The Magick of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root) by April Aasheim Page B

china plate.  
    I pulled the curtains fully open, chiding myself for being silly.  
    It was then that I noticed it: the large, black shape hunkering on one of the branches. It leaned forward when it saw me and spread its massive wings. The bird screeched, a sound so terrible it should have shattered the glass.
    I fumbled backwards, tripping over a shoe on the floor.
    “Aunt Dora!” I called out in panic. “Paul! Eve!”  
    The bird flew to the window, beating his wings and tearing its talons across the glass. It was trying to get in.
    “Someone. Please! Help!”
     

     
    “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Eve said as Paul scooped up the dead raven with a dustpan and the side of his shoe. “It’s just a bird. We live in the woods, Maggie. You should be used to them by now.”
    “Not this one,” I said shivering. Though I could see my breath in the cold, morning air, I wasn’t shivering because it was cold. “This one wanted to get to me.”
    “Want me to bury it here?” Paul asked, presenting me with the carcass.  
    I shook my head.  
    If it were up to me, I’d have thrown the thing in the river, but Paul insisted that every living creature needed a proper burial, even the horrible ones.  
    “In that cluster of trees,” I said, pointing to a spot near the side yard where I rarely ventured.  
    He took the raven and a small spade to the designated site.
    “It was horrible,” I said to Eve, recalling how the bird had beat itself to death on the window. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    “You need to get a hold of yourself.” Eve’s eyes followed Paul. “You’re so jittery lately. And with all our other problems, a bird should be the least of your worries.”
    We watched as Paul dug the grave and buried the creature. When he returned he said, “Maggie’s fear isn’t irrational. It’s part of the collective unconscious.”
    “The what?” Eve and I asked together.
    “An information system passed down from generation to generation, almost like instinct. In many cultures ravens symbolize impending doom or even death.  
    Eve puckered her lips. “That doesn’t bode well for us. Dark Root’s full of the damned things.”
      “Ravens are also considered tricksters, masters of deceit and illusion.” Paul’s cobalt eyes flashed and he raised a finger. “Some say they are keepers of secrets, and not all of them good. So, in a word, Maggie should be worried, if she were the type to look for signs…which I think she is.”
    “Or,” Eve said, handing Paul a small bottle of Purel from her purse. “He was a stupid bird who ate a bad worm.”
    “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “The last few days I’ve been seeing them everywhere. This one was just more aggressive. Maybe Paul is right.”
    “Ravens don’t fly south for the winter,” Eve pointed out. “Of course you’re going to see them. I see them, too.”
    I pressed my palms together, wishing I could make Eve understand, but there was no getting through to her unless she experienced something for herself.
    “How do you know so much about ravens?” I asked Paul as he escorted us inside. “You a closet bird watcher?”
    “Nope. Just always had a fascination with Poe after I saw a few old movies with Vincent Price.”
    “Poe? What’s Poe?” Eve asked.
    “Only the greatest horror writer, ever,” he answered as he handed Eve her cashmere gloves.  
    They were heading to work and I was tempted to ride along so that I wouldn’t have to be here alone. Aunt Dora was visiting Miss Rosa in the nursing home and I had no idea when she’d return.
    “We weren’t allowed to read Poe,” I said, smiling at the irony. “Mother thought he was too scary.”
    “Well, you missed out. He was the Stephen King of his day.”
    “And he wrote about ravens? Sounds kind of dull, if you ask me.” Eve brushed through her hair with her gloved fingers then checked her reflection in the living room mirror.  
    Paul nodded.