Origin of Witch and Crow

I could see it coming, of course I could, as a seer, seeker of the craft.

It glimmers and blurs first, before it becomes a vision, like looking through the eyes of the Crow. 

The dark being of the dream, a glittering version of my own shiny devil. 

He dances and sweats, kicking up a nasty stench, coat-tails flying, sauntering toward me through the arid wasteland. 

If the moon grew teeth and ate all the stars, would the night grow colder, yet still be blue-black?

Waving my hand over the lake, a wand of wonder, trees grew like fingers, reaching for the Other Mother.

What kind of vessel is this so-called mother?

Is she full of love and wonder, or is she, as I suspect, a trickster, shifting with musty magic and ancient craft?

How, then, my beloveds, do we learn to wander freely into the blue-black?

Tonight, there is only one way. Climb higher now, up that strange finger-branched tree, up, up to the nest, and perch in the House of the Crow. 

Let him take you through his eyes, just for a moment, away from this stinking wasteland.

Who will know but you and your stalking devil?

What trick can I offer this old, bloated devil?

The fetid, rotting bones of my ugliest mother.

Will we use her rot to feed him in the barren flats of the dusty, sun-bleached wasteland?

We will. We will. We will. We caw. We, of this magical craft. 

With a pinch of salt, a lick of spit, and gift from King Crow 

A fine, fine gift, a shapeshifting feather of iridescent, sparkling moon-kissed blue-black. 

The devil agrees to stay but takes his price. My heart shifts as it beats from pink to blue-black.

Cuts made jagged and deep, blood pooling in my eyes and mouth, knife held by the devil. 

“Caw, that’s enough!” says King Crow. 

Stops the devil in his tracks and he fades back. King Crow turns to me and says, “Whose Queen are you anyway? You are no Mother.”

I hunch down and pop up, and rattle in my best Crow-speak, fluttering my figmental wings. I spin three times on my dirty bare heel, braiding the threads of my time-weaving craft. 

“So,” says King Crow, “you are familiar with us here in the wasteland?”

“Now, you are seeing, seer,” I coo in my best Crow. “Now you are seeking, seeker. We all are born through this wasteland.”

Back, back, we dance, we weave, back into the future of the new Blue-Black. 

“Take threads from this nest,” I offer King Crow, “to weave our blue-black fates. This is the last of this old, strange craft.”

“Don’t tell your devil.”

“Don’t tell your mother.”

“It’s a deal, witch. Your secrets and your soul die with me,” said King Crow. 

“Wise, kind friend, thank you,” I say with a nod. “It’s a deal, Crow.”

With a bob of our silvery crowns and a twist of old threads made new, the deal was done. Back through the wasteland. 

Back to the other mother. 

Back to the cold, starless blue-black. 

Never, never back to that old bone-eating devil. 

It’s not the only devil you know. Smoke, lightning, spit, salt, and craft. 

This blue-black Crow King swapped my eyes with his. And so it is. 

We left the devil in the wasteland dust of his own making. Eye for an Eye. Tooth for a Tooth. And so it is. 

We stand in a lush place now. We do not look back. It’s all New Mother and Old Craft. And so it is.