The Book of Damon

By B. R. Laue

It has been one hundred and seventy-five years since man landed on the moon and technology has been marching backwards ever since under the seven global regimes. Now a plague, the fourth wave, is poised to sweep over the planet. Can an ancient formula preserved inside a body of knowledge known only to a lineage of ravens save mankind? The Book of Damon explores the linguistic and psychic bonds that must develop between species who each have an ultimate stake in saving mankind from the pestilence and from itself. The first book in the 'Raven's Cry' Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. R. Laue
• Release date: Feb 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780997341997

B. R. Laue

B. R. Laue (1951-) was born in Worland, Wyoming and moved to Las Vegas, Nevada when he was 12. A graduate of the University of California, Berkeley, with majors in Anthropology, Linguistics, and Philosophy, he has been employed in the financial services industry for forty years and owns a Registered Investment Advisory firm. His detective series, The Steve Cannon series of novels, is set in Las Vegas in the mid-1960's. The first book in the series: 'Vegas Wash' won an award in the 2017 Kindle book contest and the second book: 'A Song for Desmond' won an IPPY award in 2018 in the Mystery/Detective category. The Steve Cannon Series won an IPPY award for Best Fiction Series in 2019. He is also the author of the 'Raven's Cry Trilogy'.

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Copyright 2019

Brandy Hill Publishing

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher except for purposes of review.

This is a work of fiction. All of the character renderings and names as well as the place names of physical spaces are all fictional.

ISBN: 978-0-9973419-8-0

Brandy Hill Publishing

P.O. Box 1202

Morgan Hill, CA 95038

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Cover design by Sandy Laue

For Sandy, my

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER ONE

The ravens brought him bread and meat each morning and evening and he drank from the brook —Kings 17:6

Calvin Michaels was shaving when he heard the voice for the first time. It seemed as if it traveled the breadth of his skull, entering one ear and moving through to the other, and though it sounded the same as if he was speaking to himself, it possessed a strange reverberation and produced an echo effect that lasted for several seconds after the words themselves had faded away.

You could have said something, you could have made a difference.

He heard the same phrase three more times during the day, and when he returned to his small first floor apartment just after six, he felt strangely calm and unaffected from the rigors of the day. He opened the short squat refrigerator and mentally ticked off his options for dinner, the last one being a trip to his favorite bistro three blocks away. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small blue booklet. Only two ration tickets left until the first of the month. He pulled the lone can of beer from the bottom shelf, crossed the room and slid the glass door open, strolling out onto the round brick patio and standing in front of a short row of neglected rose bushes untrimmed in the cool setting of the January sun. He did not see the shadow as it moved over the patio behind him. He pulled one of the black wrought iron chairs out from under a round metal table and sat down, crossing his legs and shuffling the chair around to let the last sun rays fall on his face before they disappeared behind the stucco wall.

She was there again today. You could have taken some of the pain from her.

Calvin sat bolt upright in the chair and looked around the small area. It was several seconds before his gaze fell upon the large raven perched on a small, bare fruit tree in the corner, half hidden by the shadows.

*

Damon stretched his wings straight out from his powerful body, his shiny blue-back pin feathers catching the early morning light as the sun peeked over the snow covered ridge behind him. The morning breeze ruffled the soft hackle feathers at his neck as he gazed into the distance at the tiny black specks that wheeled through the frigid morning air. They were closer than they were yesterday and as Damon watched, three of them peeled away from the main group and gaining altitude, began carving a path toward his perch. Damon swept his wings down swiftly to his side and launched into the cold air, streamlining his body through the wind and closing the distance by half in just a few seconds. The three smaller crows panicked and diving as one toward the ground sliced back through the bewildered flock and were half a mile away when Damon flew over what was left of the scattered gathering. He slowed as he saw the three drop down into the upper branches of a tall spruce tree that was one of several in a small stand on the snow covered northern slope of Hangmans’ Mountain.

Damon flew by pretending not to see the three interlopers huddled quietly together midway down the conifer. The city dump gang out for a free meal at the expense of the Ravens of the Valley. He circled quickly around the mountain and dropped down silently from the sky, alighting on a large branch just above the trio. One of the interlopers was facing his direction and stopped chattering, falling silent. A few seconds later the other two noticed and turned their heads completely around, one of them hopping backwards on the branch from fright. Damon gazed impassively at the smaller crows.

