"They say I am no true prophet because I perform no miracles. `Perform for us a miracle,' they say, `and we shall believe.' I say unto you that there are already miracles enough for those who see with true eyes, and there is already prophecy enough for those who listen truly, here, within their hearts."
The Chronicles of the Prophet,
Bear-Who-Walks-By-The-River
11.20.2061
At first light, long before the sunrise itself, he was flying, his destination drawing him with an urgent and irresistable power.
The wind was Alla-derra, steady but not strong, and came out of the northwest following behind the storm. He was flying south and southwest, the wind to his right, and though the draft of Alla-derra's wings was icy as it came, it did not bother him; he hardly noticed. He was flying, and that was all that mattered.
It was the earliest moments of dawn, morning just rising on the edge of night, and the world lay forming in the cold, hard blues of dying darkness. The sky was shallow and starless, and the flint-colored clouds, broken and ragged since the snow had ended, drifted silently on the wind like broad, flat floes of ice in a vast, shoreless river. The forest stood in shadow and outline still, its features frozen in a lonely grey. The dawn allowed no sign by which to mark his course save for the faint orange band of light scorching at the eastern edge of sky. The world was winter huge and empty, and the only sounds were those of his flying: the strong, regular pulse of his breathing, and the soft, rustling whispers of his feathers pushing against the sky.
His name was Far-kalla, and he was a Crow of the forests and fields of New England. The time was November, the morning after the first big storm of the year, and he was flying to a place beyond the southwestern sky where he knew the Great Winter Flock would be gathering.
He was a strong young Crow, five seasons old and in his prime. He had made this journey once for each autumn of his life. For a Crow such as he, this flight should have been pleasant, easy, and routine. But it was not. This year, his journey was anything but routine. This year, Far-kalla flew alone.
He was flying derra-ka, his pace strong and unwavering, and he rode the wind and the sky with an unconscious ease. He strained his eyes in watchfulness in the early morning light, but he could barely see, and as he winged his way in near blindness across the empty sky, he silently cursed the darkness and wished for day to come.
Though it was dawn, it was still the time of Garka, Night; still the time when the world lay in the shadows of Her devil-black wings; still the time when Her evil darkness ruled the sky. But Alm, the Sun, was approaching, returning to take back the world, and Garka knew Her rule was ending.
In a moment, Garka would abandon Her roost high above the clouds, high above the moon and stars, and call out in anger and defiance. Circling like a vulture, Garka would bank and swerve, hiss and threaten and curse and spit, torn, as always, by Her desire for the world and Her fear of Alm. But in the end, Garka would, as always, retreat and flee, slinking off snake-like in cowardice before Alm's rise, relinquishing once again the world to the brilliance of Alm's plumage and the warmth of Her breath. Garka knew She was no match for Alm. For Alm was the Sun and The Power of Light, the Creator and the Giver of Life, and stronger by far than Garka. Who was merely Night. And Death.
It was now, in the twilight of dawn, that Garka was most dangerous, most evil, most ready to lash out in frustration and viciousness. On mornings such as these, you could almost feel the frigid draft of Her wings upon your face and the sharpness of Her talons in the feathers of your back. You could almost hear Her evil cries carried in the wind. As Far-kalla flew in the icy dawn, fear tightened in his belly.
"Kaa! Go!" Far-kalla called aloud in defiance of both Garka and his fear. "Fly off you cowardly old eye-pecker! Leave the living to the living!"
It was dangerous and foolish, he knew, to challenge Garka, but he could not help himself. "Kaa! Go! I am Far-kalla," he called and spit into the sky. "I am Crow, and I do not fear you! I am Far-kalla, Kraa! I am Far-kalla, Crow!" And just the saying of the challenge gave him strength and made his flying easier. He put his mind to his flying and tried not to think of the dangers that he faced.
It is said, "A Crow has more enemies than he has feathers which are black," and to survive a Crow must always be on guard. Though he is a large bird and a strong and gifted flyer, the Crow is not so large or strong as many of his enemies, and he is not armed with formidable weapons of defense to protect against them. His size and the coloring of his plumage make him as conspicuous as a bird can be, a trait he does not seem inclined to try and change, and to many predators of the forest he is a tempting target. But that does not mean he is an easy one.
For the Crow is a master of deception and deceit, and to survive he relies on a
combination of alertness, cleverness, and cunning bravery. He has an uncanny ability to
seize on opportunity, to think on the wing, and it is when conditions are most difficult
and most demanding that he is at his best. His strength is in his flock and in the
advantages he makes of mutual concern and common purpose: the careful placement of
ever-watchful sentinels, the well-coordinated systems of feints, diversions, and false
allurements designed to confuse, distract, and harass, and, when pressed,
the courage to sacrifice his safety for the good of the wholeif necessary, to give up his
life for his flock.
