The Kindness of Ravens

I surveyed Acute Ward B22 - the air assaulting me with the taste of
stale antiseptic and something indistinct, indefinably foul - it was
the odour of the unwell. The hum and rattle of the archaic heating
system kicked in and following on I heard the inhuman cries of the
patient's in the other dormitory as they came to life. It would
thankfully be time for their medication soon, I reassured myself.

Outside the window dusk settled on the huge monolithic building that
made up this part of the hospitals complex. On the other side of the
brook was a blackened tree, as I squinted I could make out four ominous
shape's - crows or worse still Ravens I feared. The bird of ill omen
sent perhaps in warning or punishment. I tried to ignore the paranoid
ramble of thoughts that pulsed through my brain uninvited, but then
struck by deep pain in my gut I almost buckled over. Sweat dripped from
my forehead, the taste of illness gorged my mouth. A drape around the
bed gave me cover as I pulled it around the bedspace. Clambering under
sticky sheets, I needed sleep - but felt so, very weak. Perhaps the end
was soon after all.

It must have been my third day on the ward, when Edgar appeared.
Sometime after midnight I lay sweating and shaking under the polyester
sheets, tossing and turning, writhing with pain as my tender and
enlarged liver endeavoured to expel the toxins that had accumulated
during the year long bender I'd just come off.

First of all, I was startled from my mithered state, pulling off the
drenched sheets and turning the dribble stained pillow over when I
heard the noise from the window. Had something come in? - I couldn't be
sure. Was I in some state of delirium, as my brain reacted, clearing
the alcohol out but becoming unstable as the battered neurotransmitters
rebelled against the cleansing in toxic cell revolt?

I heard it again, a gentle tapping, a yielding rapping coming nearer
and nearer. Enveloped by fear, I turned over closing my eyes in vain
attempt to ignore the persistent almost rhythmic knock. I feared the
worst that is was one of those auditory hallucinations that pounce on
the withdrawing alcoholic before the advance of the DT's, a precursory
step before the insanity. Death often resulted if the condition was
left untreated; I'd seen it happen before. It was at the Salvation Army
hostel that gave me refuge for a couple of weeks two years ago and the
old man who shared the room with me. I noticed something was wrong when
he began trying to eat the shapes from off the carpet and mouthing
inane doggerel in between his slobbering sobs. As I alerted the
corporal, the poor bugger must have had the cardiac arrest and by the
time the ambulance arrived, he was dead - yellow and green foam coming
out of every orifice.

I feared for the worse, but at least the hospital was the safest place
for me to be. I could be rushed back upstairs if my worst fears
materialised. I thought of death, it didn't seem unwelcoming at this
very moment though, perhaps my time had finally come - it would be a
relief. Seven years of hell had got me here and I was sick of the
fight, too scared to live but too scared to die.

