correspondence

Walter,


We have never met, and most likely never will. My name is Eugenia R. Cadbury (the R. stands for Redoubtable, don't you know, but I've never liked it. It's a lot of pressure, wouldn't you say?). I'll get right to the point, my dear, you must be awfully confused. I hope you understand that I was quite confused myself until very recently.
On second thought, I feel I simply must convey some terribly important context. I fear I may lose your interest, but it would not do to toss you headlong into this uncanny puddle. We'll slowly wade together first, shall we?
When I was very young, too young to talk and certainly too young to remember, my parents brought on a man to help with the grounds. My parents were quite well off, you see, but a touch lazy when it came to menial tasks. They preferred a quiet read, or a stroll. Personally, I find the menial tasks are the perfect solution to frayed nerves, but they were of a more refined generation. Mind you, I'm not so young myself any more. I'm afraid my customs would seem just as strange to you as my parents' were to me. I don't harbor the slightest bitterness toward my parents, you must understand. I hope I haven't given you that impression. They were kind and generous people, outstanding members of the community, and never turned down an opportunity to participate in vigorous discussion with one of their many guests. Guests who, unforunately, left little time for a daughter. They had started off well, as I am told; eager young parents looking after a healthy child. But, gradually, they lost interest, and the responsibilities of my care increasingly fell to Clyde, the groundskeeper. Completely inexperienced, he devoted himself to me almost as if I were his own, and I've always loved him for that. We became incredibly close. He was a young man when I was born, only 22. Later, when we were both a bit older, I learned how he had ended up with my parents. He was born in Germany, had a typical childhood, and then spent several months fighting reluctantly for the German army near the end of the war before deserting and making his way to England. He insisted he had never hurt anyone. He didn't like to speak of it much, but if pressed, he would joke that he'd done his part by wasting as much of the Nazi ammunition as he could lay his hands on. His name had been Heinrich Vertrauend, but he'd changed it to Clyde. I suppose he just didn't have a need for a last name. It still makes me laugh to think of him explaining why he'd chosen Clyde. He liked the sound of it, he said, the way it seemed unassuming and gentle. Vertrauend means confident, you see, and he never felt it suited him. Another grand burden of a name. I never particularly liked the name Clyde, myself, but I never had the heart to tell him, the poor dear.
He did not speak English very well. Oh, he could get his meaning across, but only with effort. It was worst when I was too young to know English well, either. My parents, liberal as they were with my care, stood firm when it came to languages. Under no circumstance was I to learn German. No Cadbury yet had needed to learn a foreign language. It would be an insult to hundreds of years of family tradition. So, my dear, sweet Clyde made a language that he and I could share. Now please, my patient Walter, please understand that I will not share it with you, in whole or in part. I trust you will not be offended. To help me remember the names of the objects in my daily experience, he would fashion nametags for my accoutrements, telling my parents these labels were a system of organization. Though recent events may have further skewed memory's already-tarnished lens, the tag I remember most was bent, by Clyde, around the foot of an injured young raven that had been abandoned in the yard. Clyde had taken him in and cared for him. He let me choose the name, of course, and, when I had, he affixed the anklet, etched with the name. When the bird was healthy enough, we released him. Other than a passing remark every so often, we thought no more about him.
About five years ago, Clyde passed away. His last five years were miserable, he was not himself and could hardly leave his bed. He would occasionally rage at some invisible force, and when that mood hit him, he was inconsolable. I had time to prepare myself for the inevitable, but losing a lifelong friend is never easy. You are too young, I sincerely hope, to truly understand what I mean. But, let us not dwell on the sadness of an old woman, hmm? The exact night Clyde retired from his suffering, I began to have vivid, coherent dreams. These dreams were continuous, each one carrying on from the end of the previous. They were not every night; sometimes there would be a space of weeks between them. The form was always the same. I had a distinct sense of myself, but had no form. Floating disembodied in a dense fog, I could do nothing but listen to the narrative that proceeded in crisp, clear words, not one of which I have forgotten, even across the span of these two years. Walter, this is the most vulnerable I have ever been. I have never told anyone of this, and if you do not believe me, as crazy as I may sound, I could never forgive myself. Here is the first, verbatim. If this makes no sense, writing to you was a grave error.

Several hours before my impending death, lying immobile, wrapped in a blue hand towel stained with grease, on the cold cement floor of a dim garage, I was given the name Here-lies by a group of four well-intentioned but ignorant boys.
They had cautiously picked me up from their local high school grass, laughing at each other for being scared to touch me. It was sunny, as afternoons there tended to be, with an undisturbed blue sky. I lay exiled and broken in the shade of a pepper tree that had been recently and extensively pruned. The faint smell of sawdust and gasoline lingered. The lack of low branches disappointed the boys, who were intent on climbing. As they challenged one another to ascend, a sudden gust of wind grabbed my limp wing and twisted me onto my back. I made a feeble noise, a simple reaction to the pain of motion and not intended to attract attention. In fact, I had wanted them to leave me in my miserable solitude. But the suddenness of movement from what they had assumed was a corpse startled the boys, and they were too young to resist their adrenalin-fueled curiousity.
They returned with me in the trunk of their car. As they closed the lid, the darkness leaked from my feathers and stained the air around me. I inhaled several shallow breaths. I loathe self-pity more than any other emotion, but, lying there captive, I lost hope. This was not what I had planned for, and I could see no way out.

