are about eight feet tall and very thin. Gangly and awkward, their long arms and legs give one the impression of trees covered with flesh. Though they tower above me, I sense there is no reason to fear them. Like I said, they are more a thorn in the side than any kind of threat.

     “Puzzle. Cypher. Either of those compute? You speak generally, never specifically. You’re secretive. Never answer any questions about your nature. Am I getting through at all?”

     While I try to reason with these things, their skins rapidly change colors and hues until they finally match the scene behind them, blending into the riverbank, the redwood trees and shrubs. Why are they bothering, I wonder? Nobody else is around.

     “We three have never met you before, Raven.”

     “Yet you know my name. Why?”

     “The others told us.”

     “Well, all those complaints may not have been properly launched at you three specific—whatever you call yourselves—but in general, I haven’t found conversations with your—kind—particularly useful.”

     Then, the one doing most of the talking actually smiles at me. A friendly smile, but also kind of patronizing. Their noses are long and flat and each has a set of large round eyes that cast eerily humanlike expressions.

     “I sense your frustration with a lack of naming. You humans do place so much value on that convention. I forgot. Please refer to me as Whazoum. No, not real name, but more simpler one for you to pronounce. A—second name—not sure what you would translate to—the same as your Raven name.”

     “I understand.”

     “To my right is Cozel and Rojher is the third of us.”

     “Fine. So I know your names. Why are you bothering me?”

     “We told you,” said Cozel. “Unlike others, we here are to assist.”

     “Yeah, yeah, I’m not deaf. Go on.” I sit on a rock nearby to further demonstrate my surrender. I want to get comfortable because sometimes these things are very long winded. “I’m all yours.”

     Their pregnant pause of confusion tells me I have stumped them again with my slang.

     “I am listening.”

     Whazoum began and did all the talking. “Yes, there are many of our kind that exist now in this place. Some of us have been creating for you, trouble, but we do not. We three of us, we are in this place to assist her.”

     “Who?”

     “We will not name at this time. Please, listen to all I say before you ask the questions. I am trying to recreate the way of speaking of you, but am sorry for wrongness of some words. Others of us may speak better the words of your kind for longer have they been here. But also many of them have badness of intent.

     “We are called what I think you would name us Watchers. We serve her, the woman you must meet. We have long heard the prophecy she speaks of the Raven, the one so called with the blessed knife.”

     “How the hell did they know about my knife?” I think, but I remain silent as instructed. I have more than one knife but I know which one they are referring to, the one that kills Murmurers.

     “Your questions that we know are many should wait for her. She has knowledge much greater than any of us three or any Watcher, or many other kinds. She is blessed. We are here now for a purpose, single and only one, to show you the way.”

     “The way to her? Whoever that is.”

     “Yes, Raven. To the current location of her. Here is not her home but here she is now and to that here we will guide you now. Will you come?”

     I stand up and walk back to my gear and start gathering it, remain silent for a while, contemplating all this creature has said. The Watchers do just that, stand motionless and stare at me in anticipation of my answer, and with extreme patience as though they have all the time in the world.

     “How far away is she?” I ask them.

     “We do not understand units of measure of you yet. She told us to answer this question simply by responding you would be there by tomorrow night.”

     So I agree to follow them, but of course it was not that simple. Whazoum says they need to remain hidden “until the right time,” whatever the hell that meant, and my way would be guided by a sphere of light in the horizon.

     So here I am today, heading constantly in the direction of a sphere of light about three feet in diameter that remains about a hundred yards in front of me as I walk.

     I recognize this area of Northern California, about fifty miles north and ten miles west of San Francisco, more specifically in the area where a river meets the sea and where once there was a thriving Bohemian community.

     So this is where “she” is. Makes about as much sense as anywhere, I guess. I just don’t understand why she didn’t make a move last time I came through here if it was so damn important.

     Maybe she wasn’t here yet.