Carbini. You are far from your garbage mounds. What happened? Did the seagulls run you off again? The biggest of the three, but still half the size of Damon pushed the frigid air into his breast and stood as tall as he could.

It’s a free country. Just taking the birds of the year out to see the sights. Carbini lifted his beak as if he saw something of interest high up on the mountain and assumed an unconcerned pose. Damon moved several inches closer on the branch as the other two crows retreated the same distance.

And the elk carcass. That was not on the itinerary? Carbini gave up on his pose and joined his companions near the trunk of the tree. He attempted to regain his pride by flaring his wings as he spoke.

Everyone knows that the Ravens of the Valley share their food, especially when the snow lies thick on the ground. Damon’s deep brown eyes closed for a second as he rose to his tallest height.

The Valley Colony shares with those who are neighbors and who share their meat in return. The garbage trucks come each day, the snow lies thin on your filthy mounds.

Your father thought differently and were he still alive we could roam as we will. Damon cocked his head to one side, the slick stiff feathers on the back of his neck standing up slightly at the mention of his father.

You left of your own accord when you gave up your territory to the Hooded Ones. Now you are disagreeable about the past and demean yourselves fighting over scraps of food under the arches that are gold. Damon looked out over the white wasteland. Your friends have gone. If you leave now you will be rejoined before they reach the landfill. Damon took several small steps backward on the thick branch. The two smaller crows seized the opening and dropped straight down toward the ground swooping along the freshly fallen snow, their pointed wing-tips sending up small white puffs as they glided quickly out of view around the side of the mountain. Damon watched them go and then turned back to the lone crow.

Do not fly over the yellow river again. Carbini gazed once more at an imagined object on the hillside and feigned deafness. He ducked his head down quickly and pecked roughly at a small pine cone near his clawed foot. When he had it firmly in his sharp beak he cawed loudly and leapt into the air. He circled over the tree and then followed his companions into the unbroken whiteness beyond the mountain.

Damon watched him disappear over the crest and then left the tree, flying in lazy circles as he gained altitude on every circuit. The sun was beginning to warm the air and the first thermals of the day rode under his wings that worked almost effortlessly as he rose far above the frozen terrain. Damon rolled lazily onto his back and flew several hundred yards upside down before he folded his wings for a few seconds and tumbled toward the ground in a freefall. A half mile above the mountainside he righted himself and glided toward the edge of Four Mile Forest and the frozen elk carcass where the colony would already be eating the morning meal.

*

Damon dropped softly from the brittle branches to the edge of a snow-filled fountain in the center of the round patio. He turned his head slowly in both directions before he stared straight ahead at the man sitting at the table five feet away.

The woman who lost her son in Tunisia has worked beside you for four years. She deserves your comfort.

Calvin stared at the two foot high bird for several minutes as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing. He had seen ravens before and even tossed food to one at a campsite when he was a child, but the close proximity and the recurring thought that the bird was talking to him unnerved him. He looked away and took a large gulp of the beer, swallowing it in several installments. He turned his head slowly back and looked at the raven who hadn’t moved and was still staring intently across the small space that separated them. Calvin slowly raised his left hand a few inches above the surface of the table.

How many fingers am I holding up?

Two.

And now?

Three. The can you are holding in your right hand says ‘Old Pale Ale’ on the side.

Calvin stood up quickly from the table, the small chair clattering to the bricks. He crossed the patio in three steps and pulled the door closed behind him as he crossed the threshold. He leaned against the refrigerator, his forehead pressed against the cool metal, his breathing coming in rapid gasps as he fought to compose himself and order his thoughts.

Why do you think it so strange that I can communicate with you? Haven’t you spent most of your life studying the origins of language and haven’t you written at least three articles on the possibility of inter-species communication?

Calvin turned and gazed blankly at the bird as big as a small toddler standing on the other side of the glass. He took a deep breath and walked to the door, tentatively placing his hand on the plastic pull. Damon backed up a few feet and hopped back up onto the rim of the terracotta fountain. The professor purposely avoided looking at the corvid as he crossed the patio and picked up the chair, sitting down in the same position as before. The sun dipped below the level of the wall and an even deeper coolness crossed over the patio as he looked into the brown eyes of his interlocutor.

How could this possibly come to be? He spread his hands in a gesture of resigned frustration. Damon’s eye lids closed several times before he answered.

It is a remnant of a long ago past when ravens shepherded the souls of mortal men into the world beyond. By the middle ages, only my lineage was left with the lingual dexterity and by then all men could hear the voice and my clan were advisors and mystics to powerful kings and sorcerers.

