ARK

When Noah sent out a raven
He expected it to return so
When a dove came back he knew
Something was wrong. Plainly
Another ark was out there
One whose captain liked doves
Which Noah had deliberately
Left off his boat. Years later
The raven hosted the two Noahs
In a dream from which all three
Woke no longer certain
Which of them he was. The trouble
With doves? They never
Have such dreams and always
Know exactly who they're not.

THE DUCHESS OF KENDALL'S RAVEN

The Duchess of Kendall  had a large raven
Which flew into her room on the day
George I died. Convinced it was the King,
Her lover, she took care of it fondly
And, though reputed miserly, fed it
The very finest carrion and worms.
After her death, the raven was little seen
Until he turned up in a footnote to a poem
By Lord Byron. (Some think from there
He was borrowed by Edgar Allen Poe.)
I have read King Arthur is now a raven
Waiting the hour of Britain's greatest need
King George, though, seems content
To flock with the poets though in life
He’d no use for them. His laureate,
Nicholas Rowe, haunts Westminster still
His pension three centuries in arrears.

NOTE FROM THE DARK CITY

Of a Saturday or Sunday in the Dark City one is likely to see exhausted birds of every kind, sleeping on rooftops or convulsively clutching tree branches. There always seems to be a sort of truce between them, and one may see wrens and humming birds sharing a roof with owls and hawks and ospreys. Only the ravens flock by themselves on these days, and they are showing their usual wisdom in doing so.

          It used to be common knowledge that, since before the beginning of the world, every raven was obligated to bring a grain of sand to Hell every Friday. No one knows for sure why Hell needs sand, or if it needs it at all, or simply wants to remind the ravens of their old allegience. Me, I suspect that Hell may be trying, very slowly, to switch places with the world, or perhaps they’re building something. In any event, I always try to bring a handful of sand or two back from Hell, just to slow then down.

I don’t think men ever knew what bargain the ravens had made for which this was their payment, and few men now remember why ravens are so familiar with Hell. Still, the bargain holds. On Fridays you must look sharp and quick if you wish to see a raven.

          But ravens are dealmakers, and it long ago occurred to them that they more or less keep their contract if the sand gets to its destination, regardless of the messenger. Thus, they are forever finding other birds who, in return for some ravenly service, or perhaps to pay off a bet, will deliver a grain of sand to Hell. Most make the return journey safely enough, and the ravens do not grieve for those who find no exit.

          Most of the birds which stagger from the sky in the Dark City recruit their strength for a day or so, and then fly off, resolved to make no more bargains with ravens. Some, though, seem content to trade the forest for the roof tops and brooding trees we offer.

          One such is a hen whose bright eyes hold more of wisdom and terror than it is common to find dwelling in a chicken’s head. She came staggering into the courtyard of my building one day and collapsed. Her feathers were singed; and I realized that she had walked to Hell, left her grain of sand, and then walked out again. I spoon fed her on beer for a week, and we parted ways with mutual respect. She’s still to be seen strutting quietly in the shadows, and the cats do not molest her.

More from The Guide to the Dark City

There is a street in the Dark City which it is just as well to avoid. It looks ordinary enough, well-lit, and with a few shops, a lens-grinding concern, and a medium-priced restaurant (try the blackened vlatbrot for which it is known; the deserts, too, are said to be unusual). The people who live there, mostly in upper stories, are ordinary enough, if rather quiet. The street’s sole distinction is that if you follow it to its end you will find yourself in Hell.

I won’t mention the street’s name, since it changes frequently. Be assured that, if you look for it you will find it, and that the same will happen if it looks for you. If through fate or mischance or the machinations of an irritated cat you find yourself in Hell, there are two things you should remember. The first, as they must have taught you in school, is to try and find a raven. Ravens know all the byways and, most importantly, all the exits from Hell. If they take a fancy to you, or if you have the wit to know what coin they’ll take as pay, they will lead you out and you’ll go back to your hotel with only some fascinating memories and a tendency to tremble as souvenirs.

The second thing to remember is to note Pride when you see him. He is honored in the Dark City.

You may have seen Pride in old paintings of Hell, or in one of Dauguerre’s early experimental plates. Two things render him unmistakable. One is that he will be wearing a marvelous hat. Sometimes it is a large affair, bejeweled and feathered. Other times it is a glossy silk thing, or a disturbingly embroidered sombrero. He will be wearing it cocked at an angle, and he will be dancing. No one else in Hell dances.

Watch him long enough and you will start to hear the music to which his feet are keeping time. He is a heavy man, but his feet move lightly. There is a story that when the on the last day of all, Pride will emerge from Hell, still dancing, and under his banner, playing his music, the denizens of the Dark City will march forth through streets illuminated by blazing buildings. If, on your return from Hell, you bring us a note or two of that music you will find the Council knows how to be generous.