The Raven

Part One

         These are events that happened in the past. I would never condone the taking of baby birds from nests. I hope the reader will forgive the selfishness of this act and can understand what is really happening in this story.

                

      It would be a difficult climb for someone who didn't like heights. Neatly tucked away on a rocky outcropping, the nest would have escaped my notice. But the parents had panicked, and flown overhead like a couple of nervous pterodactyls, croaking, and swooping low in a valiant attempt to drive me away.

     Undeterred, I chose my hand and foot holds carefully always on the lookout for spiders, snakes, or any other creature whose bite would do more than spoil my day.

     When I reached the spot, I raised my head high enough to look down into the nest. Instantly 5 of the most gruesome, ghoulish, and ridiculous looking nestlings shot their oversized heads up on long scrawny necks, mouths agape, revealing bright red targets that could handle a never-ending supply of delicious insects, small rodents, birds, fruit and of course a vast menu of road kill. The sound of this rabble could be compared to nothing but an angry mob of salivating demons.

     I knew this family of Ravens was around. Earlier that spring I was on hand to watch the aerial acrobatics of their courtship display. Antics such as nose diving with closed wings, somersaulting, turning, twisting, and tumbling even flying upside down in a corkscrew roll. I have seen them do the same thing in play but clearly that morning’s exercise had a more serious tone.

     To be honest I had been looking for their nest ever since. Ravens were of special interest to me. I had a couple of pet crows growing up. One in particular; Inky, was a much-loved co-conspirator in my youth. His intellect and sense of humor is legendary in our family. Not necessarily in a good way. I remember friends of my parents coming for a visit. Before they could leave the safety of their cars my mother offered them garbage can lids to put over their heads. This was to protect them against a one bird gauntlet that had to be run to get to the house. Inky felt it his right … even duty, to extract a toll for the privilege of visiting. An earring plucked from the lobe of a shrieking and reluctant benefactor, perhaps a cufflink or pen sticking out of a breast pocket. If none of these items made themselves readily available then simple harassment would suffice.

     He learned to imitate my mother calling me into the house. I would come running, only to find it was not her, but him, playing his little games. When I went back outside, he would be on the ridge of the roof cackling away to himself with immense satisfaction. He followed me everywhere because he knew that is where the action would be, and he required copious amounts of stimulation. He even tried getting on the school bus with me in the mornings and would become so enraged at not being allowed to come aboard that he would chase the bus, flying even with the window’s looking for a way in.

     While I was in school, he would find ways to entertain himself. Pulling the clothes pins off freshly hung laundry at a neighbor’s house seemed mildly entertaining, pulling the tail of anyone of our cats, harassing the chickens, ducks or any of the other animals that happened to have the misfortune of sharing Inkys world grew tiresome. So, by the time I stepped off the bus later in the afternoon you could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the traumatized victims of Inkys boredom.

Of course, he knew when I would be arriving, and waited in a dead elm tree at the end of our long driveway. When I stepped off the bus, he would fly down on my shoulder and make little crooning sounds in my ear, probably telling me of the day’s exploits. Naturally I would bring him some sort of interesting object to examine. Perhaps a pencil sharpener, paper clip or rubber band. It did not matter. Anything was appreciated and accepted with obvious pleasure.

     It was memories like these that had me longing for another boyhood friend like Inky. There was no way I could climb down this cliff with a baby raven in one hand. I went back to the house and enlisted the help of a reluctant wife.

     “Listen “I said. “It'll be easy. I'll climb up to the nest and pick up one of the babies. You take off your coat and hold it open. I'll toss the little fella down to you and you catch him in your coat!” “Got it?”

      Sharon looked worried.

   “What if I miss?”

  “You won't” I said. “Just hold your coat open and don't move. I'll drop him in it. It'll be fine, I promise.”

     My wife's reluctance turned to rebellion when she saw how far up the nest was and the real nature of her responsibility in this nefarious act. You would think after years of marriage a wife would learn not to argue about things, they just can't do anything about. Men do! But women do not … they just don't. Her pitiful common-sense pleas faded into the background as I carefully made my way back to that hidden treasure on the ledge. The anticipation and excitement were making me giddy.