     I hate mysteries so that is one of the main reasons I now walk onward, following the faithful sphere. One less mystery to bug me once I find out who “she” is and what she could possibly want with a worn out piece of trouble like me.

     The sphere takes me around a major turn in the road that heads east, down a steep slope and then across one of the main bridges over the river. The Pacific coastline disappears from sight as I cross the bridge and then follow the road, plunging down into the more narrow stretch of road that winds along the river. The shade of the giant redwoods brings relief from the sun and a refreshing breeze. This part of the country is a wonder. In the time before, you could travel by car from the jagged coastline to shady redwoods in minutes.

     The sun tells me it is late afternoon, so if the Watchers were correct our destination cannot be far away. The third war I fought in resulted in lots of new names for just about everything you could name, and this river was last christened the North Confederate River. The Northern States were once quite proud of their successful secession. Once our country was done trying to solve the world’s problems with military force we decided to divide against each other instead. This was enemy territory for me just twenty years ago and now here I am free to take whatever I want.

     As I follow the sphere, I walk by many deserted houses, most of them still in fairly good condition, and I am tempted to walk through a few and see what I can claim as my own. There is probably a decent meal to be put together from what is left inside some of these old homesteads. But I keep my promise and do not veer from the course being dictated to me.

     The sphere stops moving, and I realize its intentions. When there had been other major changes of course, it had stopped and waited for me to catch up, then once we are headed straight again, it would regain its usual distance.

     It directs me off the main road, down a more narrow gravel road sloping down toward the river. There have been several floods since these houses were left behind. Down here, closer to the houses, the debris from the ebb and flow of the river is more apparent on either side of me. There are also corpses strewn about, though no more or less than anywhere else, in various stages of decay.

     The stillness and occasional gentle sounds of nature surround me, in contrast to the garbage that lies everywhere on the road; nature and man, order and chaos, the same dichotomies that always haunt my walk through the country I once fought for, and now roam without any purpose or intention beyond survival.

     Once the road descends to almost river level, it then makes a sharp turn to my left and upward, and as I follow that turn I notice the sphere has stopped moving again, but this time it is doing so permanently for it has found my destination. Below the sphere, at the top of this small hill at the end of the road, is a large house.

     Two stories tall and wider than even most large houses, the mansion on the hill before me is completely out of place and time. As I stare at this immaculate structure before me, it gives the impression of a dwelling from the First Civil War South, hundreds of years ago, somehow teleported here. A plantation should surround it, not this forest of redwoods. Another anomaly in my world that is growing stranger all the time. This place was definitely not here in my previous travels, or I am sure I would have noticed it.

     As I stare at the immense structure immaculately painted a tasteful teal color that blends into its surroundings, I am also struck by the fact that it seems brand new. No wear or tear whatsoever, giving it, again, the sense of being transported here from somewhere else.

     I walk up the stairs onto the covered porch and as I approach the door it opens, revealing a woman of ravishing beauty. I have been on my own for a long time, except the time spent with Jenny, and that was closer to a father-daughter relationship than anything. I definitely had stopped “looking” at women years ago. I had more important things to work out, staying alive, being a hard ass, so I never thought about my life becoming involved in any intimate way with a woman. Humans in the world as it had evolved, male or female, were more of a problem to me than anything else. I never let my guard down. But the moment this woman opened that door, a part of my nature was opened for the first time in ages, and I actually had to admit to myself I was immediately smitten by her.

     A couple inches shorter than my six foot frame, voluptuous, wearing a long violet dress, cut low enough to be very sexy and suggestive but stopped short of making one think “slutty,” she was a knockout. I know I am losing my usual pace here, that this is slowing things down a bit, but I have to take the time to tell you that this woman was gorgeous.

     Her long brown hair flowed freely around her in the breeze and as she smiled broadly in the moment of silence our gazes met, I noticed she had a peculiar set of eyes; one was hazel and seemed to change colors as light hits the iris, and the other was pale lavender. Her pupils were shaped liked almonds and dilated widely as she smiled at me.

