The Were-Raven, Part 1

by Brett Rutherford

    Adapted from an ancient Danish Ballad

1

The Raven began his journey at dusk;
by day he never flew. By rise of moon
in fullest orb he traveled far; by dark
of moon he fled to the bats’ company

in cave and belfry and the mountain pine.
So wide of wing was he, so baleful-eyed,
it was an ill-fortune to come upon
his perch, his roost or his dark sleeping place.

Time and again to one spot he fluttered —
a terror to lark and dove, a terror
to all who sang vespers and prayed Amens —
he came to where, in one lonely bower
the lady Ermeline was wont to weep.

She saw him not, although his shadow long
cast double penumbrae in moon and star-
light, tall as a man, so deep in mourning
was the lady whose eyes ne’er upward glanced.

And so, ill-omened, un-noted, he flew
away, South to the dread desert’s sand-verge,
North, to the last ice-pack of the Boreal Pole,
up, to the place above cloud-tops where snow

sings crystal anthems and the air is thin,
and still, from everywhere, his corvid eye
followed the downward glance of Ermeline
as she embroidered, sighed, and put aside
her day-time’s dull handiwork. Her hands shook;
she touched for forehead for signs of fever,
and finding none, turned to her lonely bed.

She slept, and as he watched her distantly,
another hovered, reached out a strangling
hand, and snapped it back, self-stung with conscience.
Whatever it was, it watched him watching
her, and slithered off, a serpent of mist.

One night, when moon was full, and stars were right,
and the garden was diamond-bright with night’s
aurora of fireflies and Northern lights,
and Ermeline walked alone as ever,
he found the courage to speak: “Tell me true,
fair and alone, my Lady Ermeline,
why do you linger in the chill garden
to shed so many tears? Compete with dew,
or a raincloud to water these flagstones?”

Fair Ermeline started, but saw not him.
“Who are you, Stranger, to dare address me
so from darkness? Two eyes I see, but all
the rest of you is shrouded in shadow.” —

“Fear not,” the Raven stepped now forth. “I asked
why to the world’s weeping you add the more,
when one so fair is made for life and joying.
Who have you lost?” he paused. “A brother dear?
Or mother or father, or some beloved?” —

“Raven, dire friend, thou messenger of Death,
have you of all the feathered host come now
to mock me, or to hear my tale of woe,
because a maiden’s sorrows fill thy beak?”

“Admit me to thy side a while,” he said,
but let me perch upon yon pediment
so that your whisperings and my coarse caw
shall be as solemn as confessional.” —

“Am I thus doomed, wild Raven! If thou art
my confidant and confessor, who next
have I to counsel with but crow and kite,
and the malevolent sea cormorant?” —

“I will remain till thou hast told thy tale.
More than night-bird am I, but less than man.
I mean to know your sorrow’s own story.” —
Her eyes met his. — “I will tell all to you.”

-- to be continued --