Raven
"PLOT! Plot, PLLOOOOTT!"
The raven plummeted from the sky like an arrow, spreading its wings at the last moment to arrest its velocity and alighting upon the top of my side fence like an ancient olden God.
"Plot!" it cried, looking me straight in the eye. I caught sight of one half-gray tailfeather amidst the glossy black and gasped. Birdy Steve!
This was one of my ravens, an adolescent who had abruptly left the flock, once part of the murder that I'd been taking care of for the better part of two years. They'd gone from wary to tentatively accepting under my diligent and timely distribution of sunflower seeds and unsalted peanuts, and once Birdy Pete had brought me some poor woman's gold ring among the usual trinkets and coins.
But nothing like this had ever happened. Until now.
"Plot." He croaked again, still looking me dead in the eye as he held his head in profile. The urgency in his cry was unmistakable.
As much as I wanted to dismiss the sound as just my brain playing tricks from avian mimicry, I knew what I'd heard. I opened my mouth and addressed him directly, feeling a bit foolish despite my senses.
"Uh. Hi, Birdy Steve. Long time no see. What was that?"
Birdy Steve hopped once on the top of the fence, then flapped his wings to traverse the distance to my shoulder. He was heavy. His talons gripped and prickled as his bodyweight shifted, and I was grateful my hoodie and the sweater beneath were both thick.
I tried not to think of what kind of damage his beak could do to my face if he got angry. As he leaned his head to my ear I instead began to think uncomfortably about how most birds carried lice.
"Plot, Plot!" He croaked, his voice a harsh whisper. "I bring tidings terrible and unjust!"
My mouth dropped open.
"A neighbor plots against you, my Lord. A plot most foul!" He continued, undeterred. "The Murder has taken tally and we are agreed; You are Friend of Ravens, granted henceforth the title and status of Lord of the Ground and Earthly Things. We shall aid you in your time need, my Liege, as you have aided us, for we are in accord and have become Friends to Man as well."
I stood there, slightly hunched under Birdy Steve's shifting weight, for probably ninety full seconds. But... you know what? fuck it, why not?This was a really excellent dream.
I opened my mouth to mimic Birdy Steve's old-timey cadence and diction in reply, maybe even ham up the whole 'my lord' bit. Such a wierd way to speak, like another cul-
I stopped myself just before I spoke. Shut my mouth again before I acted completely stupid. If I was suddenly a diplomat at the UN, would I mimic some foreign diplomat's accent and speech? Hell no. That's so rude. I'd speak normally, act respectful, and be grateful they bothered to speak in my language because I didn't know theirs.
Man, I was an asshole.
I turned my head and eyed Birdy Steve. He eyed me back, pushing his head and neck forward. He seemed to be totally fine waiting for my reply.
If these guys had language and could speak English that well, his name was probably not--
"Forgive me." I said, still looking him dead in one eye out of the corner of mine. "I didn't mean to offend you by calling you Birdy Steve. Do you-- What would you like me to call you? Do you have a title? Is-- may I ask your name?"
His eye bored into mine. I did not like that look-- I thought again of how easily that beak of his could ravage my eye. What his talons could do to my neck. He was right there.
"Wisdom." he croaked. "Wise, my Lord, to approach me as an equal, not some dumb beast." He cawed repeatedly. after a second I realized it might be laughter. "I am--" --he made three sounds, two mimicking water drops and the third a shrill cry that sounded surprisingly like a falcon. "I am, indeed, titled, Your Grace. You may also address me as 'Your Grace,' or Earl." He flipped his head and preened. "You have been a good and kind friend to me in the past, and so I shall allow you to call me Hunter. It is a human version of my name."
"May I know your name? I'm--"
He cawed in laughter again. "I know who you are, Patrick James Boole." Then he fell silent, boring into me with his gaze.
"It is not a trivial thing, the giving of one's name." He mused, softer now. Then, abruptly, "I am Hunting-In-The-Rain-Among-Marshes. Earl of Large Upper Cascade to Warm Black Rocks, chosen diplomat of Raven to Man." He dipped his head.
"T-Thank you." I said. "Your Grace." I was a little overwhelmed. It must have looked crazy, me talking to the bird on my shoulder, but he had such gravitas and sincerity when he spoke. The bird was incredibly charismatic.
(I was beginning to hope I was dreaming. The alternative was a psychotic break. Ugh.)
"So." I said. "What's this plot from my neighbor about?"
Earl Hunter ruffled his feathers. "The man called Christian Clemmens. He means to end your life and the life of your neighbor, Frances Hickman."
I froze.
"It is a dilemma of land." Hunter continued. "Man's affairs." He cocked his head at me. "Ah. You know of it?"
I'd had to fight three easement claims against my property from Mr. Clemmens in the last seven years. He owned eighty acres adjacent to my parcel of ten and wanted to run roads for the housing development he was building right through my property rather than pay the extra to the county for an additional connection to the highway.
"Oh, I know him."
Suddenly I was not so sure this was a dream at all. Or a psychotic break. If there was ever a man who was moral-less, able to kill, and lacked any and all scruples, it was Chris Clemmens.
"Please, Earl Hunter, tell me more."