Damon paused and let the information sink in as the man took another deep drink of the ale.

Now, it is almost gone. My father had me in the second to last spawn of his life. Before him, it was many generations back that the voice had been heard, and now only the ears of a few select men can receive it.

Calvin shivered in the winter air as a light just above the door was activated by the growing darkness. Damon gazed for several moments at the professor whose face had grown drawn and pale.

I think that it grows too dark and cold for you. We will talk more tomorrow. I will return at the same hour.

Damon stepped off the rim and before he touched the ground, moved upward in a graceful curve to the top of the wall. He looked down from twenty feet away at the man.

Do not think that this is a random meeting, Professor Michaels. I have chosen you carefully.

Damon dropped from view behind the wall and flew straight toward an oak tree on the corner of the street, buzzing a barred owl that shrunk back as the air from the large birds’ wings buffeted him in his hide.

*

Damon set his wings and glided silently above the feed. The cadre of juveniles was taking their turn at the carcass as the older paired ravens stood in small groups in the snow a few yards away preening and enjoying the first warming rays of the sun. Damon banked low over the shadows of the pines, dropping down on a snow covered branch. He looked over at the raven who occupied the other side of the perch. He bent down and cooed quietly, rubbing his thick black beak on the rough bark. The female raven turned away from the feeding scene and bobbed her head up and down a few times.

Hello, husband. Did you have a good flight? Damon moved closer to her and pushed several inches of snow to the ground with three swipes of his beak.

Yes, Lila, after I ran off Carbini and his rabble. She turned her head and made several high pitched keks toward a small group of juveniles who were squabbling over precedence at the food. When they stopped, she turned back to her husband.

That is three times since the moon has cycled. They must be borne of some purpose. Damon spread his wings out to the side as the sun reached the upper branch upon which they sat.

Yes. I will fly to the north and see what Hugin has to say. He is closer as the sparrow flies and has had more dealings. What does Magda say?

There have more incursions from the Hooded Ones, and she has seen them together on the wing with Carbini. Damon took in the information without comment.

Did you follow Sasha as we agreed? Lila moved a few steps closer to Damon until she was sharing the sun rays which fell on only half of the thick branch. Damon spread his left wing over her and pulled her close to his chest.

Yes. They crossed Sutter’s Butte, moved through the big snow and joined the Placer pack as they headed toward the Crags. They will wait for the herds in the big gap as always. Damon looked down at the juveniles who had finished feeding and were frolicking in the snow.

Most of them have never seen the Crag roost. Never tasted the bitter cold that comes with the Crag winds. Let them feed on the last of it here and then lead them to the roost tonight. Lila looked up at her husband for several seconds before she moved her head back and forth in agreement. You are staying here, my love?

Yes. I have some unfinished business. I will join you soon.

Later, Damon watched from his perch as the Valley colony left the feed in pairs and small groups. The sound of wings had died away and the white landscape lay under the heavy silence for several minutes before Damon stepped off the branch and began a slow flight eastward, zigzagging through the large conifers and the lodge pole pines.

Twenty minutes later he flew over a granite outcropping on a snowy ridge and dropped down toward the narrow valley below. The black forms of beef cows eating their winter hay ration passed underneath him almost unnoticed. He folded his wings and dropped down into a small grove of cottonwood trees that crowded up against the bank of a frozen creek. He let out a ragged caw that echoed sharply off a hillside to his right and watched for any sign of movement from the farm house fifty yards away. After several minutes he flew to a rusted swing set partially buried in the deep snow of the front yard. From his vantage point, he could see the half-opened kitchen window and the late morning rays of the sun as they played on the glass in the top half of the opening, bathing the area in pale warmth. He flew quickly to the eaves and walked on the edge of the metal gutter. He heard a muted clanking sound beyond the barn and cocked his head in that direction. The farmer was working on his old tractor. He dropped noiselessly down to the widow ledge and stared into the room.

The raven who was only slightly smaller than Damon gazed back at him through the thin gray spokes of the large birdcage. Damon tossed his head three times in succession as a greeting.

How are you today, Melampus? The other raven turned his body before hopping up onto the swing that hung down in the middle of the cage. The sun caught the dull sheen of his feathers, duller than the bright deep purple cast that Damon wore.

Two days in a row, Damon. I am honored, or maybe I should be wary. You always need more than I can give. Damon hopped several inches until he was on the inside edge of the ledge. He turned his body in the direction of the barn and kept the front of the house inside his field of vision.