When they draw upon each other, the Crow are stronger than the fiercest of their foes, and together the members of the flock can outwit nearly any opponent. But alone, a Crow must pit only his own eyes and his own resourcefulness against all the powers of his enemies, and Far-kalla knew that if he were not both careful and lucky he could fall to any of the predators of the Crow.
First, there was Dan-klel-gark, the Great Horned Owl, who hunted at night and used the blackness of Garka's wings as its ally. The owl flew in utter silence and struck without warning, and if Dan-klel-gark found him now it could snap him from the sky as effortlessly and instantly as Far-kalla himself might pluck a winterberry from its stem.
By day, the Peregrine, the largest and strongest of the falcons, patrolled the skies, watching from high among the clouds, ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey in a power dive so swift and reckless that it could easily take a creature twice its size. Red-Tailed Hawk and Eagle soared in circles in the open sky, waiting for a chance at an injured or careless Crow. When roosting or feeding, the Crow had always to be wary of the Kru-klel, the coyotes, bears, cats, raccoons, foxes, and dogs, eager to fill their bellies with a Crow. And of course there was Tolt-klel, the human, whose distance-stick could pull a Crow from the sky with a single violent clap of thunder.
And most deadly of all: Aka-den, the Goshawk.
Aka-den was the largest, strongest, and the fiercest of the hawks, a predator who hunted by pursuit and gave chase with a swiftness, agility, and relentlessness unmatched in the animal kingdom. Its ice-sharp talons were so powerful that the impact of their grasp could shatter the spine of their prey. To the Goshawk there is only one real protectionto go to the safest cover in the forest and huddle there until the hawk is gone. Every nestling is taught, "When Aka-den flies, the Crow go to cover." The Goshawk is the one predator the Crow never taunt in victory, and after Aka-den has passed the Crow do not emerge from cover until they are sure that the hawk has given up and gone, its talons many miles away.
Slowly, sunrise began. Though Alm Herself still flew out of sight, the horizon heralded Her coming, the narrow band of color ever widening and brightening as She approached, expanding always at the expense of darkness, growing with relentlessness, but growing without hurry. Alm was never rushed in coming; it was the way of Alm and ritual, and in the morning stillness, from out of sight, Alm raised Her feathers to the heavens and sent out Her light before Her, and Alm's colors filled the sky.
Streaks of crimson ascended high above the horizon, blending into pinks, and oranges, and a dozen shades of yellow, the colors ever rising, banishing the blacks to lavenders and blues, purifying clouds and cleansing away the night. Below, the forest followed, collecting into browns and greys and solid earthy shades, shape and form crystallizing, hills and trees emerging into substance. The freshly fallen snow reflected back its white, the clouds taking on the whiteness also, and the world came bright and clear. Then, and only then, did Alm appear, large and round and yellow-white and bright, hovering effortlessly above the hills. Then, She spread Her wings, Her brilliance blocking out Her form, and the world came full to day.
Far-kalla eased his pace and let himself relax. Already the clouds were breaking, and soon the sky would clear. Alm's breath was gentle and comforting and warm upon his back. The gleaming snow below was melting even as it clung to branch and twig, and Felk, the Winter, was shrinking back and dying. Soon it would be Felk's time, the time of snow and ice and northern winds, but not today, he thought. Alm still held Felk's coldness off.
"Aka! Alm! Good morning!" Far-kalla called. But Alm, as always, did not answer. She did not have to. He was thankful for Her company, and he told Her so.
"It is good to have You with me! Even in Your silence. I no longer have my flock. Except for You, I am alone."
I am alone. The thought hung with him in the air. He could not force the memories away. For the thousandth time in recent weeks he asked himself the questions that had haunted him.
Why did it have to happen? Why did the sickness come? Why did everyone have to die? Everyone but me? Why did I alone survive?
The cold filled his throat and stung his chest with bitterness and anger. No answers came. It is kella, he thought, using the word which the Crow use to describe the hidden essence of life, the true value of existence. "It is kella," he said aloud, "and kella is what is."
It is kella that the sickness came, he thought. It is kella that my flock is dead and I am alive, and it is kella that I fly alone. And whatever else will happen that will be kella also. For kella is what is. And as long as I am alive, that is kella, and if I die, then that is kella also. But I am not dead, he thought and spit away his feelings. I am alive.