     My heart was racing and my hands were a little shaky when I reached the ledge. I could not find a hand hold to pull myself up far enough to look into the nest with only one hand so I had to feel around blind for a solid grip on one of the nestlings. The salivating demons exploded in chorus when the shadow of my hand fell across their bodies. The sound rolled down the cliff like an unholy avalanche of evil. My wife called up.

      “Oh my God, what is that? Is that them?”

      “Hold open the coat!” I shouted.

     I wanted this dirty deed over before the parents returned.

     ” I can't.” she said. “I'm afraid.”

      I looked down, my wife was doing this little dance she does when she is really nervous. First one foot then the other, I could see her hands were clenched into tight little balls holding the coat half open in a pleading waltz. I shouted again.

     ” I can't hang on with one hand. Hold the coat open!”

     She complied and I leaned out as far as I dared and took careful aim of the target below. Before I even released my grip, she started up again with the dancing and nervous chatter.

      “Oh no. Oh no. what if you miss? What if I drop him?”

     We made eye contact.

     “I can't hang on, here he comes, hold still!”

     I let go and my wife's serenade accompanied him all the way down. Bulls eye!

“Oh no. Did I get him? Oh, I got him. Where is he? Oh, Rob hurry. I got him!”

     When we got back to the house, I opened the coat and examined our new family member. He looked like a miniature gargoyle. Two long scrawny legs surrounding a plump pinkish gray pot belly, two ridiculously tiny featherless wings beneath a long skinny neck holding an oversized head with two bulging half open eyes. He was a little smaller than my fist. All of what I just described disappeared completely when he opened that huge triangular beak. Black on the outside and bright red when open and able to swallow a whole mouse in one gulp! He was both hideous and beautiful at the same time. I fell in love instantly. My wife and children were more reserved with their feelings.

     I had an idea of what to expect into the foreseeable future, they were oblivious to what changes were about to take place. My new little buddy had to accompany us everywhere because he needed to be fed almost every 15 minutes from the time it got light at 6am. To the time it got dark.

     That meant he came with us to baseball games, school functions, shopping outings and yes even church. I would have to excuse myself and leave to go out to our Volkswagen bus where he was waiting to be fed. Sometimes at ball games I would just bring his whole box out onto a grassy place in the shade and let him be around people. He always drew a crowd when they heard him calling to be fed. My kids were both embarrassed or proud, depending on the reaction of the observers. After all, it wasn't every day you saw a family at the ball park with a pet raven.

     They were particularly aghast one day when I abruptly pulled off to the side of the road to pick up a freshly killed squirrel. There was a crew working nearby. They all stopped what they were doing and looked as I walked over and picked up the fresh road kill. When I stood up, I looked them square in their faces shrugged my shoulders and said; “Fresh meat for supper!” This was, after all, West Virginia. Not a totally inconceivable probability for some folks. My boys laughed; my youngest daughter recoiled in horror from embarrassment. We all knew it was for the raven, but I didn't have time to explain to the road crew.

     That was the day he got his name. “Llikdaor.” Pronounced “Lickdoor.” which of course is roadkill spelled backwards.

     In May, our oldest daughter Larysa, came for a visit. She arrived after dark, and Llikdaor was asleep in his made-up nest inside a box in the living room. Having grown up in a family that shared their space with a menagerie of wild or exotic animals, she looked down at the ball of fluff and saw nothing that would warrant concern. She slept peacefully on the couch a few feet from the box.

I forgot to …. well not forgot really. Maybe it would be better to say “I failed to mention” what happens at first light and Llikdaor wakes up hungry. Larysa was a heavy sleeper.

     When the sun rises just enough to only slightly illuminate the room, Llikdaor started this kind of low growling. It builds rather rapidly into a not so tender crescendo of an angry gurgling intensity. An unholy aria, rising from the pits of hell. You will wake up, you will get out of bed, and you will find something to feed him. Anything.

     I was already awake at first light when it started. My wife woke up to his demon chant and rolled over and shook me.

      “Llikdaors up.”

      “I hear him.”

      “Aren't you going to feed him?”

      “Yes.”

     “When?”

      He was getting panicky. A full 60 seconds had passed and nobody had dropped anything into the ravenous, consuming vortex that was his mouth. This was cause for alarm. The volume and intensity of his calls reflected a concern that he had been abandoned, and would most certainly die in a matter of seconds, if not attended to.

