If Not the Ravens

I heard crying from the forest the night my daughter disappeared. The sound wasn’t unfamiliar as it drifted in through the opened bedroom window along with the scent of the autumn air. The ravens taught themselves to mimic these haunting wails to perfection and often practiced their art from within the Weeping Woods which loomed on my back doorstep like some vast, imposing castle.

The rumour was that some beast lurked within the woods and that the ravens learned how to cry from its victims. This was a theory I’d never put much stock in, for no one had ever seen much of a beast, and their tales always differed on what exactly it was. Furthermore, the stories would have you believe that far more people disappeared around here than seem likely.

It appeared that every time I went to town to sell my pumpkins there was someone who could not seem to contain their concern for me. They warned me often of the dangers of living so close to the Weeping Woods and usually illustrated it with some new tale of what lay beyond my own doorstep. The villagers were compelled to commend me for my bravery if not assert their own unwillingness of being in my shoes. I never minded for they were well meaning, but in truth I was never afraid of the Weeping Woods. I was well aware of the dangers, that there might be wild creatures lurking about, but I kept my head about them. After all, there are bound to be dangers and rumours anywhere you go, and when I came to this house with a babe under my arm it was to elude a different kind of beast. One much realer and entirely more threatening than anything within the forest.

But the idea of hearing the likeness of someone who’d once suffered and died was, I’d have to admit, terribly upsetting, and restless nights were a thing I knew well. The night of my daughter’s disappearance I’d woken from a dead sleep to a wail of ferocious sorrow that had momentarily frozen me in place. Its desperate cry had chilled me through to my core but I’d decided upon the conclusion, which I thought was most reasonable, that it was only the ravens. After all it was always the ravens, wasn’t it?

I rose from my prematurely disturbed slumber to approach the window and close it tight, and then I returned to my warm bed and thought no more about the cries I’d muffled that night.

But I thought about it the next day, and every day since as I stood on my crumbling doorstep with the Weeping Woods only an arms length away. There are things that a mother just doesn’t want to believe, and I fought to deny the truths my heart told me, but when I looked back on that night there was no denying what had happened. In spite of every alternative I frantically scraped together I knew the reason I’d been so unsettled by the wailing I’d heard that night was because I’d known it sounded familiar.

Even to this day I’ll try not to think about what I’ve done as I stare into the unfathomable darkness between the trees and wonder what’s become of her. There are many things I’ve grown doubtful about such as the safety of the forest. Perhaps she was carried away by animals or lured out by some stranger, but maybe it could have also been a beast. Perhaps there’s more going on in the Weeping Woods than the mere crying of ravens. The knowledge that I might not have ever been as safe here as I’d once hoped I would be has cost me sleep nearly to the point of madness, but I won’t move home, for what if she came back and I wasn’t there?

This particular morning, I step out onto the topmost step of three crumbling cement slabs to find that It’s been raining. The sky is quiet now but puddles litter the ground and a vast array of orange and red leaves were plastered to every surface, their colours muted by the trauma of the downpour. I pull my cloak tightly around my shoulders to defend from the chill, the air tastes crisp with the scent of dead leaves and petrichor.

It’s the second anniversary of her disappearance today and I find myself at a loss for what to do. I stare distractedly down at the overgrown cobblestone path that winds away from the foot of my stairs to vanish into the trees. The trees arching above the path frame the darkness beyond them like a massive doorway. Listening to the ravens carry on with their pitiful noises from where they hide beyond the forests entrance, I wonder to what location the trail leads for I’ve never traveled its length.

I should be harvesting my pumpkins which have grown ripe in the front yard but I can’t bring myself to move from the top step.

Beneath the all too familiar wails of the ravens I hear another noise. It’s softer than anything I’ve heard come from the woods before and I think it sounds a little like a child humming. I’m prepared to assume I’ve imagined it, but as the tune grows louder I realize that I recognize it.

Before I can fully appreciate my own intent my foot flies forward, passing over all three steps before landing directly on the overgrown trail, and then I’m running straight into the Weeping Woods.

My home is quickly swallowed behind me as the darkness presses in and I stumble along the crumbling path. From the edges of my vision I see flashes of golden and orange leaves winking at me from the shadows like twinkling stars. It feels like I’m running for days with the tune growing ever closer, but its source continues to evade me. still, my conviction is strong and true as I rush forward with mad determination.

Then I catch sight of what I’ve been hunting for and I skid to a halt, my breathing ragged. Up the path, just a little ahead of me is a small figure sitting in a crouched position and humming quietly.

“Bethany?” I ask shakily as I take a tremulous step forward.

The figure turns to me and my heart shatters with disappointment. For a moment I feel as though I might collapse.

The child before me is not my daughter. This girl has ebony skin and the hair and eyes to match. Perceiving my presence, she halts her tune.

I stare down at her breathlessly and she looks steadily back.

“Where did you learn that song?” I ask her but she only stares up at me and doesn’t answer.

We are completely alone, there’s no parent, or sibling, or nanny to look out for her. The little thing is thin, dirty, and covered in scratches.

She’s not my daughter…

Slowly I reach out my hand to her and say, “come with me.”

She hesitates only a moment before taking my hand.