"Nonsense, my liege. You are the holder of the skirrum. That knowledge has always been at our call when our lineage is threatened. It is not that I ask too much, Melampus, it is more the case that you are not always approving of the uses to which the knowledge is put. But seeing as how you are the one from whom this curse has come to our attention, I don’t see as we have any other choice." The caged raven was silent for several seconds and the only sound was the small squeak of the hinge as the swing rocked gently back and forth.

What did he say?

Nothing. I have not told him anything as of yet. He is wary. It has been too many generations since the ravens have talked directly to men. This will take some time.

Do you think time grows on trees? Our hemisphere is in dark winter but in two months it will be the time of the wind and three months after that the fields will be heavy with the green growth. It is then that it will come. Damon waited patiently for the silence he knew was coming. Melampus hopped down from the swing and moved to the other side of the cage, his back to the window. Damon waited for several minutes before he spoke again, he kept his voice as soft and casual as he could manage.

Much depends on what you and I can accomplish. We have always lived in the world of men and that will always be so. Without them, the time of the ice would have swallowed the world. The sound of wings will cease to sing in the winds forever on the day the last man takes his dying breath. That has always been the prophecy. Melampus spoke to the room.

"They cannot know everything at once. Their systems don’t work as ours do. There will be many theories about what to do next. They have already set themselves to the task. But they will fail. They do not remember the last time it came into their world. Their skirrum is incomplete, forgotten like yesterday’s news. And who are we to remind them, they will say. What could we possibly know of the scientific method or the way that the universe works?"

We have to try.

You have to try. Damon leaned over and raked his beak sharply across the thin wires.

When was the last time you tasted fresh elk, brother? He pecked violently at a small metal dish attached to the inside of the cage, bird seed spilling onto the newspaper below. "You are content to sit in there and spin your philosophies to yourself. Yet, the skirrum wasn’t created and nurtured all those years for that purpose and you know that better than anyone. It is meant to be out in the land of birds where they can feast on it as they do the beasts and the young can be nurtured by it and fulfill their purpose." Melampus turned around and stared down at the thin layer of birdseed at his feet. He looked up at Damon, his black eyes unblinking.

"And who besides you, Damon, talks of the skirrum? The world you fly over each day is not even the one of your father. The ancient ways don’t fill the craw or stop the harsh winds or give birth to new generations. They are invisible to the young and a rumor to everyone else." Damon took a step backward and scanned the front of the house quickly before he looked back at Melampus.

We are wasting time. It won’t be long before he needs to know, and I have to be prepared to tell him. Damon took another quick look by rotating his head toward the front yard. So. Let us begin where we left off, shall we?

Twenty minutes later, Damon dropped down on the wooden porch behind a chair covered by a canvas blanket. He waited until he heard the creak of the front gate before he moved silently around the corner of the small house and took to wing.

*

Sasha stood still in the shadow of the large conifer. The wind ruffled the brown and black fur around her face while the ice blue eyes probed the edge of the snow a hundred yards in front of her behind which lay the narrow gap in the granite slabs; the Crags, the steely gray monoliths which soared into the cold sky like the windy doors of heaven. The last of the birds had returned an hour ago, and now the flapping of wings grew silent among the snow laden branches. She moved her eyes quickly to her right where the other three members of the pack crouched below a ledge of rock. The pack had numbered six a year ago when the dark winter had set in, but now she was left alone to lead the hunts through the snowy forests.

The elk didn’t spill into the open area, they didn’t even move in single file, they just appeared as if they had conjured themselves from under the lifeless snow born of cocoons filled with fur, sinew and bone. They moved warily keeping to the edge of the timberline, small groups of twos and threes, young does with calves and immature bulls. Sasha waited, her warm breath turning to steam and mingling with the small snow crystals that the wind whipped back into her thick fur coat. She shifted her eyes to the far side of the open expanse and the edge of the forest. In the dark shadows, the Placer pack would be waiting, waiting for the attack to begin and Burian would be waiting there as well, his yellow eyes searching for the chance to reaffirm his domination of both packs.

Sasha gave a small yip out of the side of her mouth and the Valley pack sprang forward as one, their gray bodies elongated and their bellies scraping the snow as they sprinted toward their prey.