     A low mumbling from our daughter began to mix with his hell spawn shrieks for food.

         “Why don't you get up and feed him?”

      “Wait for it.” I said.

     The mumbling and decibels increased.

      “Wait for what?”

     One of the boys called from upstairs “Dad, do something!” Larysa suddenly sat up and screamed from the living room.

     “Oh my God, what is that?”

     The sound of her voice only served to peak Llikdaors panic. Someone is so close, He needed to alert them that he was there, and at the point of death. His cries reached a fever pitch. Now all the kids were calling for relief from upstairs.

     “Dad! Come on already!”

      I heard Larysa fly out from under her covers, her feet crashing down on the floor as she made her way to our bedroom only caused more panic in the bird, as he felt the vibration, and became excited that someone was coming to save him from imminent death.

Larysa appeared in our doorway animated, hair in all directions, eyes widened with panic

   ” Dad! What the hell?”

     “Oh, you’re up.” I said calmly.

   “Ya think? Do something!”

    She was pointing in the direction of the living room and barely audible over our young ravens shrill and resounding pleas for mercy.

     “Oh, just go in the fridge and get some hamburger or something and give him some. He's hungry.”

   “Yea no shit!” “I'm not going near anything that sounds like that!”

     I was having fun, but Sharon couldn't take it anymore.

     Either could Virginia. She came thumping down the stairs.

     “Dad!”

 Sharon flew out of bed.

     “I'll feed him!”

     I burst out laughing. Sharon and Larysa both scolded in unison “It's not funny!” But it was. Life had taken a definite turn for the better since that silly creature had come into my life. Working at the shelter The Shelter had scarred me in ways that I had not even realized, but Llikdaor had opened a door somehow. I was able to find humor in things and laugh again. He lightened my load from the burden of memories that had accumulated and of the wrongs committed. I looked forward to spending time with my family and slowly introducing them to what I knew would be someone special in all our lives.

     Llikdaor grew rapidly and by the end of May he was outside testing his wings. He was now perching on the headrest of the passenger seat in our “bus” as I drove through town or the drive through window at the bank. He had grown accustomed to going everywhere with us.

     When we tried to leave him at home one Sunday so we could go to church, he followed the van eight miles into town, then pecked on the windows of the church until I had to excuse myself and go outside to entertain him till service was over. The next Sunday, we locked him the tool shed until we returned. He punished me by getting into every box, jar, or container and destroyed any semblance of order I had so meticulously assembled. He would not be ignored or made a second-class family member.

      Even our basketball games in the front yard took on a new vibe, because suddenly, Llikdaor had to be involved. He would fly in your face, or fly up on the rim and flap his wings to try and distract you from your shot. He was hit with the ball many times and even stepped on a few times.

     Miraculously he was never seriously hurt. It was obvious his pride was at stake and he always came back with a vengeance. Landing on someone’s head and pulling their hair or pulling loose their shoe laces was a common tactic of his.

     I was 36. My oldest son, Adam, was 16. It was apparent that he had become a better ball player than his father. He was faster, and had this uncanny ability to always make a three-point shot from the left side of the net.

     So, I had to compensate by getting in his face, talking trash and being aggressive by throwing my weight around. I was unaccustomed to not being the most accomplished in everything, as far as my boys were concerned. I had yet to learn how to celebrate their rising abilities. Maybe because it meant acknowledging my declining ones. Apparently Llikdaor was not the only one with a pride problem.

     About a mile down the road lived a preacher and his family. They had built a log home as well, and had made a couple of inquiries as to our welfare and situation. We had some things in common it seemed, but I was suspicious. He was a Baptist preacher. We were Catholic and I felt his main interest was not friendship but our salvation.

     This whole living in the “Bible belt” was a new experience for us. Our relationship with God was a private matter, not something that you went around bragging about. I heard people say “God told me.” As in hearing God give direction or a message. Where we came from, people that heard voices, were considered a little “off.” Down here it seemed to be the norm. The last thing I wanted to do was to be engaged in conversation about opposing theologies. I had endured visits from Jehovah's Witnesses and wished to spare my family someone’s sales pitch for their particular “Jesus’ brand of spirituality.”

