Once upon a time, when he had grown tired of the rural doldrums, a raven came to town. The raven was named Glib-Wing-Grave, in the ternary manner that his kind so often favours. He possessed cold, white irises which stood in stark contrast to his uncommonly black plumage, and he was largely known, at least amongst ravens, for falling out of a tree in his youth.

On the day the Raven announced his departure for the city, the local Unkindness of ravens met to convince him otherwise. The city was no place for country ravens – it would cripple him, corrupt him or consume him whole. Normally, news of a departure would have barely ruffled the feathers of the Unkindness, but they had recently begun to focus on improving poor public opinion and they could ill afford to ignore such idiocy.

“Are you not frightened,” they asked. “Of the hanging vines which snare and shock the feathered folk? Nor fearful of the tall, limpid trees that halt our flight?”

“Nay,” said the raven. “For I shall be as wary as a mouse and as watchful as a hawk.”

“Ah,” said the Unkindness. “Do you not then fear the cunning fox that hunts the city streets and the terrible owl that stalks its skies.”

“Nay,” said the Raven. “For I shall be as swift as a deer, and as agile as a cat.”

“Oh,” said the Unkindness. “But how will you contend with the ravens that have flown before you? Those who have learnt guile and trickery by the false lights of the city. They who would take advantage of your inexperience; they who would see you fail?”

“I will be as brilliant as the midday sun, such that they cannot deny me,” said the Raven. “I will be as relentless as the river rapids, such that they cannot ignore me.”

At this the Unkindness was silent, for their words already fell on deaf ears. In truth, as valid as their fears were, they proved to be of no consequence. The Raven would fall prey to something far greater, and far more terrible. Something no Unkindness could have predicted. When the Raven arrived in the city, he fell madly in love.

Whether in city or forest, farm, field or dale, love is wonderful and cruel magic indeed. It is the fickle flame that gives and takes in its own measure. And long after it is gone, and other, newer fires have been lit, its embers remain to spark some tortured memory of that which was, and no longer is. But the Raven was yet to know these things. All he knew was that in the failing light of dusk, when magicks such as love are apt to take hold, he saw the woman.

And that was that.

The Raven could not say how or why he was so delighted by her step, her voice and her ways. Just that they brought him pleasure. His love was as yet too young to see faults and a small part of him hoped that this was because there was little fault to find. But even he knew that this was unlikely. Humans are flawed beings, such things are in their very nature. Still, a month passed … then two, and yet his love for the woman did not waver. He did not tire of shadowing her through the street by way of wing, branch or brickwork. Nor did he grow bored of standing sentry outside her workplace by day and sleeping in a tree beside her window by night. Not even the unrequited nature of his love appeared to concern the Raven. Had the woman – she the object of his distant affection, not been so distracted, she might have been concerned by this near-constant ominous presence. Perhaps even terrified. But she had met someone recently, a newcomer, and her observance of voyeuristic birds had suffered as a result.

At first the Raven barely noticed the newcomer. But as the days dripped into weeks and weeks into months, the woman’s routines began to change. And the Raven was not pleased by this. He found himself waiting outside restaurants and cafés by day and sleeping in an unfamiliar tree, far from an unfamiliar window, by night. The Raven now followed in the footsteps of two, with a heart that hung heavier and at a distance that seemed greater. He grew sullen and bitter and began to blame the newcomer – this charlatan, this trickster. Who was he to hold her in such fashion, and to look at her thus? Who was he to elicit such laughs and to cause her to smile so? The Raven’s heart darkened, becoming as black as his coat And he plotted and schemed against the newcomer.

He orchestrated a campaign to be fought by proxy so as not to sully his own claws and beak. A Chattering of mynas were talked into depositing their refuse on the newcomer’s car. The mynas were unfocused and easily distracted, but their numbers so great that after four days, the newcomer began travelling by bus. The Raven saw this and was pleased. A Company of cockatoos were then arranged to engage in a fierce debate outside the newcomer‘s apartment. But their racket attracted too much attention and they were eventually dispersed by a band of frustrated residents. And just as negotiations had commenced with a particularly violent Tiding of magpies, the Raven noticed something strange. The woman was beginning to draw away from the newcomer.

The Raven watched the newcomer plead with her in the park as she winced and shrugged. Then he saw the newcomer outside her apartment, drunken and dishevelled, then embarrassed and apologetic and bearing flowers. And then he no longer saw the newcomer at all. Things went back to normal and the woman returned to her old ways. The Raven was pleased.

One day, the woman saw the Raven peering into her window and smiled at him. His chest swelled as she moved across the room toward him. Here was his chance to confess, to speak the words he had wished to for months on end. His breath caught as he heard her speak a soft greeting. And as she opened the window all thoughts of Unkindness, doubt, fear and bitterness seemed to seep away. She looked at him almost expectantly and still she smiled.

The Raven opened his beak and cawed loudly.