"Kaa! Alm! Do You see me?!" he called again. "I am Far-kalla, Crow!" And for an instant it seemed to him as if Alm brightened. Far-kalla smiled within. Perhaps You have heard me, Alm, he thought. If You have, know this: I thank You for Your brightness and Your vanquishing of Night; I thank You for Your warmth and Your holding off the Winter; I thank You for Your gifts to me: the greatest gift of all, the gift of life, and the second greatest, the gift of the knowledge of kella. The rest is up to me, ka?
He looked at the world beneath him, at the ragged, rocky hills of granite and the trees which covered them. The forest was there and certain, a vast expanse of oaks and maples and birch and hickory and hemlock and pine extending out across the hills for as far as a Crow could see. Fields and lakes and rivers broke the tree line, and the nesting sites of humans dotted the land, but this was first a world of forest, a land as solid as the earth itselfthe land that was his home. He breathed the sky in deep and tasted the wind, sharp and spicy.
"I am Far-kalla!" he called out. "I am Kraa, Crow!" He felt the beating of his heart and the power of the knowledge of kella. Courage and strength surged through him. He was Crow and he was flying.
Far-kalla readjusted his course and headed more to south. He angled lower and flew just above the trees, using the forest as cover and protection. The muscles in his breast worked fluidly, his wings commanding the sky. With each strong wingbeat, the pattern repeated: on the upstroke the long, sleek primaries at the tips of his wings twisted, spreading to let the sky flow through, then, on the downstroke, they twisted back and locked together, joining with the secondaries to clutch the air and propel him forward. Beat blended into beat, the rhythm smoothing out the air, and he gave himself to flying as the sky washed over him. On he flew.
A short time later, he came upon the farmhouse.
The sky was clearing quickly, and already the clouds were sparse and separated. The sky was a brilliant blue. Already this day he had flown a good long distance, and he was tiring. He searched for a place to rest. The land was different here, the forest broken more and more by broad, square fields and the long rivers of rock which wound between them. This was prime habitat of Tolt-klel, the human, who nested where the fields were found, and Far-kalla kept his eyes sharp for the signs of men and their dangerous distance-sticks.
But as he flew, he saw no sign of any human, much less one on prowl. Aka! Amazing! he thought. Where are they? Why is everything so quiet?
He eyed the scene before him and realized there was something more, but for a moment he could not put a feather on it. What is it? he asked himself. Then he realized: the fields are wrong. They are overgrown.
Aka! he thought. Amazing! The fields were filled not with regular rows of corn and beans and tomatoes, but with long grasses and tall wildflowers bowing in graceful arcs with their burden of fresh and heavy snow. Maple and aspen saplings sprouted here and there among the grasses. But not a single sign of human crops.
What can this mean? he thought. Human is not like this. It is obsessed with artificial order, like a beaver at its dam, and it would never allow its habitat to come to this. Far-kalla clucked in dismay and shook his head.
Hunger pecked at his belly and thirst scratched at his tongue. Far-kalla saw a stream flowing through the middle of a field, and he started his descent. He circled twice, checked for signs of other creatures, and glided into a shallow dive. He turned, twisting his tail to guide him in. Just above the ground, he flicked his finger-feather forward and slowed into a practiced stall. As softly as a milkweed seed, he dropped onto the snow.
The cold bit at his toes and misted his breath to cloud. The stream gurgled softly, folding over on itself as it squeezed between the rocks. He walked to a pool where the stream had stilled and took a drink, filling his beak and throwing back his head, relishing the icy water as it nipped his tongue and sharpened all his senses. He found some seeds and gobbled them down, but the little he ate only served to heighten his hunger. In the distance, beside a tall, old oak, stood a barn and farmhouse. He considered for a moment. Perhaps the human nest would hold a meal, he thought. With one swift surge of his wings, he was aloft and heading for the human nesting place.
Far-kalla circled cautiously as he approached. The snow around the house was level and unbroken, unmarked by tracks of any kind, and he could see no movement through the shattered glass of the windows of the house. There was no smoke coming out the chimney. The nest had been abandoned.
The barn was empty also, without even a cow or goat or chicken, and one end of it had burned and crumbled leaving only a skeleton of blackened beams and tattered wooden planking lying rotting in the snow. The pungent odor of an extinguished fire drifted in the air above the burned out barn.
Behind the barn and half-covered in the snow, lay the rusting, metal carcass of a Hunter-of-the-Skunk, one of the huge creatures that prowled the Rivers-Made-Of-Rock. The silence was disquieting, complete, and utter.
