Best Short Story: Aidan Harris

Best Short Story

written by Aidan Harris (Year 12)

CAIN: A MEMOIR OF MY YEARS ON LAND AND LAST DAYS AT SEA Soul of Raven

Died 1900, Atlantic Ocean — b —

1. STRAWMEN

It was but the spring of 1849, five years into my life, when I decided to leave my perch and seek out the man who had so inspired in me the longing for something greater than the weary cycle of the life I had become accustomed to. I spread my wings and bid the Maryland countryside farewell and flew towards Baltimore, where I would find one Edgar Allan Poe. My previous owner was a recluse by the name of Samuel, a poor misunderstood farmer whom life had rather overlooked. Having run away from his father in search of something greater many years prior, he was little more than a peasant, out of place and eccentric as a parrot, though twice as talkative. I had watched him over the years, singing as he worked his little patch of land, from a dead oak overlooking the property. If I were to approach, he would make the sign of the cross and growl, his zealous belief in religion matched only by his trust in folk tales. Every now and again, a new figure would appear in the field, wearing a shirt more tattered than the one on his back, though this man was made of straw. How ironic was his belief that a scarecrow would intimidate me? My laughs would only increase the furrowing of his brow, and, perched on the arm of the strawman I was given my first human name: Cain, the murderer. From Samuel I was to learn the history of my kin. My species was both judge and executioner, blessed with wisdom and foresight, to appear to men at the final hour as their knell. That was as much as I could gather, anyway, as his mutterings were near incomprehensible. Though he often feigned despise, I could sense, as all predators can, a weakness in him: the need to be heard by something, anything but his vegetables. Yet season after season, it was all the same. Harvests came and went, while Samuel seemed only capable of subsistence; as the amount of grain planted lessened with each passing year, I made the conscious effort to not be an omen of his future.

— b —

2. NEVERMORE

Alas, I was too late, too late to make Edgar Allan Poe’s acquaintance. A mere year after disseminating his greatest work of poetry, The Raven, to little critical acclaim, he had been found dead on the streets of Baltimore. Poe’s life had been one of intense sorrow, there is little doubt in that; abandoned as a child, knowing only fleeting periods of happiness in his short life, he had captured a great sadness in his works that only a man who had been catapulted from companionship to loneliness could understand. Though he married his cousin, Virginia Eliza Clemm Poe (which is largely accepted in the avian community, though less so in modern human society). Her death in 1847 left a lasting imprint on the final works of his life. “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

— b —

Throughout his tumultuous life, Poe never had the privilege of introspection, the process of building one’s identity free from intrusion, defining oneself by themself. I mused to myself whether on that night in Baltimore, his heartbeat slowing as the alcohol that had so often been consumed took its final toll, he saw one of my kind standing by, black against the ink of the night sky, a gothic picture rivalling that of those he so often painted to his readers.

I was distraught, as Poe was one of those from whom I believed I could learn to understand the self; how else could he portray emotion so eloquently, despite such bleak surroundings? It was in this loss by proxy that I began to see my resolve strengthen, to understand oneself until loneliness becomes a perfect solitude.

— b —

3. A DEMON IN MY VIEW

Unable to return to my previous life, I presented myself, dark wings glossy with almost pearlescence, at an aviary in Baltimore, which would be my nest for the better part of three decades. I would read the news of the defamation of Poe’s career from a jealous rival, Rufus Griswold, hear the accusations of substance abuse fly against him; the dead cannot

defend themselves. I would hear recounts of other harsh realities of life: the ‘manifestation of destiny’ across my homeland, the first conflict in South Africa. My time in the aviary would prove formative. Gentle handlers would provide bribes of seed to encourage me to perform tricks, deliver messages, hunt the odd mouse, though they soon learnt that I needed no conditioning to adapt to their chosen tasks. Ravens, I am proud to say, are devastatingly intelligent and though I spent most of my time in the company of depressed crows whose wings had been clipped, or, heaven forbid, a pigeon; I observed the world both outwardly and inwardly from my temporary perch; I knew it must be temporary, as I was waiting for the moment in which I knew what I was to do to achieve contentedness in my life. I continued to feed my subconscious, poring through Poe’s large collection of works. Though they were grim, I saw in his prose and rhyming couplets the promise of fruit for my inner labour.

From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

In truth I had never dare flown during a lightning storm, though in all other ways, Poe’s poem Alone was my almanac. I had spent just the right amount of time at the aviary, fathered a few eggs, sharpened both mind and beak, so when I heard that Oscar Wilde was visiting North America for a speaking tour, I was determined to not let this opportunity escape me.