*

Lila drifted down through the branches of the tree nearest the kill. Sasha had delivered on her promise and the pack had brought down one of the animals just inside the tree line. The stiffened carcass was payment for locating the herd and alerting the wolves in enough time to lay ambush. Now she hopped onto a rock and scouted the area. She was just about to fly to the roost and bring the rest of the colony down to feed when she caught sight of a small movement behind her. She turned and flew twenty feet straight up into the air, her wings beating rhythmically just enough to hold her sleek body in a shallow hover. She gazed down on the muddy brown coat of the wolf. Foiled in his attempt at stealth, Burian sat casually on his haunches, his yellow eyes brimming with hate as the raven descended and sat on the antlers of the dead elk.

You are not welcome here, Burian. She took three quick steps forward on the main branch of the rack and cawed loudly at the intruder.

You are not the victor here today, raven, just as your kind never are. Lila turned her head and her dark brown eye stared maliciously at the canine.

The bargain was stuck, Burian. The kill is ours. Burian let his long tongue droop from his mouth.

There are not enough birds in this whole valley to stop us when we take this carcass.

Your belly hangs full and low in the snow, Burian, you and your pack have had your fill. But be warned. If provoked, all three raven bands will flock together and strip every kill you make and scatter the bones. There are plenty of creatures in this valley that would happily watch you starve. Burian began to move through the deep snow around the carcass, staying just out of reach of the sharp black beak. He started a slow trot across the open expanse toward the trees on the other side where the rest of the Placer pack were sleeping in the snow well of a large pine tree.

Lila waited until Burians’ backside disappeared into the deep afternoon shadows before she took flight toward the roost. She flew quickly around the large spruce and sounded several kek calls and gained sufficient altitude to watch carefully as the ranking pairs flew in order toward the kill. Just as she was preparing to follow them, a small group of juveniles sprinted from the tree and caught up with the last of the flock. Lila turned quickly in the bright sky, her aerodynamic body slicing through the cold air as she flew on a collision course toward the errant birds. The leader, Aachen, saw her as she made her plunge and quickly separated his gang of six birds from the tail end of the flock leading them in a steep sweep away toward the ground and curving around a rock outcropping, turned back toward the roost. Lila regained the heights and circled high above the spruce until all the juveniles were on the roost before making a rapid pass and scolding the miscreants with several sharp vocalizations as she headed back to the kill.

*

Professor Michaels peered through the sliding glass door after looking at his watch. He pulled the end of his blue woolen scarf across his throat and tucked it down into the collar of his coat. He stepped out slowly onto the patio and took several steps before he stopped and looked around. Seeing nothing, he walked to the middle of the space and sat down in the chair that was still pulled out away from the table, just the way he had left it the day before.

Good evening, Professor Michaels.

Calvin turned his head around and looked up into the large elm tree that grew just on the other side of his patio wall. He could see the large bird sitting near the trunk on the longest branch. As he watched, Damon made a small hop and setting his wings, glided gracefully down, his feet skimming lightly along the top of the wall. He perched on the edge of the fountain and cocked his head toward the man in front of him.

I am glad that you have come. I was worried that perhaps you would not return.

Calvin Michaels cleared his throat.

I wasn’t sure myself until just an hour ago. He gestured to the patio in general. But here I am. Damon stared unblinkingly and didn’t reply right away. After several seconds of silence, he bobbed his head up and down a few times.

You have questions, Professor. There must be no misunderstandings between us. Too much is at stake.

I have done some research in the hours since we met. Though there are some very oblique references to ravens and men communicating in the distant past, it hardly amounts to the frequency that you described last night. Calvin stopped and waited. The bird fluffed his wing feathers and after settling down, turned a piercing gaze on the professor’s face.

That is not surprising, Professor. Most references were destroyed long ago. Rival kings, despots, marauders, and then the church made sure that any diaries or old poems that mentioned the subject would not survive. There are tomes that still exist in the world, though they are the creation of necromancers and mystics and as such, must stay hidden away lest the same fates befall them. All that is left in the world that you inhabit are the oral traditions handed down from ancient peoples. They are folk and cosmological tales and are therefore relegated to the curiosity bin of the ethnologists.

Damon stopped and let the information sink in before he continued.

I am not opposed to satisfying your curiosity on the subject, professor, but the fact that we are communicating, renders it a rather moot point, wouldn’t you say?

Calvin reached into the side pocket of his heavy canvas coat and withdrew a small briar pipe. He laid a packet of tobacco and a box of matches on the table and proceeded to fill the bowl; three separate layers of the dark tobacco