The Raven, the Mole, and the Battle

From directly above, the horses look like rivulets of water. They glide around hills and slide in and out of little cavities in the earth. They flow as a group, more horses than I’ve ever seen together. The men atop these horses bounce and jostle, filled with restless energy. Many of these men adorn themselves with bright red patches. From a distance these patches appear like shiny trinkets, the sort I like to collect.

Everything is still wet from a storm last night, the sun barely pokes through the misty clouds, horses kick up clods of mud here and there. The trees lost their leaves many days ago, and the chill of early winter hangs in the air. What brings so many humans so far from their cozy villages and welcoming fires? What summons them in such large numbers?

I first spotted the host this morning, with the sun still low in the sky; so many men riding so many horses. I’ve been following them ever since: circling and following, occasionally finding a perch to watch the multitude drift past.

The flock elders taught me to fear humans, even though they’re not the strongest animals, or the fastest, or the best at hiding. For humans possess curved sticks that can slay a bird without ever getting close. When I was still a fledgling, a flock elder took me to where the humans practice with those sticks, hurling missiles with speed and power over great distances. They instructed me to take flight the instant I see these instruments of death.

Several of the horseriders bear such sticks slung over their shoulders, yet I do not flee. Even when one of the men glances up, grabs the shoulder of another man, and directs his companion’s attention my way, I do not flee. The two men share a nervous laugh and point at me. I think they fear me. I barely fear them at all.

For when this many humans gather, they aren’t thinking about little birds like myself. When they bring their horses, they seek a bigger prize. They’re hunting something that requires more men than I can count, bearing deadly sticks of all kinds, sticks of metal they call iron. I’ll stay at a safe distance as I circle and follow, but I am not afraid.

The horseriders stop when they arrive at the edge of a valley. I cease my circling and claim a position on a high ridge, perching myself on a barren tree, the tall sort that bears deliciously bitter seeds in spring.

The men unfurl crimson sheets atop poles, to match the crimson markings on the bodies of the men. These banners look like huge autumn leaves on the end of oak tree branches. I like them. So many animals don’t appreciate pretty things. These banners are pretty.

Across the valley, other men and horses assemble, armed with similar implements of death. These men bear emblems of soft green, like moss, on their bodies, a sharp contrast to the crimson, like each group of men mark their territory through color.

The crimson men lock eyes with these green men. Every face I see is angry or grim. These two sets of men hate each other.

I wanted a little excitement. Last night we had the rain, steady, not so much as to flood the tunnels. That steady pitter-patter excited my brain, and I thought maybe we could have a little more excitement today. Maybe a troupe of beetles would pass by, or we’d find a cache of worms. Or we’d hear a family of deer or sheep pass by above. Something to break up the monotony, you know?

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should be content with my children, they’re my third brood but unique and worthy of attention. I wish I had time to tell you about them, but there’s something above, many somethings. I didn’t want this sort of excitement. Not the scary kind.

Because there are many animals in the valley. They’re large, not too close, but close enough. They’re stamping about, I try to count the steps… but there are too many.

Are they looking for our home? Do they mean to harm my children? I was not meant to fight, but I will if I need to. Please don’t make me fight to defend my children!

The young ones squirm. Their ears aren’t sharp yet, but they can tell there are too many vibrations. I shall calm them, touch their squishy little bodies gently. Let them know that they are safe… are they safe?

Little Ooli, the most active, tries to burrow under me. She squeaks. She asks me why there is so much noise. She asks me what she’s done wrong to deserve this.

“Nothing, nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong. And nothing is wrong, little one,” I reply. But I don’t know, I’ve never felt anything like this, never known so many large animals to be in one place. They can’t be hunting. There can’t be enough food around for so many, even if they eat grass, even if…

I sense a change. Whatever is above, their stamping takes on a rhythm. They are lining up together, coming into alignment. Will they invade the tunnels? Will they churn the earth to find us with their powerful feet?

The briefest pause, then hell.

They charge! I’ve seen horses gallop before. I’ve laughed at how they attempt to match the speed that birds accomplish with ease. But I’ve never seen anything move like this. It’s like they were a single animal, a great mass of brown, undulating muscle, sliding across the valley like a muddy deluge.

The spots of crimson, on the clothes of the men and their banners, rise and fall within the great mass like spots of blood on a dying beast taking its final, heaving breaths. And across the valley, the green men do the same. Their foreheads tense in concentration and rage. They careen towards each other, and lower great trunklike poles, sharp to a point. What will happen when those points meet at such speed?

Do they intend to kill one another? Do they mean to flood that valley with their dead? Humans don’t eat other humans? Why would they do this? Why? Why?

The force rattles every bone in my body. It feels like being crushed, like my burrow has come down upon me, flattened me, annihilated me. I can’t even hear my children, but surely they are squealing. Surely I am screaming. How long can this last? How long?

The cacophony recedes. I glance down at my brood. They are stunned. They shake slightly, but only Ooli makes a sound, a soft, pitiful cry. I try to move to kiss her lightly on the head, but I drift off to the left. The infernal noise has shaken my mind. I can barely control myself.

I close my eyes and cover my ears with my large flat paws: good for digging, good for blocking out. I can’t help my children if I can’t control myself. I must find control.