— b —

4. THE PICTURE OF DORIAN BLACK

Wilde was a man correctly named; never have I experienced a human so flamboyantly anachronistic. A dangerously open man, Wilde defied society with such open pride that I could not help taking a liking to him. Recognising my intellect, he would allow me to survey his American audiences at lectures as he spoke of dreams of decadence, having the beauty of the everyday conveyed to others as he saw it. This concept of aestheticism was entirely new to me and, though initially repelling, the juxtaposition of decadence and macabre of this intelligent young man broadened my horizon as to the malleability of the self.

As his American lecturing drew to a close (though it was extended multiple times due to its popularity), Wilde permitted me to be brought back with him to London. It was with him that I first encountered what I was to be enraptured by for the rest of my life: the ocean. The great expanse of salt water provided endless intellectual stimulation. Those twenty-nine days at sea

brought forward an appetite that could not be satiated in a mere month. Contrastingly, Wilde despised the voyage, for the passengers soon tired of his quick wit, and he was intermittently sick.

On return to England he married a lawyer’s daughter and settled down, but I saw in his heart that attraction for him lay elsewhere. The rigid heteronormativity of Victorian life was largely lost on him, however, as he rather openly had various affairs with young men. While he wrote and loved vivaciously, I found my only company the six raven residents of the Tower of London. While the collective noun for crows in ‘a murder’, when we ravens form a group we are known as a ‘conspiracy’, befitting our intellectual superiority. These ravens had grown large and stupid, however, and did not seem to notice that they were the only ones of their kind left in urban society. It seemed to me to be the cruellest of punishments to have both one’s wings and future clipped from birth, with no prospect of developing a sense of identity independent from one’s unkindness (the less polite collective term for our species).

As Wilde became increasingly erratic and found himself a partner in Douglas, I realised that I too must be brave if I was to achieve the perfect solitude I dreamed of. Yet I found myself one morning encased in a wooden prison, my leg tagged and one perfect wing aching from where my flight feathers had been clipped. It was only later I discovered that Wilde had been convicted of sodomy and his distraught wife had me removed as to not bring back painful memories of her now estranged husband. I could not blame her but mourned the loss of my very freedom as I was delivered to the residence of Percy Grainger, a budding pianist and composer. — b —

5. THE ONE RAVEN

Idid not enjoy my time with Grainger; a boy of eighteen with all the trappings of one branded a genius from a young age. Grainger had, in his own words, a “distinctly abnormal” sexual appetite. The year was 1900, and despite the grandeur of the turn of the century, Grainger seemed to only look to the past. When he wasn’t doing so, he was self-flagellating. I was bought and brought to be the perfect specimen of the Northern Raven, Corvus corax Principalis, though by now I was well aged, my wings still a glossy black but less muscular than in my youth. I was still not used to the cold of Britain, much like Grainger, who was proudly Australian born. I was to be observed as a means of encouraging his musical expression in arranging the folk tune, ‘The Three Ravens’, one that Samuel had sung to himself so often in my youth. The finished work was haunting, befitting the Gothic and antiquated lyrics, but still I believed there could be something beyond this chronic retrospection I had all my life observed.

While nobody could doubt Grainger’s prowess with the keyboard, he never treated me with the respect someone so well-travelled deserved. His young mind was warped with ideas of supremacy and infidelity as to make his company almost intolerable, yet his music flowed with such an elegance it disguised the confusion underneath. In his craft, practicing at the keyboard with flair

and vigour, he seemed at peace. How one so young had mastered the art, I could not answer.

My time spent with him was short, as I could feel my age groaning like a ball and chain on my leg. Leading a largely grounded experience, I had not forgotten my voyage across the ocean. Once the piece was finished and I was subsequently released, I bid Grainger an undeserved farewell and flew, hobbled as I was, to the Thames.

— b —

6. BLUE WATER SAILOR

The Thames was a bustle of activity; I quickly realised they were preparing for war. It almost felt fitting, having never lived up to the herald of death I was always assumed to be. Perching on the lead ship crow’s nest (or should I say raven’s nest) I prepared for what I knew would be my last journey.

The ship began sailing downstream, rocking gently, and as I observed the country I had now known for almost two decades, I thought of Edgar’s writings all those years ago, that “there is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in proportion”. As the vast expanse of salt water drew ever nearer, I felt grateful to have my own thoughts to keep me company in this, my final lesson in solitude. A cat climbed the mast and, saying nothing, joined me at my perch. We were now truly at sea.

I had spent my life in the company of outcasts who’d found their own way to a perfect solitude; a man of straw, an assumed suicide, a brilliant homosexual, a musical gigolo; all who discovered themselves through their craft despite rejection by society. After the first blast of creation, we were never accepted, and so had to accept ourselves.

Up and down the waves we rocked, the cat and I. —•