Far-kalla carefully searched the barn, but found hardly a beakful of old and moldy grain. He returned to the oak and wondered what had happened here.
The coyote appeared.
With a prideful trot, the coyote boldly approached the human nesting site. It came with a coolness born of familiarity, if not contempt, and did not even bother to raise its nose to sniff the air until it was standing within forty Crow lengths of the farmhouse. Even here it disdained the danger, its sniffing perfunctory and dispassionate, a thing of curiosity rather than of caution. The front door of the farmhouse stood slightly ajar, held open at a narrow angle by the frozen snow, and with hardly a pause the coyote pressed his frame up to the opening and squeezed himself inside.
Aka! Far-kalla thought again. Amazing! The coyote is no Crow, but he is no fool either. To go inside a human nest! Aka!
Far-kalla checked the sky. Alm was climbing higher and higher. Soon she would reach the zenith of Her flight. The flocks were gathering, and the Great Winter Flock was waiting, and a nagging sense of duty urged him on. But his curiosity was aroused. What was the coyote up to?
Far-kalla hopped through the upper branches of the oak and cocked his head. The sky was clear and distant, free of any flying thing. The farmhouse and the lands around it were as still as they could be. Far-kalla listened, but the only sounds he heard were the occasional clickings of the coyote's feet on the floorboards of the farmhouse. He preened his flight feathers, smoothing and shaping all the vanes, carefully arranging them, attending to each and every feather as if it were his only one. Satisfied, he puffed his body feathers out against the cold and waited.
The coyote reappeared, struggling with something in its mouth. It wriggled backwards through the door and tugged at the thing it held within its teeth. It pulled on its burden, but the frozen snow held the door. Whatever the coyote had found stayed stuck within the shadows. Far-kalla craned his head to see. The coyote jerked and pulled.
"Coyote!" Far-kalla called. "What have you found? What silly treasure have you in your teeth?"
The coyote did not answer.
"Kaa! Coyote! Tell me what you have!" Far-kalla called again, and again the coyote paid no attention. Mischief sparkled in Far-kalla's eyes. He ruffled the feathers on his throat.
"Aka! Amazing! You work so hard, Coyote! Whatever could it be?" Far-kalla leaped and caught himself in a long, slow glide that brought him past the house. He turned and circled swiftly, then angled off and floated down and landed some 50 Crow lengths from the door.
"Coyote!" he said. "Perhaps you will let me look. You have made a great and fiercesome kill, ka? Let me see this great achievement." Far-kalla hopped forward.
The coyote raised its head and eyed Far-kalla coldly. But it did not say a thing. After a moment it went back to its struggle in the doorway.
"What is the problem, Coyote? Why not let a poor and foolish Crow see for his own how great you are? I ask nothing in return." Far-kalla hopped again. The coyote turned and snarled. It eyed Far-kalla with half-closed slits. It sat back upon its haunches and cleaned its chops.
"Now, that is not a friendly attitude." Far-kalla paced back and forth, his wings held open at a shallow angle. "Surely you are not afraid? After all, you are Coyote, and I am but a poor and foolish Crow. What harm would come to one as powerful as you by offering a creature like me a simple look?"
Far-kalla stepped closer. The coyote seized its prey and growled.
Far-kalla began to pace again, his stride almost a prance. He held his wings out wider and raised his voice. "Aka! What have you found that you will not show this foolish, stupid Crow? Be proud, Coyote, for certainly there is no creature in the forest as great and as clever as you! Not Lynx, or Mink, or Fox, or Bear! No creature at all! You should be proud, Coyote. Everyone should know of your noble kill!"
The coyote glared from the corner of its eyes. There were not 30 Crow lengths now between them. As Far-kalla pranced back and forth, he seemed to wander carelessly closer and closer to the coyote.
"Yes! Every creature should hear of your greatness, Coyote!" Far-kalla shouted. Then, as if the idea had just occurred to him, Far-kalla jumped and called, "Let me do it, Coyote! Let me! Let me be the one to tell the forest how clever you are, Coyote! Let the honor of this duty fall upon this poor, stupid, foolish Crow!
"Fox! Raccoon! Bear! Come and see what treasure Coyote has found! Come! Come and see! Come everyone, come and see!" Far-kalla's voice was ringing. "Come, come, come! I am but a foolish Crow, but Coyote has found a great and important thing, because he is so clever! Come"
In a blinding flash, the coyote sprang. In two quick strides, it gobbled up the space between them. But jut as quickly Far-kalla leaped and was aloft and out of reach. He laughed in a raucous voice. The Coyote snapped at the air and snarled.