We already had visits from zealots who drove down our half mile driveway and despite being greeted by two German Shepherds and a raven, still felt compelled to get out of their car and inform us that because we enjoyed an occasional beer, we were going straight to hell! Now coming from the north, and having grown up Catholic I wasn't interested in all this “getting' saved” stuff. The only thing I knew about Baptists was what I happened to see on tv. Evangelists like Billy Graham or Jimmy Swaggart. It seemed more theatrical than spiritual. But Ron and his wife Libby seemed genuine enough. So, we invited them down for dinner.

     They piled out of a Chevy Jimmy with their two sons. Ronnie Jr. who my youngest son, Robbie, had already befriended. He was about 13 years old and a “little person”, just over four feet tall, and his younger brother Luke who was six.

     We ushered them into the house rather unceremoniously as we were never sure how Llikdaor would react to strangers.

     He liked to inspect anyone that we showed an interest in and sometimes that inspection made people that didn't know Llikdaor uncomfortable. After all, not everyone is comfortable having a large bird with a four-foot wingspan land on their shoulder to inspect earrings or glasses or buttons. Or maybe just land on them to get a reaction and have some fun.

     Of course, Llikdaor pecked on the door and went around to the windows to see what was going on inside. He was hurt because he felt shunned, he was the only one left out of this festive gathering. Someone would have to pay for this egregious error.

     Unfortunately, they had left the driver’s side window down. When Llikdaor discovered this a full inspection had to be made of the interior of this fine motor vehicle. He started with tearing a large hole in the cloth ceiling. When nothing of interest was found there, he managed to open the glove compartment and locate Libby's two-hundred-dollar glasses. Now these had significance. They were sparkly and easy to carry. A real treasure. Maybe they would compensate for penance owed for hurt feelings, or even fill the revenge quota for this evening’s transgression.

     Meanwhile, around the dinner table things were going well. Conversation was light and enjoyable. Even when I opened a door by asking about Ron's church our opposing theologies were never mentioned.

     There seemed to be no hidden agenda on the part of our neighbors and this allowed us to relax and enjoy our time together. Their culture was new, and I was still learning the language and the local sense of humor. We did not quite fit in.

People weren't sure what to make of this family that had moved here from Canada. But at least we weren't Yankees, there wasn't much love for them down here so we neglected telling anyone that Sharon and I were both born in New York. The drum beats from the surrounding “hollows” had gone forth and informed the locals that a new house was being built up on Andy's Run off Clio rd. Some people had ventured out to introduce themselves and satisfy their curiosity. But everyone, without exception invited us to church. Churches were everywhere. All of Protestant affiliation. Several families would start a church and hire a preacher, sooner or later there would be a falling out and the church would split. Half the congregation would leave and start another church, with names like “New Vision”, or “New Life” or just take the name of the road it was built on, like “Clio Community Church.”  

     Our little Catholic church was just a small house in the town of Clendenin. We celebrated mass in the living room and confessions were heard in one of the bedrooms. A priest... Father Jack, shared the homilies with the two nuns that lived in the house next door. He visited three churches spread out over three counties. Catholics were not in abundance in our part of West Virginia and either were priests, so we had to share one with two other churches.

     In fact, Catholics were not even considered Christian by the majority of the faithful, because they prayed to Mary the virgin mother of Jesus and to the saints, considered the pope to be infallible and never had the assurance of eternal life because they believed in works over asking Jesus into their hearts to make them a Christian and forgive them of their sins. The Catholics had extra books in their Bible and seemed to consider it only as a great staring place, while they considered it to be the “inerrant word of God”. I found all this to be extremely interesting and somehow exciting. I had found the God that we worshiped during mass to be sterile and unapproachable. The person of Jesus however, was more understandable, and I never questioned his teachings or my relationship to him. But there was something else. Since childhood I had an intimacy with nature, and wild things, it called to me and gave me a peace and contentment that made religion small, at best a distraction.

     God was like some movie star. Way out of my league. Like someone I could never be friends with because he traveled in higher circles. Going to church was like watching Him on a talk show talking about His new book, and thinking “wow this guy is really cool!” But when I tried reading His book, His intellect and style of writing was so far above and beyond my abilities as a young man, that I had to put it down in frustration. Sometime later, I heard that He was having a showing of His art work at the local museum so I went down to examine His art.