There is only black. Darkness is safety. Silence is safety. It’s like from before any children, or mates. I have no responsibilities. No one expects anything from me. It’s just me with my own siblings, with our mother nearby, comforting us. I am safe.

I hear little Ooli. I am covering my ears but I still hear her mewling. I lower my paws. The large creatures above… I can still hear them, but they are far away. They sound like rain, like the pitter-patter from last night.

The red men and the green men crash into each other! They meet in the center of the valley, the sound is like thunder, like a great tree cracking in half! I should turn away! The sight is horrible, spasms of death painted across the valley. I can barely tell where one horse or man begins and the next ends, so densely they fight and die, swinging their blades of iron.

Should I flee and tell my flockmates? They say that, if I find death, I should seek them out such that we might share, such that we might all feast together. But I can’t bring myself to open my wings, can’t bring myself to do anything but watch.

They are farther away, but still within the valley. I feel the vibrations. If I concentrate I can hear cries filtering in through the tunnels. These cries are not so different from those of my family. I don’t know what these creatures are, but I pity them.

My children lie still, so stunned they are calm. They cluster together by my side. Within minutes their hearts slow, they are peaceful. Soon they are all asleep. Oh, to be a child with so little knowledge of the world, they think the danger is past. They think that their mother will protect them. But mother doesn’t even know what the fearsome animals on the surface are!

A strange thought takes root in my mind: I should go see! I should gaze across the valley at these interlopers. My children would surely like to know what they are, in case they must face these loud animals when they grow older.

We’re not meant to be curious. We’re meant to stay safe, to stay underground. My parents told me. But sometimes knowledge is safety.

My eyesight is not good, but they sound so big, so numerous, that surely I’ll be able to see something! It will only take a minute. My children will be safe.

As I shuffle through the tunnels of my home, new sounds trickle down to me. They sound like “Clang! Clang! Clang!” and the cries of the animals are strange, intricate in a way I can’t fathom. They ripple through the tunnels down to me.

I approach the dim sunlight. I poke out my nose. I glare across the valley that’s been the roof of my home for most of my life. What strange creatures must await me.

I stare across the valley at a dark, swirling mass, like tasty worms. But they make so much noise. All those cries and shouts, and that insufferable “Clang! Clang! Clang!” And then the smell wafts over me, the overpowering smell I know so well! The smell of life and death!

I know that smell. It’s the metal that they call iron. And it’s the smell of the liquid of life and death: blood. They’re the same smell, mixed together and multiplied. There must be iron in blood, or blood in iron. With every clang, iron on iron. With every slice and gash, iron on iron. With every bloodied blade, iron on iron.

They turn. The red men turn around, their faces full of fear. The red horses turn. They flee!

The cries grow louder. The smell grows stronger. They are screaming. They are coming for us! They scream as they come for us!

Every red banner has fallen to the ground. They held them with such pride, with such confidence. In flight they abandon all but a desire to survive. They rush back the way they came. The horses froth at the mouth. The men’s eyes grow so large I can see the blood flowing!

It is fear I smell: mine or theirs? It is blood I smell: mine or theirs? I see red in that great, dark mass. My eyes are not strong, but I can see red.

Red. Red. Red. Iron on iron on iron.

I rush to my children. Why did I leave them for even a second? They should not have to hear what is to come. I pull them close, so close they surely won’t hear the frantic pounding echoing down on us.

Green pursues red across the valley. I force myself to look away. The cries of the men and squeals of the horses sound so desperate, so pitiful. Some ravens revel in the sight of the dead. I don’t. I hate it. Why did I follow the men to this valley of death? Why?

Over many terrible moments, the screaming recedes. When I turn to face the valley again, the battle is over. The valley is stained red, but not the bright red of the emblazoned men, the dark red of their end.

The men that remain all bear green. They whoop and smile. They breathe heavily from the exertion. They didn’t kill these other men for food, but for dominance. I suppose many animals do that sometimes. Perhaps what I witnessed is not so strange.

One man in green notices me, points me out to his friends. They mumble something in their deep human voices. One raises his iron blade and smiles at me. He’s thanking me. He thinks I’m an agent of death who delivered victory.

I should go. I should fetch my friends.

The violence above is over. Animals still tramp about, but they are calm. They are not seeking my children and I. Familiar scents drift down slowly into the tunnels. I hear the trickle of blood, that familiar scent is now a comfort. Whatever predators lie above, whatever horrible deeds they performed on this day, they have all the food they’ll ever need. They won’t hunt us.

My children sleep. I’ll stay awake as long as I can and watch over them.

Then that strange feeling from before: a desire to know more. Surely it would be safe to poke my nose out one more time. To see what sort of creatures these are now that they are close.

My flockmates doubted my story, but none would miss a chance at a free meal. Now we’re circling high above this valley of death. I’ve never been so fascinated by a tableau. How many men lie dead on the ground? More than I could ever count.

I gaze into the scene. Why do I try to see when smell and sound tell the whole tale? I peer into the light above… a dark shape high in the sky. Bird… fear… eagle! But no, too small, too dark. Circling, but surely more interested in the dead. Or perhaps just curious. Just curious, like me.

My friends have all landed. I’ve never liked carrion, so I’ll circle for a bit longer. I notice movement. A mole pokes up from a hole in the ground. She gazes into the open air and wiggles her nose. Can she see me with those tiny eyes of hers? What is she even looking for? Perhaps she’s just curious. Curious like me.