The rapping ceased to abate as I buried my head under pillow, becoming
closer and closer - now at the bottom of the bed I could sense
movement. Bracing myself I got ready to pull the emergency cord and
alert one of the auxiliaries or duty nurse to come to attend. A moment
passed, but as I looked at the clock I realized that an hour or so had
elapsed. I must have blacked out again. Looking upwards to the curtain
rail at the end of the bed to my surprise I noticed it, a huge menacing
looking bird, a Raven. Yellow eyes blinked, as he shuffled his perch, a
brief flap of wings and then he croaked.
"Hello, John. Squawk, Squawk. It is a pleasure, nay honour to meet,
squawk - you?"
My heart was racing, nausea and fear gripping me simultaneously I tried
to shout something out to alert the nurses. Nothing happened, I was
paralysed with fear as the bird spoke to me again.
"Don't, don't, squawk - be afraid. My name is Edgar the Raven. For many
years I have come to the assistance of the needy and hopeless. I advise
and ameliorate, coach and croak. Sometimes it's just for a flying visit
if you excuse the pun, helping poor orphaned children and the like, or
assisting with unspeakable revenge on the cruel and the wicked.
However, in your case John, I'll probably be with you for sometime
judging by this terrible state you're in."
This time I managed to get my words out and string together a couple of
shaky and broken sentences.
"Have I finally gone mad? You're a talking, fucking bird - in all my
days I have never heard of such a preposterous notion - a fucking,
talking bird!"
"Yes," my tormentor squawked back, "I'm sorry if I have caused you any
unnecessary alarm. Whatever you do, don't tell the nurses or the
doctors about me, as you'll be heading for a section. For the most part
other humans can't see me or hear me only those in need of the kindness
of Ravens. You John, you must realise, fall firmly into this category
though, you were almost at death's door and for once you need to accept
my help, as I'm afraid there'll be very little chance for you. Squawk,
squawk! Will you accept my offer?"
I lay back in the bed, whilst the beady bird eyes followed me. Was this
real? I pondered intensely for the next few seconds. After all, I was
on an acute psychiatric ward; this type of thing was probably
commonplace. I'd been lonely and bored since I was admitted and I
suppose that the Raven's presence was some comfort, some company for
me. I'd have to accept this, or probably end up biting my tongue off in
the grip of the horrors.
"OK," I acquiesced, "I really do need some sleep though. Can you help
me there?"
"Of course," said the Raven and then before I could say another word
he'd fluttered off. Surprised and stupefied I found myself in a
befuddled daze, but seconds later he was back at my bedside dropping a
couple of green and white pills next to a paper beaker.
"Nitrazepam, or Mogadon's to you," it uttered. Take one now and the
other later, I've just managed to procure them from the medicine
cabinet - they'll help you sleep today. No more after that though, as
they're addictive. After that, we need to start making plans on sorting
out all the terrible mess you've made in this life of yours, I'm,
squawk, afraid."
I grabbed one of the pills and then washed it down with the musky water
from the beaker. As I pulled the sheets back over my head, I heard the
Raven cry something like, "Sleep tight, little dreamer." A minute or so
later, I dozed off into the deepest sleep I'd enjoyed for months.
Waking more refreshed and relaxed, a nurse had brought a tray of food
for me; ham and broccoli quiche, with spotted dick for pudding and a
carton of fresh orange. It must have been weeks since I'd eaten a good
square meal but now it seemed that my appetite had returned with
vengeance. I devoured the meal, but carefully removed a few of the
strips of ham, when my feathered friend returned I'd offer them as a
gift. Those pills he'd got me were fantastic. The clock struck quarter
past seven in the evening. The bird had not returned and I began to
wonder if the whole thing had not, after all, been some kind of dream
or delirious episode.
Half past eight and then I heard the rapping, the tap a tap tapping on
the window once more. "Let me in John," the Raven croaked and I leant
up over the window catch and let the bird fly in.
"Looking better aren't you. How are you feeling?" it said with some
concern.
"Much better thanks. I've even managed to keep some food down. Look
here - I even saved some for you!"
I placed the strips of meat near its beak and at once it delightedly
tore at them swallowing the strips down its gullet in between
squawks.
That evening Edgar and me discussed my options and helped me plan what
I was going to do when I finally left the hospital. It was the wards
review on Thursday just a couple of days away with Dr. Samba. I knew
for myself that if I continued to recover he'd probably discharge me.
My problem was self-inflicted in most ways, unlike the poor
