Written and photographed by Penny C.
It was in Septembre of last year, on a dreary day . . . It was the first time I saw him. He was squatting, balanced atop a mouldering fence post. The red raven, standing on the edge of a knife; the red raven, whispering his words, his secrets, his life. That was the day I discovered his true nature. It was only a matter of minutes, but they were like an eternity to me. How it must have felt to the force before me. I could almost smell his ennui.
And then he was gone, like he had never existed to begin with. The only evidence I could find was the fence post, now a pile of smoking coals.
I had questioned my experience, and it was years before I saw another expression of his existence.
But it wasn’t the same
The lustre and the shine had vanished. What replaced it resembled a wet dog. I saw a troubled man instead of that proud god. Ragged,tired, wearied, exhausted . . . All of the same words to describe the same thing.
I am afraid.
I am afraid because I have never witnessed the slow death of a god.
It troubles me, not because it is a death caused by human hands, but because it is a death brought about by the gods themselves. Perhaps even him. The gods, these forces . . . Existence relies heavily on their movements; their wars, their chaos, their peacemaking–all a constant struggle, a simple game of tug-of-war.
Where is order if there is no chaos?
The spider has dealt its last blow.
I am afraid because the gods want us to die. Everything. Nothing spared.
And I am afraid because the raven has allowed this to occur. He has lost his will to fight.