     “Hello, Raven,” she says, breaking the silence. “I see you have found the way.”

     Waving her hand, she blows air in the direction of the sphere and it disappears. This display of magic does not alarm or bother me at all for some reason, as though I already realize she must have some kind of unnatural powers. The house and the sphere, and her friendship with the Hollow Men have prepared the way for the suspension of my disbelief.

     “I am Nora,” she says. Her eyes never leave mine nor does she ever seem to blink. I am bewitched by her beauty and alluring demeanor. “I have been watching you. Waiting for you.”

     I finally say something, startling myself since the moments I have spent gawking at Nora had cast a powerful spell on me. “I guess I am at a great disadvantage. I don’t know anything about you. Well, except, now, your name.”

     “You will come in?”

     “Of course.”

     She leads me inside and I observe the large living room directly to the right as I follow Nora in. Nothing out of the ordinary. Though this house seemed incredibly elaborate outside, this room is like most of those in River getaways. No television, lots of books strewn about. Country furniture, a fireplace. “Nice place,” I say.

     Nora sits on one of the couches and motions to a large comfortable chair across from her. I unload my pack and rifle and sit in the chair. “Why do I trust her so much?” a part of me thinks.

     “It serves its purpose, I guess. As you may have guessed, I did not exactly—what does one say?—grow up around here.”

     I study her face as she speaks. She appears to be about my age, but where I am rough and show the wear and tear of every day I have lived, Nora has managed to look no worse for wear at all. Has she remained untouched by the chaos since The Turning?

     “I was alone before The Turning,” she says, as though reading my mind. “And am almost as alone still. There are no other humans living in this house.”

     She says all this rather nonchalantly, as though we all live in a house with occupants other than humans. “What about Murmurers?”

     “They don’t bother me much.”

     “Why’s that?”

     “What form would they take to trouble me? I have always been alone. Only now am I reaching out to others, after all these years of solitude.” Again, she makes these statements as if I know what the hell she’s talking about. “They really could not do much to harass me, and my associates are, as I said, not human and thus not their territory.”

     Before The Turning, I would have thought Nora was just plain crackers. A couple cans short of a twelve pack. But I was now growing accustomed to weirdoes and loonies so I decided to keep an open mind and give this meeting a shot.”Okay. Go on.” Hopefully I won’t regret that invitation.

     “Follow me,” she says as she stands and heads for a doorway behind her. “I know you have been on the road for a long time. I will provide rest and nutrition for you, I promise. But first, I will show you some things you need to know. Then, you can better decide whether or not you will stay here and help me.”

     We walk through the doorway into a long corridor, stretching to what seemed to be the entire length of this side of the house. “Me, help you?”

     “I am sure you have many questions, Raven. I will provide you with enough information right now to give you at least some notion of why I wanted to meet with you. Please ask as few questions as possible for now. First, I want you to meet the other residents of the house.”

     She could have told me she was taking me down the corridor to the gates of Hell and I would have followed her all the same. Her eyes are turned away from me now, but I am just as hopelessly attracted to her as ever. I just follow her gracefully swaying hips and long slender legs down that hallway and every word coming from her mouth is luring me forward, like a rat following the piper’s song.

     For no good reason at all, I trust Nora. I had even left my pack and rifle in the living room behind us. My pistol and knife are still accessible enough but this is still unheard of from me, the always alert grunt.

     The corridor has many doors and, in my soldier days of old, I would have demanded to see who or what lurked behind every one of them, but following Nora down the hall I find myself increasingly calmer and willing to let my guard down. Why don’t I smell a trap? Why not assume she is just another form of Murmurer or Hollow Man, or something worse that means me harm? Yet, I move forward with trust, even though I have no idea why.

     It turns out Nora is a bit of a collector, I find out, when she leads me through the last door on the left. Not of books, artwork or artifacts.     

     No, Nora is a collector of ghosts.