Corvus The Crow



  CORVUS THE CROW

  An ancient star myth

  Copyright © 2011 by Mary Rae

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  It may be hard for us to believe, living as we do in a cramped little universe of concrete, unclean air, and rivers thick with sludge, but once the world was a beautiful place. Geologists confirm that the earth was made up almost entirely of white mountains rising out of sapphire seas, and we are told by zoological experts that golden sheep grazed on hillsides where the lightest rain could make strange flowers bloom. Imagine a paradise so large that it took almost forever to go from one place to another, and paint, for a moment, serenity on every face, and in every tree, an elegant bird! It doesn’t take much more to conjure peacocks lounging in lemon groves, and pheasants lining every stream, sipping at their leisure. It was a beautiful world, and there were even enough crows to brighten the endless night sky—for crows, at that time, had silver white feathers that caught the starlight and shimmered it down to earth as they flew. They all sang sweetly in those days, but one crow among all could make the sirens themselves weep with envy. His name was Corvus.

  Even when Corvus was very young, everyone whispered that he was destined for the stars. His elegant demeanor and his musical gifts were unmatched, yet Corvus was delightfully modest. It seemed only a matter of time before he was noticed, before his singing, “ti-ah ti-ah, kiri-ti-ah,” pierced the heavens and brought down a rain of godly favor. It was Phoebus Apollo who first spotted Corvus, and after watching him for some time, he made Corvus his messenger.

  Such a job was not to be taken lightly, for a message from a god was occasionally an important matter. Corvus quickly proved himself equal to the task. He easily memorized messages and made all his lines, no matter how poorly written, sound like poetry. He could even trill perfectly after a journey through rough weather. Apollo also found Corvus to be indispensable in delicate matters. He could deliver a missive into the plump palm of a young goddess without anyone noticing. Everywhere he went, Corvus was complimented on his work, his good looks, and his voice. “Surely, this is a bird fit to live among us!” exclaimed the minor deities while primping in a mirror. And the mortals below would grow faint at the sight of him and sigh: “Life here is short, but look! The beauty of heaven lasts forever!”

  At first, Corvus took such praise in his stride. But later, after an eon or so, this daily dose of oohing and aahing began to work its way into Corvus’ system, initiating subtle but significant changes in his brain and nervous system. His vision was affected first. Little by little, the gods began to look different to him–– smaller and plainer somehow. Then Corvus’ ears were affected, and Apollo had to call him two or three times before he would answer. Next, Corvus became hypersensitive to touch and shrank from admiring caresses, muttering to himself, “How dare they?” And finally, there was a curious alteration in his senses of taste and smell so that his usual fare of thistles and berries sickened him, and he could think of nothing but the luscious fruit laid out on Apollo’s table. At night before he fell asleep, he had visions of dripping pomegranates, purple grapes, and sticky figs. It seemed he was always hungry.

  Apollo, at this time, was very busy with the nymph Daphne, and hadn’t yet noticed the dark seed of longing that had planted itself among Corvus’ glistening feathers. So naturally, he thought nothing of sending Corvus out one golden morning to fetch some water from a pure mountain spring. He handed Corvus a silver-handled cup and said, “Don’t be long, trusted messenger.”

  As Corvus flew off, he marveled at how small Apollo looked from the air. Even his robes looked a little shabby. The journey wasn’t a long one, but Corvus soon grew tired and hungry. “Red, sweet pomegranates!” he mused. “Succulent nectarines!” He was on the point of swooning when he realized he had reached his destination. But as he circled over the spring, a sweet fragrance welled up, drawing Corvus aside and down into the branches of a large fig tree. He let the cup fall to the ground and was about to pluck the first tasty morsel when a breeze shook the tree. Corvus shivered and remembered Apollo. “Oh!” he cried. “Apollo will turn me into a horned toad if I am late!” But then, the breeze stopped and sunshine fell in heavy waves through the branches, giving Corvus new courage. “These figs aren’t even fully ripe!” he whined. “Apollo wouldn’t eat green figs…why should I?” And so he resolved to wait a while.

  Corvus dozed off, and time slipped away as quickly as the little spring below. He dreamed he sat on a high throne made of chinaberry branches. He looked so elegant and sang in such flute-like tones, “ti-ah ti-ah, kiri-ti-ah,” that all the gods bowed down to him. And everywhere, as far as he could see, were fig trees heavy with golden fruit. They were all his! His!

  Suddenly, the breeze rustled the branches and Corvus awoke, momentarily confused. “What am I doing?” he cried. “Apollo will turn me into a worm if I’m late!” Corvus spread his wings for flight, but the scent of ripening fruit glued him to the spot. He saw fat, juicy figs clustered on every branch. He would have eaten one, too, if he hadn’t remembered that Apollo always waited until the fruit was so heavy it fell from the tree. So why shouldn’t Corvus? After all, if he was as fine a fellow as everyone said he was, then he certainly deserved the best.