"What's the matter with you, Coyote? Are you angry with this foolish Crow? Aka, but why?" He circled and laughed his mocking laugh. "O please, forgive me, Coyote, if I have offended you. Do not be fierce with me. I meant no harm. After all, I can not help it if I am Crow and you are an ugly old eye-pecker whose mother lives in a hole in the ground."
Far-kalla laughed again, and roosted in the oak to laugh some more. His eyes watered with delight.
The coyote studied him for a while, then turned back to work. It pulled with a renewed and determined vigor and ignored all of Far-kalla's continued taunts. Finally, the snow and ice gave and the object of the coyote's efforts burst into view. It was the remains of a tiny human nestling.
The nestling's limbs were badly torn and bitten, its skin distended and discolored, and Far-kalla realized this was not the first day the coyote had been at it. It was frozen nearly solid and only its long brown hair moved freely as the coyote maneuvered it out into the snow. Its eyes were open, blank and vacant. The coyote dropped its booty to get a better hold, and after a several unsatisfactory attempts, it took a grasp again, and half carrying, half dragging its burden, the coyote hurried off back down the hill the way it had come.
"Aka!" Far-kalla whispered aloud. Coyote now preys on human nestlings?! Can this be? Did I see what I did see? Far-kalla perched, lost in thought. What is happening? How could the world have changed so much in so short a time? A chill ran through him, and fear flashed in his belly.
"Alm-ka-dern," he said aloud, and the words hung misting in his breath in the coldness of the winter sky. He stared off across the world at the quiet forest and the distant sky. Aka? he thought. Perhaps Rag-da, the leader of my flock, had been right. Perhaps this is all part of some greater plan. Perhaps this is a time of the Changing-Of-The-Cycles.
Alm-ka-dern! The sudden shiver underneath his feathers came not from the winter air, but from somewhere deep within him.
The Crow see a world where life is part of a vast and complex system of cycles, a world where day turns into night, summer into winter, life into death, and all these ever back again. Nothing exists in isolation; all life is connected and related; all fates are intertwined; and everything that happens, happens then to everything. Life, hold the Crow, is a thing that moves, and when it moves, all must move together. But they hold also that every once in a great, long while it is possible for events to occur which fundamentally alter the cycles of life and change the world. When this happens, the forest is cast into a time of turmoil, and the cycles shift and alter, reforming and resettling among themselves, until they come to rest again in ways before unknown. They call this Alm-ka-dern, The Shifting-Of-The-Sun-and-Forest, The Changing-Of-The-Cycles, and they know these times as ones of danger, when all of life is challenged. When the cycles shift, only those who adapt survive.
Far-kalla had never known Alm-ka-dern first wing of course, nor had any member of his flock, or of the Great Winter Flock. Not even the oldest of the oldest of the Crow could say he had flown through the Changing-Of-The-Cycles. But Far-kalla knew the legends. Could the cycles be changing? Were the things that had happened the first signs?
Here before him was evidence. If Tolt-klel, the human, was abandoning its nests and failing to protect its nestlings, was this not change? And not just the humans, but other creatures that had once lived here were also disappearing.
The elders told that Hunters-of-the-Skunk had once been as common as the sparrow. Years ago, so the elders said, these stupid beasts had raced up and down the Rivers-Made-of-Rock, rushing from human nesting site to nesting site, running faster than a Crow could fly. Though they lived with humans, they foraged on their own, killing without eating, striking out at anything that came into their path, slaying swiftly, and never looking back. Now they were as rare as white-tailed eagles. Far- kalla eyed the lifeless skeleton of the one that lay beside the barn. Whatever force had killed off these beasts was powerful indeed.
The elders also claimed that once, not so many summers ago, giant birds with gleaming, metal plumage would roar across the sky at amazing speeds. Far-kalla had always discounted these tales, and he knew of no Crow of his own age who had ever witnessed such a thing. Now he wondered. I had always thought the stories were a teasing joke, meant to teach a gullible Crow a lesson. Now I am not so sure.
He recalled the stories of The Great Death, bizarre and unbelievable tales of a great destruction to the south many seasons back. These tales told that Alm had suddenly dropped from Her path high above the world and had grasped the living in Her claws, and that in a terrible, angry flash of feathers She had burned the world in fire and blinded all who had lived to witness it. These tales had been passed along with skepticism, for Alm was The Giver of Life and nothing could be more foreign to Her nature than to kill or injure. Or worse, to blind.
And of course the most compelling sign of all was the sickness.