schizophrenic and manics that populated the ward for the most part. If
I could finally give up drinking my problems would probably dissipate,
the dilemma I faced was whether or not to tell Dr. Samba about my
meeting with Edgar. Was some kind of bird delusion common for those in
my state? If I told him I feared that he'd think me really crazy,
genuinely mad, mad and maybe he'd drug me up with depot injections of
Thorazine up my bum and keep my in some kind of padded caged
cell.
The night before the review I considered my options again. Edgar, it
seemed could not only speak but had telepathic abilities and accosted
me fiercely about this.
"Oy! John," he croaked out, "what did I tell you about not saying
anything to the hospital staff about our little liaisons! If you tell
that Dr. Samba he'll really think you've lost the plot. Just tell him
you feel fine. Listen, the longer you stay on this ward the more
mentally ill you'll become. Madness is contagious in my experience, you
need to get your arse out of here as soon as possible."
Apologetically I agreed, who'd believe me anyway? Edgar even pecked me
on the cheek just to prove that it wasn't a dream. As I was getting
strong I seemed to be getting all my faculties back and was more
rational than ever since I'd ceased polluting my mind with drink. OK,
it was weird having the feathered beaky one around but he had been
great help. I'd tell the Doctor I was fine and hopefully by Thursday
afternoon I'd have left this godforsaken ward.
Thing went to plan and after I was discharged, I went to the council
housing office in search of emergency accommodation. During the last
few months I'd failed to keep up with my mortgage and had my house
repossessed. Not forgetting also the myriads of debts I'd had on my
credit cards, car loans and overdrafts. Just before my admittance to
the ward, I'd been sacked from my job for my persistent drunkenness and
bad attitude and so basically I'd now have to claim for state
assistance in order to survive. I mentioned all these problems of
course to Edgar, to see if he could impart any advice.
"Don't worry," he looked at me as squarely as he could with his beady
bird eyes, "I'll look into it for you. Have hope, I'm sure together we
can sort it out. Squawk, squawk, squawk!"
The afternoon pent at the housing office was awful. Disgruntled people
passing in and out, sometimes shouting obscenities to the beleaguered
staff. I waited for ages before being ushered into a back office, where
by a friendly official took down my details.
"Well, Mr. Oates - I'm afraid all I can offer you is a place in
Nightingale Court which is a hostel for the homeless. Not the most
salubrious accommodation in the world, I'm sorry."
I was about to accept the offer, if with some degree of apprehension,
but before I could say a word Edgar appeared at the window.
"Tell him that you're an alcoholic in recovery, John. You can't
possibly go to that hostel with all those druggies and piss-heads.
Quick - tell him, man!" the black bird crowed.
I then explained my grave situation to the man. He listened attentively
and then after beamed.
"Well, Mr. Oates I think today might be your lucky day. There is one
place in a special controlled environment for alcoholics in recovery
it's not run by the council but I know the staff that work there. If I
can tell you in confidence a few years ago I had very similar problems
to yours and I found the staff that run this project very, very
helpful. The rooms and living space they have are wonderful, it will be
like staying in a five-star hotel, they only condition is that you
remain totally abstinent from alcohol and drugs. They'll piss test you
every morning, but if you're committed this could really be a chance
for you to make the break away from your old ways. I pity the poor
bastards that have to go to that hostel. Often you find people who
aren't that damaged moving in there and months later they've
deteriorated beyond any help whatsoever."
He made a couple of calls and then wrote down the address for me. I
thanked him profusely for all his help and then as I was leaving he
shook my hand, "Best of luck Mr. Oates. I'm sure you can do it!"
The move into the secure accommodation went reasonably smoothly. The
guy from the housing office was right; the rooms were lovely, nicely
decorated and the other people that lived in the bedsits and flats
supportive and helpful. Most of them had been where I was at
themselves. It was a thousand times better than a hostel, however and
for that I suppose once again I had to be eternally grateful for my
feathered friend.
Over the next few weeks and then months, things began to gradually
improve. Edgar, of course, was my ever-present companion for most of
the time. Forever advising me and admonishing me when he felt I was
becoming complacent or arrogant. On one occasion, when thoroughly
pissed off with something or other, I resorted to buying a 3 litre
bottle of White Flash cider. I sneaked it into my fridge to let it
