Warnings

“What have you been doing?” her father asks her one day, as she goes back and forth between the symbols in a particularly old and complicated book on a system she cannot quite fathom, and the symbols decorating the pages of her own leather bound volume.

She looks up in surprise, something akin to fear rising in her chest. “Studying,” she answers, for she supposes what she has been doing does involve some form of study.

“That is not what I meant,” he says, and she cannot feign ignorance anymore.

She picks up a pen from her fathers desk, her hand trembling slightly under his gaze. She draws the raven in flight, as though it has just risen from a perch. When she removed her pen, it is already shaking out its wings.

The bird picks itself slowly from the paper, feather by feather emerging, becoming soft and downy but smelling strongly of ink. The bird opens it beak but makes no sound except the rustle of feathers as it prepares to fly. It hovers around her shoulders momentarily before taking off for the highest shelves.

It performs it customary path of flight, followed by her eyes. She smiles slowly, her face brightening, when it flies across her skin, tickling her collarbone.

“When did you learn that?” he asks pensively, his dark eyes on the bird, slowly turning to her.

“I taught it to myself,” she answers, meeting his eyes though she desperately wishes to look back at her raven.

Her father rises, standing tall before the desk. He tilts his head back, piercing the bird with his gaze. It ruffles its feathers, as though nervous, though she remains in her chair, wearing a stony expression and watching impassively.

Suddenly the bird launches itself off the shelf, aiming for her father, diving with outstretched wings. She sits tall and tries to focus, tries to divert the bird but it will not move from its path to her father’s heart. It gains speed, losing feathers and becoming a streak of black in the air. It crashes into her father’s velvet sleeve, ink splattering onto his vest and collar, black feathers thrown into the air. When they have settled on the ground the bird is perched on his white lace cuffs, now ink stained, regarding her father forlornly.

“Very impressive,” her father succeeds. He firmly, ignoring his daughter’s protest, grabs the raven by the neck and twists. It remains a bird only seconds longer before melting into a pool of ink on the floor. Similar black puddles litter the floor and shelves and the floor at her father’s feet where there had been, seconds before, soft black feathers.

Her father grabs her roughly by the jaw, tilting her face up.

“But you will never again teach yourself these tricks, nothing that I have not taught you. Do you understand?”

She nods as much as she can and her father releases her, long red marks from his fingers on her chin. She retreats to her chair, curling her legs under her and pressing her back against the grey cushion. The ink on the floors vanish, as though they have never been there.

Text by Lucie MacAulay