     I spent hours becoming intimate with His paintings and sculpture. I began to know the Creator through His creations. I could interpret His art much easier than I could His writings because I realized that people, I had trusted had already told me what the book was supposed to mean. So, I went back and read the book, now with an intimacy with the writer.

     All religious people I knew wanted things to fit neatly in a box. When I heard them talk about God it was as if they were just parroting lines, they heard other religious people say. As if they were just passing down information about someone that a friend of theirs knew. Having a relationship with the natural world released me from the box and gave me a freedom to look elsewhere for God. At least that was how I felt then.

     After dinner we accompanied our new friends out to their vehicle. Things went downhill from there. A flap of ceiling material hung down and waved with a slight breeze that blew by the truck.

     “What in the world”

     Ron reached in and pulled gently on the damaged area. I saw the open window and new immediately what had happened. I was horrified. We were so broke I couldn't even offer to have it fixed.     

     “I'm so sorry Ron, it must have been the bird.”

     Ron looked at me and I could tell he was still confused.

     “You left the window open.” I said pointing. “He must have gotten in there while we were eating dinner.”

     Libby noticed the open glove box.

     “My glasses are missing!” “Ron my glasses are gone!”

      Sharon groaned an embarrassed

      “Oh no! Libby I'm so sorry!”

    This was not good.

      We had just met these people and I already owed them a new ceiling for their truck and a pair of glasses. Sharon knew Llikdaor had several places that he would hide his treasures. She looked at me as serious as I have ever seen her.

     “Rob, you need to find those glasses!”

    I went off in hot pursuit of Llikdaors stashes. He flew along tailing me, knowing exactly what I was doing and thoroughly enjoying this game.

     The previous week I had to change a tire that had gone flat. I made the mistake of leaving the shiny lug nuts on the ground while I got out the spare tire. That was long enough for him to make off with four of them. I had to take one nut from each of the other wheels so I could put the spare on. Anything you had, he wanted. And if he thought it was important to you, he had to have it even more.

     If I caught him in the act before he flew off with his prize, I could just go pick up any little stone or leaf, hold it up in the air and exclaim “Oh Wow, look at this!” If I made a big enough fuss over the new item, he would drop whatever he had and come flying over and try to grab it out of my hand. I would throw it down and while he was going after it, I could retrieve the stolen goods.

     It was the same with getting the mail. Every day I was accompanied down our half mile driveway by our two German shepherds, Gator, Cheyenne and Llikdaor. It was usually an enjoyable and uneventful walk.... until we got to the mailbox. Llikdaor would fly down on the box and try to open it so he could get the mail first.

     Thankfully it was too smooth of a surface for him to grip. And he would get all worked up trying to maintain his balance while trying to open the door. Llikdaor would never acknowledge his limitations and everyday he seemed to get more intense and angrier about this situation. Being laughed at was not something he took lightly so I had to maintain my composure while watching his ridiculous antics. Eventually I had to take over and get the mail. Once I opened the door I had to act quickly and ascertain which was the junk mail so I could hold it up in the air and make a fuss over it like it was important. Then he would zoom by and grab it out of my hand. He looked ridiculous flying with a large envelope or flier in his beak but he was on top of the world with this new prize and especially happy that he was able to snatch it out of my seemingly unsuspecting hand.

     There was no denying it. Llikdaor was a thief. That was his nature, it was the nature of the whole corvid family. Crows, jays, ravens, and magpies. They steal. But there was no malice involved, it was a game to him. I could not change his behavior, so I learned to embrace it. But was always on guard or at least tried to be.

     Back in those days I carried a checkbook with me instead of a wallet. Inside the checkbook I kept my driver’s license and credit cards. I had to be particularly careful with this item because Llikdaor knew how important it was and I knew he was determined to get it. If it was anywhere in sight all his attention would be focused on that one thing.

     It was a little unnerving, because we were dealing with an animal with an extremely high intellect. Scientist that study this kind of thing put crows and ravens above chimpanzees in terms of intelligence. They have even been shown to learn how to make, and utilize tools, when executing one of their well thought out plans. We were not dealing with one of your common, run of the mill criminals here. He was a genius in the bird world, and not too shabby in our world either.