It had descended without warning at the height of summer. Until then it had been an easy season: the breeding grounds had been rich and kind, raccoons and owls and hawks and dogs had stayed away, and many nestlings had been hatched. They were at the beginning of the fledging season, the young just beginning to find their wings. It was the peaceful time before the molt, and the world was as it should have been. Until the sickness came.
Who had been the first? Far-kalla could not recall. It seemed so long ago. Dal-sklaa, he remembered. She had been the first. One morning they had found her ill, her throat so sore she could not eat or drink. She had burned with fever. She had roosted to let the sickness pass, but the fever only worsened. Dal-sklaa had slowly weakened, and soon she could not fly. Then she was dead, taken from the flock in the Night. The flock had grieved, and all had felt the loss. But the sickness did not stop. One by one, it had attacked them all, the throat pain and the fever finding each, and the flock had begun to die.
Rag-da, the leader of the flock, had tried everything to stem the sickness, but no plan that he suggested worked; against this enemy the flock had no defenses. Not knowing what else to do, Rag-da had prayed to Alm and beseeched Her help, but Alm, as always, had remained silent and distant, and She had not answered him. In the end, he had lost his cleverness and gone mad. As he had watched his flockmates die, Rag-da had succumbed to desperation and despair and had turned upon Alm, foolishly cursing and insulting Her. And then the visions had come, and Rag-da had begun his ravings on the Changing-Of-The-Cycles. The visions were powerful, no doubt, and Rag-da had been possessed by them, but he was nearly ranting. Far-kalla had not listened.
By then, he too was sick, and he had not cared about the visions of a mad and foolish Crow. The flock that was dying was Far-kalla's also, and as he watched each member grow sickas he watched each one diehe had felt the pain of loss and hopelessness. Far-kalla was the only one the sickness did not conquer. He alone recovered, and he alone survived to watch the others die.
The last to go had been his mate, Lelaladaka. She had been among the last to sicken, and Far-kalla had hoped the disease would pass her over. But it was not to be. She was in the midst of molt when the illness came upon her. For weeks while others sickened, she had stood extra watch, never tiring and gladly accepting the extra burdens. But the effort and the molt had weakened her.
Far-kalla had known at once that she had no chance. He remembered how brave she had been, worrying more for the health of others than for her own. She had not wept or complained or bittered, even when the pain was greatest and a simple drink of water had torn like sand within her throat. She had kept her courage strong. But her courage was no match for this disease. Lelaladaka's body weakened. Finally she had fallen to the forest floor and gasped for air among the leaves.
Far-kalla had tried to help her, but there so little he could do. He had stood over her and watched, and brought her food, and when the coyote had come, he had swooped and dived and called and cursed and done everything he could think of to lure the coyote away from her, but nothing had succeeded. In the end, he had failed. The coyote had taken her into his mouth and carried her away to Night.
By the time the sickness had left him, Far-kalla's molt had come complete. His new feathers, dark and glossy with health, were strong and sturdy, and they had carried him aloft with ease. He had had the urge to fly, and in the weeks that followed he had travelled about in fits and starts, not knowing where he was going, not noticing where he had been, knowing only that he could not stay put. He had drifted like an elm seed on the wind.
While he was wandering, Alm had touched Her feathers to the trees and turned their leaves to red and orange and yellow and gold, changing the forest to all the brilliant colors of Her glorious plumage. Alm had brought the autumn, keeping Her covenant and fulfilling Her most scared promise to the Crow: to remind them of who they are and how much they mattered. But Far-kalla had scarcely noticed. The leaves had browned and dropped, and autumn had ended. Three days ago, a northern wind had broken the spell and awakened him. It was time for the winter flocks to gather, he had realized.
Far-kalla had started south. For the first time in a long while, he had a goalthe Great Winter Gathering Place. He flew from place to place, trying to retrace his flight, searching for recognizable landmarks. Yesterday he had found familiar territory, and had started for the Great Winter Flock to tell them what had happened. The first storm of the season had hit and delayed him.
Now the urgency of his journey came back to him. Time to hurry on, he thought. With a tiny leap, he left the branch, falling forward. His wings extended to catch the sky beneath them, and up he swooped. A wingbeat, and he was off.
As he came upon the Long River, sparkling silver-blue in the sun and wind, he turned and followed the river south, along the hills below the mountains. The Great Winter Flock was not far off. They would be gathered near the great bend in the river. Eager with anticipation, Far-kalla did not even think of danger. As he approached New Mountain, it happened.