After many more, similar dreams, I was able to piece a story together. It seems, you see, that the same raven I remember from childhood was escorted from his physical form in your parents' garage. We two provided the bookends of a life neither of us knew anything about.
That life, I've found, was worth knowing.
After Clyde and I released our young avian friend, he was able to rejoin his unkindness (that's what I've learned a group of ravens is called. Dreadful, isn't it?), and they accepted him. He was first of his generation to master flying, he was even able to fly upside down for seconds at a time. I certainly woke up impressed when he told me that. His prowess extended to everything he did. Because he was not arrogant and was patient and caring, his demeanor won him the respect of his peers and elders. When opportunities for leadership arose, he was tacitly and unanimously appointed, and he never shied from the burdens his community placed on him. Listen to me, I sound like a proud mother. I suppose years of hearing his calm voice at night pleading to be understood, never boasting, may have biased me a bit, but I suppose you could say I am proud of him. Is that so bizarre? I'm too old to care; I'll let you decide. Regardless, and despite his natural abilities, his life was not easy. It is a simple task for those of us who are not subject to the elements, who have gardeners to tend our yards, to forget what it means to live unprotected in the world. His unkindness, because he was so generous and skillful, came to rely on him for nearly everything. He didn't mind the burden, of course, and dispatched each request with the same good-natured dedication he applied to everything. I could never respond to his voice in my dreams, I could never ask questions, though I dearly wanted to. How could he bear it? I wanted to know. Eventually, he shared his secret with me. When he was captured by Clyde, very early in his life, he was terrified. He could hardly breathe, and every muscle was tense to the point of twitching. I could hear the fear in his voice. I wanted to comfort him, tell him that Clyde hadn't meant him harm, but I couldn't. Eventually, his voice regained its calm, and he explained how he had never forgotten how he felt then. Whenever something frightened him, he thought about his anklet, the innocent nametag that Clyde had given him, and he pushed his fear into his foot, knowing that he'd already survived much worse. He imagined the nametag cutting the fear off, isolating it from the rest of his body, and he'd feel better. After that, he said, he wasn't afraid of anything. He eventually learned to control other negative emotions that way: his bitterness, anger, grief, reluctance. Nothing affected him if he didn't want it to. It was not without its dangers, this method. He told me how, with each episode, his foot would feel heavier. Not much, you see, but as the days went on, he could tell. It would not respond as quickly to his desires, and its quiet ache gnawed gently at the edges of his consciousness. Eventually, his foot swelled so that he could hardly stand. There was no more room for his shreds of cowardice, and at the exact time he realized this, he was called upon to chase away another hawk from the territory. He couldn't do it, he was frozen with fear. He could only watch desperately as the hawk took a fledgling from its nest. I remember waking up suddenly when he told me this, sobbing. I didn't hear from him again for an entire heartbreaking month. When I did, he told me how he had been exiled from the unkindness he had done so much for. Mistaking his fear for malice since he'd never been afraid before, they decided he had no place with them. He was devastated, and spent the next week slung in the branches of a tree, immobile. He didn't care to find food, didn't care if he expired entirely. He had no idea what to do, with a swollen foot and no home or friends. The week passed in a blur of despair and confusion. But, unnoticeably, with every negative thought, the swelling in his foot decreased. By the end of the most miserable week of his life, his foot had returned to its normal size, and he was feeling hopeful again. He began eating again, and when he was healthy enough, he picked a direction, and flew for miles. He soon ran into another unkindness, smaller than his old one. They were wary at first, but warmed to his affability and dedication. He stayed with them for a year, earning their respect, and again taking on the burdens of the community. His foot had gradually gotten larger again, but this time he knew what to expect. He left, suddenly and unannounced, and recuperated for another miserable week in anonymity. He told me of many such cycles, flying from one community to another, making his way across oceans and barren stretches of land, running into hostile groups who chased him away immediately, the traveling didn't sound pleasant, believe me. Eventually, however, he ended up on a high school lawn in El Cajon, California, recuperating from a few months of bravery and selflessness. When you and your friends took him home, and noticed his swollen foot, you wanted to help. He knew that, and doesn't blame you. But, when you tried to relieve the swelling by lancing his cyst, you broke the barrier on which he had come to depend. He couldn't recover.

Strange, wouldn't you say? Certainly a strange reason to receive a letter, I can understand you must be a bit taken aback. However, our common link requested to me, in a dream, that I find you and tell you his story. Never mind how I accomplished this; as I've said, my parents were quite well-off, and with their fortune I inherited a wide network of influence. But don't let this frighten you, I know nothing but your address. The method of delivery, however, was supplied by my dream-narrator, who instructed me precisely where to leave this letter. His messenger will also deliver to you the anklet, which he would like you to keep. I see no reason to doubt it will reach you. It's all a bit exciting, really.

