The Servant of The Morrigan

I think I stood there and stared at the dead raven on the sidewalk for at least a minute. It was lying there like the gods struck it down mid-flight because it was a rogue and vagabond agent of The Morrigan. It was like they thought that it strayed away too far from the battle due to blindness. They couldn’t have it wandering off and picking up some random person on the street to take with them.

Imagine walking along and just being plucked up by a small blind raven and being taken to Valhalla.

Anyway, they, meaning the gods, thought it strayed away from the battle too far to this neighborhood in this city.

“Is there no battle here?”, I thought.

For some reason, I felt compelled after standing there over it for the minute it took me to concoct the story in my head of its demise, to bury the animal. I knew I should act swiftly if I was going to do it because it would be dark soon, and while I call this neighborhood my home, I don’t like the idea of being out in the dark of these streets.

“Off the path, are gods not infallible; they must have misjudged the instincts of their servant.”

I won’t bore you with the details of death and the burying of the fallen; except to tell you that I took the best care for the creature and myself in that moment. I found a piece of land that I hoped would stand the best chance of remaining undisturbed for as long as possible for the prescribed peaceful rest, and I placed it there.

I made it back to my home as the sun was setting into a beautiful bed of lavender and pink as the streets turned dark.

That night in the city, I ate dinner and watched tv, and I heard not so distant gunshots. I heard screaming from that direction. Then I heard more gunshots from the south to compliment the ones I heard from the north.

“Is there no battle here?”, I thought.

That night I went to sleep, and I dreamt of a raven. It came to my window and tapped its beak on the glass and spoke to me; asking me to come with it because it wanted to show me something. It assured me that it could hold my weight, and I climbed on its back and off we flew.

They told me their name was Everett, and that they appreciated my care of their discarded vessel. They told me that my assumptions were correct that the gods thought he had strayed away on his mission due to blindness and that is why he was struck. He told me that he explained to them what he saw and that he thought the battle extended here to small bands of soldiers roaming the streets of the city.

He was aiming to assist the effort, and that the gods had no idea as they were too busy with the larger issues to even bother with these.

I saw the world as I heard it from the shelter of my apartment.

I saw the gunshots. I saw the bodies. I saw the police and ambulances. I saw the crying people. I saw it from the north, the south, and in all cardinal directions.

Everett knew what he was doing there. He was not blind.

He told me that if it was any solace to me that at least the gods were sorry they struck him down, and as soon as possible they were going to give him a new body to work with; he only asked that in return for my kindness that he may give this gift.

He could give me little gift for my kindness but the knowledge that at least on some level my assumptions were accurate.

Everett returned me by morning promising that I would remember our trip; that he had planned to make sure of this.

In the daylight I woke up and got ready to start my day, this involved getting dressed and walking to a local coffee shop with the best dark roast in town. When I left the building, I realized he was correct that I would remember our outing.

Overnight a small garden of dark red roses and daisies had grown over the spot where I had buried him.

The battle is everywhere, and this is the memorial.