0-The
Fool
IT WAS a brightly sunlit day when Catherine Meara,
the "Raven Witch Killer," passed through the front doors of the
Pennsylvania State Penitentiary. For a few moments, she was able to tilt her
head towards its warmth and revel in its light upon her prison-paled skin. I
watched her bask in its glory, her stride slow, her arms swinging at her sides.
He hair gleamed like living fire, no longer dulled to the color of old blood
under the harsh fluorescent lights of captivity.
The ravens waited for her, seventeen in all, perched atop the old fashioned gates that separated the land of freedom from the realm of the depraved. They watched her approach, obsidian eyes flat in spite of the brightness of the day.
She saw them, a guard said later. She saw them there, waiting, and smiled.
One of them cawed, a harsh sound unsuited to sunlight, more closely attuned with shadows and gloom. As if it were a signal--and perhaps it was--the others raised up on clawed feet, beating their wings against the air. The terrible sound of all their feathers straining against the air caused both gate guards to clasp their hands to their ears. I could see them from my post just inside the entrance, though the thick glass protected me from their funeral noise.
We lost eleven minutes of our lives that day. Time we cannot reclaim, though in light of what we were witness to, in light of what was lost, eleven minutes seems a paltry sum.
Officially, prisoner number 0116152 died of natural causes, on the day of her release. A tragic but perhaps justified turn of events, one might say.
I was there from the beginning to the end, from the moment Catherine entered our sphere of knowledge until the time her physical body left us behind. There was nothing natural about the Raven Witch Killer's death, or her life for that matter. We never told anyone the whole story, those of us who bore witness to her tale, those who remain, until now that is.
They're back, you see. The ravens.
The ravens waited for her, seventeen in all, perched atop the old fashioned gates that separated the land of freedom from the realm of the depraved. They watched her approach, obsidian eyes flat in spite of the brightness of the day.
She saw them, a guard said later. She saw them there, waiting, and smiled.
One of them cawed, a harsh sound unsuited to sunlight, more closely attuned with shadows and gloom. As if it were a signal--and perhaps it was--the others raised up on clawed feet, beating their wings against the air. The terrible sound of all their feathers straining against the air caused both gate guards to clasp their hands to their ears. I could see them from my post just inside the entrance, though the thick glass protected me from their funeral noise.
We lost eleven minutes of our lives that day. Time we cannot reclaim, though in light of what we were witness to, in light of what was lost, eleven minutes seems a paltry sum.
Officially, prisoner number 0116152 died of natural causes, on the day of her release. A tragic but perhaps justified turn of events, one might say.
I was there from the beginning to the end, from the moment Catherine entered our sphere of knowledge until the time her physical body left us behind. There was nothing natural about the Raven Witch Killer's death, or her life for that matter. We never told anyone the whole story, those of us who bore witness to her tale, those who remain, until now that is.
They're back, you see. The ravens.
I
can be silent no longer.
Wow, if that is the opening to the book it is fantastic. Full of tendrils that the reader will want to tug on and learn more about. I'm definitely going to check out your other books after reading this.
ReplyDeleteThank you J.R.! I am glad you liked it. I just sent the finished book for "Ravens" off to the editors/proofers this morning. I'll let you know when it's completely finished. Maybe you would be interested in an ARC in exchange for a review? Let me know!
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