A raven flew with a letter in its talon and placed it in front of Raith who was home at the tallest tress of his immense forest. “Exalted Raith, Gareth, the man you guided a week ago spoke to the park ranger. The park ranger later scoured through his office and took out a letter. I believe the letter is for you. He went into the forest looking for you. When he was distracted, I relieved him of it.”
Raith picked up the letter. He said to the raven, “It says, ‘to the long, black-haired man who lives near Lake Kayak.’ I guess it is for me, though I live no where close to there though the sender might not know that.”
August 3, 1950
To whom it may concern,
I am Sophie Hannah, brother of Peter Isbell who was married to Annabelle and was a supposed friend of Rob Robson. Peter confessed to me on his deathbed that he overheard Rob talking in his sleep and pieced together that Rob saw a fantastical creature in the woods and that the human form of that creature threatened to kill him if he spoke of their interaction. Peter wanted Rob dead, owing him a sizable debt and there were rumours of a possible affair with his wife. To this end, he forged a letter, pretending it was written by Rob, to a friend in Toronto. In that letter, Robert reveals everything the creature did not want him too. He also forged an incriminating sketch in Robert’s sketchbook. Peter said that letter was intercepted, and the sketch was stolen. If any decisions were made towards Rob based on the sketch and the letter, let it be known that Rob most likely had no intention of speaking about any encounter. My brother quite cleverly manipulated the situation.
I felt it best that the person or creature that Rob supposedly encountered know the truth and that we are all vulnerable to deception.
Sincerely,
Sophie
“Exalted Raith, are you okay?” the raven asked, never seeing such a stunned look on his master’s face.
“No, I am not,” he admitted.
“Anything you wish to confide in, Exalted One?”
“It is best I do not.”
“Is there anyway I can assist you, Exalted One?”
“No,” Raith said. “No one can help me now. Leave me, please.”
“Of course, Exalted Raith.”
Later, when Raith had time to contemplate the ramifications of the letter, the truth set in. What have I done? I killed the most iconic artist this country has ever known. On purpose. I had evidence. I had clarity. I felt no guilt. Some might disagree as to whether it was the right thing to do, but I warned him, twice. He didn’t listen. He had to die. And he did. Now I find out I was tricked, that I killed an innocent man, an artist that could have created more works that the public would have loved. I left his family in ruins. A person who did not intend to do me any harm. You rule on the actions of misbehaving ravens all the time. How do you sentence yourself, Exalted King of the Ravens?
It didn’t go away. Raith was sure it would, but just like how Raith haunted Rob’s dreams and kept him up at night over thirty years ago, it was now Raith’s turn, the nightmare never ending. Many traumatic flashbacks are from the victim’s view the moment harm was done to him or her. However, Robert knew not what happened to him, and the vision of his demise continuously echoed through Raith’s mind, softly putting Rob’s head within his right talon in mid-flight and carefully crushing it against the gunwale. If the strike was too hard, foul play would be suspected. Too light and he would not die. Ghosts of Robert entered Raith’s dreams. The poor sleep led to poorer reflexes, which resulted in minor injuries after failed attempts at flying through tight-knitted branches. He became irritable and more likely to lose his composure. His unexcited, level-headed demeanour was not what it once was, now being reactive and emotional. He thought if any of his family members died, the grieving would only take weeks. After that, he knew any negativity, anxiety, stress, or sadness would be disconnected from the thought of them. Mental anguish could always be neutralized, and he thought that would be the case here, but it did not go away.
There was no one to talk to. In desperation, he shared with another raven (ShadowWing having past a long time ago) and the unburdening of secrets helped but not to the extent needed. His thoughts usually were focused and never strayed or became distracted but not anymore. He lost control. What he would give to undo the sin, to turn back the hands of time and act differently. He then wondered, will it always be like this, and can I live like this if the anguish doesn’t dissipate? He read somewhere that we get used to things and that things return to a set experience level over time. Wondrous experiences lose their sublimity, but even the greatest of tragedies become manageable — but not for him. They stayed the same or have gotten worse over time. He could see the plight of addicts: just take away this pain; I would give anything to stop the hurt.
It was not easy to find. The provincial park was west of a gigantic bay, and land wrapped around the bottom half of the bay with a peninsula on the west. Near the base of that peninsula, near an inlet, was the small town where Robert grew up and where he is now buried. It took him quite a while to find the place, having to change to human form and ask for directions. Eventually, he found the gravestone, and the nearby plaque commemorating him.
“It’s been a long time, Robert Robson. I don’t know why I’m talking to you. I know that there is more to this life than science knows — my existence being a prime example. Still, I am quite sure there is no afterlife. Let me just come out and say it: I am sorry. Peter tricked me and I killed you and made it look like an accident, and your death has been a national mystery ever since. Peter is dead. Only I and Peter’s sister, assuming she is still alive, knows the truth. Words cannot express the shame that I feel over my actions. You did not deserve to die, yet I killed you. I was manipulated, but still, I killed you, and you did nothing wrong but see me transform when I spotted a poacher about to shoot a deer.
“I thought of punishment and reparations. Should I lock myself in self-imposed exile or incarceration for twenty-five years? Should that be my sentence? That does not do anyone any good. I can never undo or repay the harm I’ve done. I’ve donated all the money I’ve collected over the years to your estate. I will make sure nothing harms the park you hold most dear. Admittedly, that’s not much work there as the government has a paid staff to do that, and environmentalists and political opinion would not let anything happen to the park. Still, there might be loggers and business interests, and I will fight for you — be your advocate. It’s been two years since I read Peter’s sister’s letter. There’s been many sleepless nights and admittedly even tears. I have killed many, many times but never wrongly.
“I’m forgiving myself even if you cannot, being dead and all, and even if for some reason you would not forgive me in some scenario, I cannot at this moment picture. I am letting myself out of the prison of anguish I made for myself, letting the negativity, anxiety, regret, and guilt slip away. Would you want me to keep these for the rest of my days? I don’t think so. I thought I was so strong-minded, a man of certainty and, thus, little doubt and second guessing, but I was wrong, the guilt enveloping my very being. The world of men and any individual man, I have always been highly apathetic too. However, just because I don’t care about you does not mean it is all right that harm comes to you. Maybe I’m more human than I like.
“I murdered you, Robert Robson. I am sorry. I ask for your forgiveness.”
Raith then left one of his own feathers, half buried in the centre of the ground on Robert’s grave site.