Far-kalla knew this place well. Here in forest, the humans had cleared a space and built a giant nest. Then the humans had proceeded to cover over the nest with earth, piling up dirt and rubble like crazed ground hogs, until a great new mountain stood along the river. All the Crow had laughed to watch this foolish thing. Flocks had come from all over to scoff and cackle at the sight. What could the foolish humans be thinking?
Now, as Far-kalla came out over the trees he expected to see only the field and mountain. Instead, he saw a sight which shocked him to the bone. There before him, filling the field, were more humans than he had ever seen before.
They were everywhere, thousands of them, covering the field and packed together, assembled like starlings for the night. They faced away from him toward a small new nesting site and a wooden platform there. The humans stood silent and at rest, as if waiting for something important to begin. Far-kalla banked. Aka! What is going on?!
Far-kalla considered what to do. The safest thing was simply to fly around the field and avoid the humans altogether. But the field was large, and he was tired and more than a little curious. He climbed and scanned the crowd. He did not see a single distance-stick; the humans appeared unarmed. And they were preoccupied; they would not notice. Besides, they were up to something, and their activities could be important. After all, this gathering was not far from the gathering place of the Great Winter Flock. He decided that information was worth the risk. He headed out over the field.
Why are they waiting? Aka! How strange! What is this thing they watch? He studied the wooden platform. On the platform, stood a ring of humans, all in identical plumage, facing outward toward their brethren. These, he saw, held distance-sticks.
Instinctively, he banked evasively and climbed out of range of the distance sticks. He kept his eyes alert. A few humans lined up in a row on the platform. One, tall and thin, stood in the center and looked out over the crowd. The armed humans faced it and aimed their distance sticks. Far-kalla realized, all the other humans assembled here had their eyes upon this one man.
Far-kalla quickened his pace. Something disturbed him deep within. He wished now that he had listened more closely to Rag-da. There was no longer any doubt. The cycles of the world were changing. Alm-ka-dern was at hand.
A terrible thought came upon him. What if his flock was not the only one that had been stricken with the sickness? What if the sickness had swept through other flocks as it had Far-kalla's own? He realized he had not seen another Crow in weeks. What if he, Far-kalla, had been the only one to survive? What if he were the last Crow left alive?
"Alm!" he called aloud in panic. "Is it so? Alm, You can see the entire forest! Is it true?! Are all the others gone?! Am I that alone?"
But Alm, as always, flew high and distant, and She did not answer him.
No! It can not be so! Alm would never let this happen! Not as long as She has strength to defend the world and all Her children! Surely She would not let Night take them all!? Or has Night grown so strong that She intends to challenge Alm?! Is that what is happening? Is Night preparing now to battle Alm? Can She defeat Her?! Is that why Night has spared me? So I may witness this great battle? Can Night win and return the world to eternal cold and darkness?
No! It can not be so! Far-kalla thought, his mind reeling in confusion and despair.
Then he saw the Goshawk.
It was there, appeared as if by magic, and bearing down upon him, fast and determined and merciless. In a single flash he saw its terrible talons, its beak, sharp and hooked, its dark and evil eyes, and he knew he was going to die.
He had no time to thinkonly to react. He plunged into a dive as the hawk shot by above him.
He threw his wings out wide, his feathers slamming into sky. Pain exploded in his chest as his wings jerked him from his dive. But he thrust his wings downward and dug into the pain and climbed. In an instant he was flying right behind the hawk, the only place in the sky where its talons could not reach.
His mind was clear at once, ready for the chase. He gulped for air and drove his wings with all the speed they had. The hawk swerved suddenly and dove, and Far-kalla followed, struggling to keep pace, almost losing touch, but somehow holding on. The hawk banked and climbed, and Far-kalla followed once again, desperately pursuing.
Far-kalla knew he could not last for long. If the flock were here, they might distract the hawk long enough for Far-kalla to break and fly to cover, and with enough cleverness and daring, the flock might well defeat the hawk. But Far-kalla had no flock and he was on his own, and if he broke and tried to run the hawk could easily overtake and kill him. He could not hope to continue; he could not hope to flee.
The hawk wheeled left and doubled back, slicing through the sky at an angle too sharp for Far-kalla to match. He swerved wide and lost the hawk, falling behind and to the side, but the hawk did not turn and seize its advantage. Far-kalla pushed himself again and closed the gap between them, flying at full krel-ka. His strength was ebbing fast, and Far-kalla realized he was moments from his death. All at once he had a plan.
With one last burst of power, Far-kalla's feathers stabbed the sky. He surged forward and touched the hawk's tail. Panicked and confused, the hawk took off straight ahead, and Far-kalla flung himself into a turn. He swerved back toward the way he had come, set his eyes ahead, and sprinted for his life.