Sincerely,
Eugenia

middling

Hello to you,

The plaintive cry faded as I continued walking. The bird didn't follow me. Once I was out of earshot, the innocent encounter slipped my mind. I left Stockholm, I left Sweden, I came to Edinburgh. In Scotland, a great many miles away. En route, I met an Iranian-Swedish woman who, with only a little effort, spoke English. She had lost her job of 16 years to a slowing economy, and needed a sympathetic ear. I was born with two incredibly large ears, I am sympathetic sometimes and had a seat in her row. She thought I was older than I am. I knew that I was not, but did not correct her. I said goodbye to her when I caught my connecting flight, during which I slept dreamlessly.
I walked between the bus stop and my apartment, wondering how old I could pass for if I spoke with unblinking confidence.
"I am 33." That might work. Especially if unshaven for several days.
"I am 41." A stretch, but if my conversational companion was drunk enough, perhaps.
I had a small yellow backpack draped over my shoulders with everything I needed for the five day trip. I travel light. Unpacking was easy, and so was resuming routine, which I did. Quickly, and for several days.
A few nights later, my wanderings with drunken friends took me to a location whose name I will conceal to protect its reputation, but to which I have travelled before. I mention this incident for two reasons. The first: to mark down, in some form, the words that, guided by sweet Chance's loving hand, drifted into my ear that night. Upon my trip to the restroom of this establishment, I was confronted with a large, jovial Jamaican man. This man was not a patron of the restroom; he was a porter. When the time came for me to wash my hands, I stepped lightly to the sink at which he stood. There was not much space, and I had to actively avoid his swinging bulk by dipping to one side or the other. He punched the faucet on with a practiced flair and exclaimed, "Come on! Wash your hands." These words he spoke jovially, eyes half-closed above a large smile. Then, he began to sing. A lighthearted, almost-mumbled, bouncing refrain. His accent thickened his words in the air, and by the time they reached my untrained ear they were an unintelligible syrup. As I ran my hands under the water, and as he commenced the third repetition of his entreaty, he meted out my quota of liquid soap. And finally, the identity, meaning, and futility of his words sloughed the last drop of accent and sparkled clearly in my ear. I did not mishear. "Wash your hands. Freshen up. Freshen up with pussy juice." Pussy is slang for the female genitalia. I doubt its juice is sanitary. I didn't want to freshen up that way, so I dried my hands and declined his offer of a spray of cologne. After placing a twenty-pence piece on the tray of assorted coins that he showed to me, I left the restroom. Is this a common practice? Is it an enticing offer? Is he a strange and insane man? The second reason I relate this story: to give a sense of the distance my mind was from swedish birds.
And so, when I came home for the night and stood alone at my window watching the impending sunrise, I was more startled by the bird than I might normally have been. My window ledge is not wide, it is roughly carved stone tinted green from centuries of mist and rain and wet. And suddenly, the bird was there. Perched on the thin strip between myself and the expansive volume of the city. Same black head, same white body. Unmistakeably the same. I stumbled backwards and fell onto my bed. Seated, our eyes were level. She shook, and her ruffled feathers gradually settled back to their indistinguishable smoothness. "Well. Hello," I almost whispered, having only barely regained my composure. Two minutes passed, and I calmed down. The city beyond and below was devoid of other living things, the shade of blue in the sky changed only subliminally, the clouds hovered in place. Nothing moved, and even time seemed to stop.
The bird shuddered and ruffled again, this time twisting her head to jab her beak underneath her wing, like birds do. When her head snapped back from its awkward angle, she had what looked like a feather clutched in her beak. Small, white. Ceremoniously, and with a slowness that made the movement seem unnatural, she bowed down and released it at her feet. It sat there with an unexpected weight and solidity, and I realized it wasn't a feather at all. It was a tight roll of parchment. I reached for it but hesitated, my hand stalled by disbelief and caution in midair. The bird moved her head in a deliberate bird-equivalent of a nod and stared straight at me. "You're right. Why stop now?" So I picked it up, and unrolled it.
The paper was thin, but not brittle, and contained words, written in English with a compact, steady script. Lots of words. And the first one was my name, with a comma after it, like this: 'Walter,'.
I said to the bird, "Bird. This is starting to be weird," and she responded with her unfazed stare. The stare did not let up even momentarily while I read the remainder of the letter. Only when she was sure I had finished did she move at all, and when she did it was quick. She retrieved a small metal band from somewhere beneath her feathers, set it down, turned, and plummeted off the ledge. Quickly, as if she were never there to begin with. I wasn't interested to see where she flew, so I remained seated and picked up the circlet she had left behind. Scuffed, tarnished, scratched, with the symbols SY46 stamped unevenly around its circumference, it was cold to the touch, and much lighter than it looked. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Until the tide turns,
walter