     I had no luck finding Libby's glasses in any of Llikdaors usual hiding places. So, we all spread out like we were in a search and rescue operation. Heads down walking slowly forward, moving grass and small shrubs aside with our feet, hoping somebody would see them. After a half hour or so, Adam did find them, in the last place anyone would have suspected. Only several yards from the truck, laying out in the open, on the driveway. Llikdaor looked on from the rim of the basketball net where he was perched. I could almost hear him ask...

 “And what have we all learned from this little experience?”

     We, of course, were humiliated. But our new friends were very gracious about the whole matter. However, when they drove away, I'm sure they were wondering why we would ever tolerate having a pet like Llikdaor. It was a fair question. One I am sure everyone in our family had asked themselves at some point. I would have been the only exception.

     No one knew Llikdaor the way I did, because no one spent the kind of time with him that I did. I spent more time with him than I did our human friends. These were difficult times for me as head of a house hold. I had risked everything by moving down here buying this property and building this house.

     For the first time in our married life, my usual “fly by the seat of your pants” attitude towards life was not working out. We had no money to speak of, and West Virginia was not exactly the land of opportunity. I was still a little shell shocked from my ordeal at the shelter and my enthusiasm for life was at an all-time low. So, I went for long walks in the woods with my three friends. Sometimes Llikdaor would ride along on my shoulder or follow, flying from tree to tree. Gator and Cheyenne were my escorts.

     There was a platform that somebody had built in the trees at the top of the ridge on our property. Probably a deer hunters tree stand. But it was larger, about 5 feet long by 4 feet wide.

     I would climb up and just sit, look around, and listen. I can't speak for others, but when I'm in a forest, something overtakes my spirit. A peace gently pushes its way past any perceived problems I may have had in my head, and my senses come back to life. I believe some of us, sub consciously dullen our senses when we live in modern society. We have too. Everything is chaos and out of order. And it shouts at us, we look at things we don't want to see, hear things we don't need to hear, taste food that is processed and unnatural, the air we breathe can be toxic, but somehow, we justify it all, so we can stay in the game.

     It is our greatest sin, it's revolting, and we commit it at a great cost to our true selves.

But here.... here everything is in perfect order. Here you learn quickly that when you pull on one thing, it's connected and dependent on something else. A grand design, where everything has purpose and beauty. The songs of birds float though the trees like a rising aria, the warmth of the sun on your skin soothes and relaxes, the sweet-smelling air that is drawn into your lungs, cleanses and rejuvenates. All your senses are overwhelmed, alive and excited. And your spirit? Your spirit is free. Free to be connected and dependent on everything created that gives you it's freedom.

Drugs, alcohol, and psychotherapy and even religion all have a part to play in this world, but are mostly used by people that have lost, or never had the ability to be connected in this way.

     I leaned back, my head resting against the trunk of this huge oak tree. Fifteen feet up into the forest canopy I looked down at our dogs sniffing around wagging their tails. Eventually they too would relax enough to lay down under the platform and wait. Llikdaor would fly down on the platform with me, sometimes he would bring a pine cone or small twig to try and get a game started of “see if your fast enough to grab this pine cone from my beak”. When he grew tired of winning that game' he would search all my pockets for treasure, untie my boot laces, or jump up on my shoulder and gently pull on my ear or hair. But sooner or later he would perch on my out stretched leg and put his head down.

     That was my signal to scratch his neck. He would slowly close his eyes and make soft, low little growling sounds of pleasure. It was almost as if he were in a trance.

     If I stopped to soon, he would take my finger in his beak letting me know he needed more. Eventually he would just sit on my leg with one eye open, seemingly relaxed. A rare sight to behold. I too, would close my eyes. It did not matter, I found I could see with my ears. A turkey somewhere close by, scratching in the leaves, a squirrel climbing, its toe nails dancing up the bark of a nearby tree, a blue jay streaking through the woods calling out an alarm, or just the steady rhythmic breathing of Gator and Cheyenne as they slept below. I saw it all. In the middle of the forest, along a ridge line, somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains four friends at rest, and at peace in each other’s company. All very different, but in this time and space all equal.