In a moment the hawk would realize it had been tricked and give pursuit. Far-kalla had gained the precious lead that was necessary for his plan to work, but escape would not be complete until he reached his goal. He angled downward, gaining speed, and locked his eyes on the field and the humans that were assembled there. He threw everything he had into his flying.
He could not defeat the hawk alone, but he could lead it to its enemies. And Aka-den had but a single enemy: Tolt-klel, the human. Far-kalla's plan was simple: to lead the hawk into the clutches of its enemy, create confusion, and escape. No matter that the human was as much an enemy of the Crow as it was the hawk's, all the better, it would add to the confusion.
He streaked out across the field, his legs tucked close, his tail straight back, every feather in his wings pushing at the sky. His breath came in erratic gasps, the wind tearing at his throat, and pain flashed through his body with every wingbeat. He saw the platform and felt the strength within him dying, and he feared would never make it. He felt the hawk behind and sprinted faster.
The hawk came overhead, and Far-kalla lunged right and swerved. The hawk's talons snapped for him, raking through the feathers on his head, tearing into skin, but failing to gain hold. Far-kalla swerved a second time, and the hawk turned and came at him again.
Far-kalla tried to climb, but the air beneath his wings went weak and spongy, and instead he dove as the hawk attacked again, its talons slashing at his face. The hawk missed. Far-kalla held his balance in the sky, turned back toward the humans, and gained another fragile lead.
His heart pounded. His strength was failing fast. His wings beat with a rhythm independent of his will. It seemed to take forever, but he reached the edge of the crowd and made his final dash.
He flew just above the human heads, his momentum now the only thing propelling him. The tips of his wings nearly brushed the humans' hair, and the crowd ducked and parted as he passed. As he approached the platform he tried to climb, but his wings gave out and his chest cramped tight, and he was falling. His feet clutched out in desperation and grasped a roost. He collapsed forward, his chest hitting his feet with the sudden halt, and the last of his breath exploded outward.
For an instant he was dazed and reeling, struggling for balance, his breathing ragged and uncontrolled. He was exhausted. He gasped for air and shook his head to clear his mind, and he saw what had happened. He was perched on the outstretched hand of a human. His mind reacted, but his wings did not respond. He had no strength to flee.
So this is how it ends, he thought, captured by a foolish human. He looked out across the crowd below them, Crow and captor, now as one upon the platform. I will not die a coward, he told himself, but as a Crow, and he turned and looked the human in the eye. He expected to see triumph there, and hunger, and even evil, but he did not. The human did not even seem to notice him, but was looking at the crowd and in its eyes was something strange and deep and strong.
And then Far-kalla heard the crowd exploding, the voices of the humans raised as one and chanting, and Far-kalla was stunned with wonderment. Blood oozed down his face and across his bill, and he stared amazed at the happenings around him.
Then he felt himself being tossed aloft, and he spread his wings out wide, and his feathers seized the sky, and he called his name out loud, "I am Far-kalla, Crow!" The crowd roared again. He spat into the sky and turned away. He began to fly, his progress slow and pained and labored, but he made the edge of the forest, and there he rested.
It took a great long time for his strength to return and his breathing to resume a normal rhythm, and while he waited he thought about the meaning of what he had witnessed. Why did the human not kill me? he wondered. And what was that I saw within its eyes? I have seen the look before, but where? And it came to him. It was the look of a Crow when he is taken by the knowledge of kella.
"Aka! Amazing!" he whispered to himself as he recalled the human's eyes. Could it have been the look of the knowledge of kella? Surely, no, for knowledge of kella is Alm's gift to the Crow. Its glory and its burden are ours alone. A lowly creature like Tolt-klel could not possibly understand. Not a creature as simple and earthbound as the human. Aka, there is no understanding it, he told himself. It is a miracle, and that is all.
He took to the sky and began to fly. As he worked his muscles, they grew stronger, and stronger still. In the distance, he saw black forms against the sky. The Great Winter Flock! I am not alone!
Pride and relief and joy flooded over him. He caught a gust of wind and rose with the sky and could not help but smile. The power of the knowledge of kella washed over him. "It is, what is," he said aloud.
No longer was he afraid. Now, he welcomed Alm-ka-dern; he rejoiced in the Changing-Of -The-Cycles. Let the cycles change, he thought with defiant pride. I am ready!
For he knew in his heart of hearts that he would survive and his kind would flourish. He knew that no enemy could conquer them. For though they had not the stealth of the owl, the distance powers of the human, or the speed and strength of the hawk, they were Crow, and more clever than them all.
