The Little Silver Raven

This story began with three runes drawn at random: Tiwaz, Kenaz and Perthro. I looked at them, waited for the first image to appear, and followed what happened next.

There are some things one ought to know before following a waterfall.

The first is that waterfalls are considerably taller when viewed from the bottom.

The second is that rocks which appear perfectly respectable from a distance become rather less so when one is required to climb over them.

And the third is that ravens should never be ignored.

I discovered all three of these things on the same afternoon.

I had been standing on a collection of enormous boulders beside a river, looking up at a waterfall that seemed to have begun somewhere in the clouds.

It wasn't particularly wide. That wasn't what made it impressive.

It was long.

Impossibly long.

The water came pouring down the face of a high rocky mountain, disappearing occasionally behind outcroppings before appearing again farther below, until eventually it crashed into the river not far from where I stood.

I was on the right bank, looking up at it from an angle.

That was when I noticed the raven.

He was flying back and forth in front of the waterfall.

At first I assumed he was simply doing whatever ravens do when nobody has bothered to give them a role in a story.

Then he flew across the river.

About halfway up the mountainside stood a tall pine tree. Its upper branches were thick with needles, but the lower half was rather bare. The raven landed on one of those exposed branches.

And looked directly at me.

I looked back.

He cawed.

Then he launched himself from the branch.

As he flew toward the river, something flashed beneath him.

Silver.

He was carrying a little chain.

There was something hanging from the end of it, although I couldn't see what it was until he flew closer.

Then I could.

It was a raven.

A tiny silver raven.

The raven carrying the raven flew out over the river.

And dropped it.

"Wait!"

This was not useful.

The silver chain fell into the rushing water.

Except it didn't sink.

I am aware that silver does not float. The river was apparently unaware of this.

The little chain was caught immediately by the current and carried downstream. Then another current caught it and swept it sideways across the river.

Toward me.

I watched the tiny silver raven bob along through the water until, with astonishing precision, it came to rest among the pebbles at my feet.

There are moments when one should ask questions.

This was not one of them.

I climbed down.

The boulders were considerably more difficult to navigate than they had looked from above, and I made my way rather inelegantly toward the river until I could squat beside the water.

I reached in.

The water was shockingly cold.

My fingers moved through little stones and coarse sand until they found the chain.

I pulled it from the river.

The silver raven dangled beneath my hand.

It wasn't a necklace.

It wasn't a bracelet.

The thought arrived whole.

Pendulum.

I looked up toward the pine tree.

The raven was still watching me.

So I did what seemed appropriate when meeting a magical object delivered by a bird beside an impossibly long waterfall.

I introduced myself.

"Thank you for coming to me," I said.

The little silver raven hung motionless from its chain.

Then I asked, "Would you like to work with me?"

I held the very end of the chain between my fingers so that the raven could move freely.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then it began to swing.

Back and forth.

Then in a circle.

Counterclockwise.

Then diagonally.

Then clockwise.

Then another diagonal.

It swung one way and another, changing direction with such enthusiasm that I started laughing.

The pendulum wasn't answering my question.

It was playing.

So I sat down among the rocks and played with it.

Before long, we had invented a language.

Or perhaps the pendulum already knew the language and was patiently teaching it to me.

There was yes.

There was no.

But there was also yes, but.

And no, but.

This seemed considerably more useful, since very few interesting questions have answers consisting entirely of yes or no.

Sometimes I would ask something and the pendulum would become completely still.

"You're not going to answer that one?"

Nothing.

"Do you not have enough information?"

Sometimes it moved.

Sometimes it didn't.

Other answers were annoyingly cryptic.

I would ask a question.

The pendulum would answer.

I would frown.

"That's not very helpful."

The little raven would continue swinging as though the inadequacy were entirely mine.

So I would ask another question.

And another.

Slowly I discovered that the problem was often not the answer.

It was the question.

I had to go deeper.

I had to discover what I was actually trying to ask.

Once I did, the little silver raven seemed perfectly happy to answer.

We stayed beside the river for a long time.

Eventually I became tired.

The air had grown colder, and my clothes were damp from the spray coming off the river. Clouds had gathered above the mountains while I wasn't paying attention.

Then it began to rain.

Apparently even conversations with magical pendulums must occasionally be interrupted by weather.

I stood.

High above the river, the raven suddenly appeared again.

He circled once.

Cawed.

And flew away.

I watched until I couldn't see him anymore.

Then I tucked the silver raven into my pocket.

Fortunately, I didn't have far to go.

My house stood just a little way uphill from the river at the edge of the pine woods.

It was a small stone house with a thatched roof.

Nothing grand.

Inside, however, a fire was merrily dancing in the hearth.

There was hot soup.

There was a little bed with a warm blanket.

And now there was a silver raven in my pocket.

I stepped inside and closed the door against the rain.

There would be more questions tomorrow.

Probably better ones.

The raven, I suspected, would approve.

Still asking questions,

laura

About the Process

This story began with a divination tool, but not in quite the usual way. I drew runes, cards, or another form of oracle and, rather than immediately interpreting their traditional meanings, simply looked at them and waited for the first image to appear. From there, I followed whatever happened next. One question at a time. What do I see? What happens next? What does the bird do? What's behind the door? No planning, no correcting the peculiar bits, and no trying to steer the story toward a sensible conclusion.

The result is a kind of conversation between divination, imagination, and intuition. I never know where the story is going when it begins, and I deliberately leave open the question of where these strange little worlds come from. The important part is following the thread until it seems to have reached its end. Only afterward do I return to the original runes or cards and consider what the journey might have been saying.