cool, but when I returned I found it empty, the contents had seeped out
from a beak-sized hole at the bottom. Edgar had, bless him, pecked a
hole in the bottle and when he found me squawked and crowed and croaked
his disgust.
"That's another mess I've got you out of bird brain!"
All I could do was to agree. On financial matters the Raven was a great
help. His knowledge of the investment market and stocks and shares
seemed inexhaustible. I made several investments on his advice and as
sure as sure is they all seemed to pay off handsomely.
Edgar was also both a prolific and discerning reader. He would often
sit up late until the small hours with me discussing anything from
Shakespeare to the romantic poet's, contemporary literature and the
beat writers. Often, he would start talking about famous figures from
the twentieth century - it was almost like he had known them. When I
questioned him further though he would soon dry up, looking as
embarrassed as a bird could possibly look.
One day, I decided that I could move on from the place where I was
living I was strong enough to cope independently again now, especially
as I would have Edgar ever present by my side.
On the day I was leaving, I bade my farewell to the staff and other
tenants. I then went back to my room to pack the last of my
belongings.
Edgar was there, perched on the windowsill. I sensed he was uneasy for
some reason.
"Well then old partner, you're moving on. You've done well, you're
financially secure now and thanks to the people here and to me, if I
might thank myself, you seem to have overcome your horrendous addiction
to alcohol. It has been a long road, but you've come up trumps. I must
say it's not always a happy story like this; I've had many a friend die
on me before. You see you have to really hit rock bottom before a Raven
comes, generally."
"What's up, Edgar?" I asked, but I knew deep down now in my heart of
hearts that he was trying to tell me he was leaving me.
"The time has come for me to leave, John. There are many more poor
souls that, squawk, squawk - need my assistance."
I couldn't be sure but was that a tear I could see rolling down from
his eye and onto his beak?
Holding back the tears and emotions myself I managed to speak, "Well,
Edgar, I really have you to thank for my life. How can I ever repay
you? It's funny but they always say that Raven's are birds of ill omen,
how far can you get from the truth!"
"Thanks, John - I've enjoyed spending these last few month's with you.
It's never been easy, but it's a rewarding part of my job leaving you
ten times the man that you were. Remember, keep off the drink and watch
those investments!"
"What will happen now? Will you ever visit again?"
"I'm afraid, squawk - not. Anyway you need to start mixing more with
your own kind once again. Talking birds aren't really the best
companions for life. Find yourself a mate, or girlfriend if that's what
you call them. You can lay lots of eggs - sorry, squawk I mean have
lots of babies
together&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;.I
must fly off sharp now though. As I said there are a lot many more
people I need to help, but as always it has been a real pleasure,
squawk, helping to sort you out John! I must go now, squawk! Goodbye
John, please take care!"
With that the bird flew off, disappearing into the sunset - it was the
last time I was ever to see him.
My life had improved no end, my confidence had returned and it was
strange to think that I couldn't have even imagined where I was at now,
without the assistance and guidance of my beaked friend. Occasionally,
down the bottom of my new garden, I try and converse with the pigeons,
or the sparrows, but to no avail.
A few years passed and Edgar it seemed was now nothing more than a
distant memory. I had my own family now, but was still so grateful to
the Raven for helping me to finally realise some happiness.
One brilliant summer day whilst on holiday with my wife in the Lake
District, I noticed four dark shapes nestling in a confluence of burnt
out trees.
"Look," said my wife, "Look at those great big black birds. Ravens
aren't they? It's funny but they call a group of Ravens hanging out
together like that an 'unkindness'. They are some evil looking birds
though!"
I said nothing; already I was walking faster and faster down towards
them. In my bag I took out some beef sandwiches and then carefully
removed the meat, throwing down towards them. I told my wife to wait up
at the top of the hill and I tried once again in vain to make
conversation. Just as I was turning to go though, I heard squawks and
croaks and then something that sounded like ",Thank you, thank you for
the meat. Edgar sends his regards, John, squawk, croak, croak!"
I turned and one of the Ravens seemed to wink at me with his birdy
beady eye before flying back up into the branches, fervently
crowing.
So the next time you ever come across an 'unkindness' of Ravens, please
remember if it wasn't for the very kindness of these birds, 'the
kindness of Ravens' - I may not be here today.