  Soon, Corvus was dozing again in the late afternoon sun. He sat again on a throne and surveyed a world covered with fig trees shimmering in the sun. He gazed down over the heads of gods and thought how sickly and insignificant they looked. “Not one among them has a voice like mine! Not one has my finely chiseled profile! Ti-ah ti-ah!” he mocked loudly. “Kiri-ti-ah!”

  Suddenly, Apollo rose up before him, scowling and unaccountably gigantic, and all the earth trembled from shore to mountaintop.

  Corvus woke up startled on the ground. The wind had shaken him from the tree.

  “What a silly dream!’ he laughed, smoothing his feathers. “Apollo’s not half as big as that, and he could never be angry with me!” A brisk wind blew over him, then was gone. “Well, he might speak rudely to me when I get back….but what of it? I have my own life to live!”

  Corvus then proceeded to feast on the tender, bronze-colored figs that now dotted the grass all around him. No god or goddess had ever eaten a more delicious meal, but Corvus could not be satisfied. He ate and ate until every single sugary fig was gone. He began to feel very ill and, in his weakened state, became suddenly fearful.

  “It’s almost dark!” he shrieked. “Apollo will poof me into a wretched, spindly spider!”

  Quickly, Corvus grasped the cup in his claws and and scooped up a measure of pure water, but he was so anxious that he spilled a thrid back to earth.

  “What am I going to do?” he worried as he fluttered above the spring. He knew he had to come up with some excuse––any excuse! Just then, a little water-snake caught his eye. That was it! He would tell Apollo that the snake had tried to keep him from filling the cup. Corvus swooped down and caught the unlucky passerby in his beak, and holding the cup in his claw, flew as fast back as he could to Apollo.

  Apollo stood waiting for him, looking taller and broader than Corvus could ever remember. He frowned deeply at Corvus, twisting his massive face first this way, then that. Corvus meekly set the cup before Apollo, and told his story as convincingly as was possible under the circumstances. Apollo was not impressed.

  “Corvus!” he boomed, shaking the ground” Your silvery feathers once shone like a crystal stream in a dark forest, but now the stream is lost in darkness! At once, Apollo flexed his right arm, and Corvus was instantly painted black from head to tail.

  “Ti-ah!” cried Corvus nervously. He tried to collect himself. “This silky black tail is not entirely unbecoming, I must admit,” he thought. “But now, as Apollo well knows, no one will see me beneath
the moon. And I will catch no starlight! No starlight at all! But most troubling of all is why he makes me blend into the night. Why? What is he up to?”

  “And your song,” continued Apollo, “once rose like the laughter of children playing in a meadow. But the meadow is parched and brown. And the children are all gone! Gone!”

  Apollo then flexed his left arm, transforming Corvus’ pleading “ti-ah” into a hoarse, crackling screech.

  “Craw! Craw” he called out. But Apollo would not be moved. With one flick of his little finger, he sent Corvus spiraling upwards, above the white roof tops, the poplars, the snowy clouds, and into the starry heavens themselves, next to the constellation of Crater, the Cup. He then told the water snake to join Corvus, and to make sure that he never got close enough to drink from the Cup. “Never!” he roared.

  “Craw! cried Corvus mournfully. “Craw craw craw! Look at me now!” But when all his sister and brother crows looked up at Corvus, shimmering black like the cave of night and studded with stars, they thought him more beautiful than ever and begged Apollo to let them be painted black too, even if it meant losing their lovely voices. Apollo obliged, and a white crow has scarcely been seen since.

  Ages have come and gone since Corvus was first pinned to the heavens, but there is little agreement as to whether or not the punishment fit the crime. Many, admittedly, are pleased to think of Corvus eternally miserable, longing for just one sip, and dreaming of his golden, sweet figs. Some, more humanitarian in their outlook, argue that his fate was unduly harsh. Still, they are reluctant to blame Apollo, pointing to the crushing effects of power gained too early, and the terribly psychological burden of having famous parents.

  There is no end to the arguments on both sides, but in recent years it has been the scientists who have thrown the most light on the matter. Only last October, a prominent astronomer announced her exciting discovery. It is no longer a question of crime or punishment, she asserts, but mere what is. She studied the sky with the world’s most powerful telescope and reports, incredible as it seems, that Corvus smiled when an earthling looked up at him a sighed:

  “Life here is so short! But look! The beauty of heaven…lasts!”

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  Mary Rae is a writer and translator whose book, St. John of the Cross:Selected Poems, was originally published in 1991 by Longwood Academic, and is now available in a revised, illustrated version. Mary was editor-in-chief of Romantics Quarterly for several years, having taken over from founder, Kevin Roberts. Her poetry has been published in many journals, and her poem "Season" won first prize in The Raintown Review's 2001 poetry contest. Ms. Rae is also an artist, and a composer of contemporary classical music, and her compositions may be found on her site: maryraemusic.com. To view some of Mary’s art please visit www.maryraeart.com A native of Virginia, Mary received her BA cum laude from Boston University, and she now resides in South Florida.