Oh, come on in and join us. Mackenzie and I were admiring the repair job our resident bookseller and binder did on one of the older Estate journals as I had need of the information on the proper apples for making a good cyder that is in it. Yes, that’s an illustration of a raven sitting in the rafters in the Pub. Good one, ain’t it? And indeed the gentleman talking to the raven looks all too familiar.
We’ve had written records ‘ere of ravens, hooded rooks, and other corvids around the Estate offices as long as this ancient pile of stone, wood, and brick has been standing. No doubt in me mind they were here soon after the first highwayman was hanged here so many centuries ago. Yes indeed, from the kind of make-shift gallows all too commonly found in the oaks that are still in our courtyard. That the ravens were feasting on the corpses is quite certain.
Certainly there’s no doubt that they were making their raucous sounds when the very first Jack was here: or so he claims, in the Archives as told there by someone who calls himself simply The Old Man. As The Old Man in the journal entries tells it, Jack escaped the sure grasp of Death Herself and Her Ravens. (Never mind the poor bugger whom that same Jack tricked into taking into taking his place on the gallows! I never said the Jacks were nice fellows, did I?)
What’s changed since those times is that somehow the ravens came to be inside the building instead of outside. But then, the pickings in the oak trees have dwindled to acorns in these modern times, and a raven’s got to eat, don’t he? They don’t seem to mind the pub lunches here. After all, they’re birds of wisdom!
As The Old Man tells it, he himself brought the first pair of ravens with him when he decided this was a more than adequate place to sit out the harsh Winter. Some of the musicians here thought he had stolen them from The Tower and that Albion Itself was now in dire threat. After a few tense days, he convinced them that these ravens were Nordic in origin and Albion was in no danger. At least not from him. Or at least not right now. Or at least it was no one’s business while the snow flew and he wanted a quiet drink. Convincing old gent, and the ravens themselves staring from his shoulders didn’t hurt the argument none.
Big bloody birds they were too! Have you heard a storyteller tell the story of Odin and His Ravens? How they sit on his shoulders cawing something into his ears? How they know everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen? These birds, according to an entry by our Librarian of the time, could well have been them. It sure as ‘ell spooked the bleedin’ fiddlers from the Shetland Islands, who knew both the tunes and stories of their Nordic ancestors. I certainly ‘ave found them spooky enough late at night as they gaze down at you from the rafters overhead … it’s right unnerving to stare into a raven’s eyes. You can’t help wondering why they’re staring at yours, like.
Though someone who looks like The Old Man has been ‘ere off and on down the centuries (and no, I do not know it’s the same gentlemen), the ravens are always here. One pair, watching us, and occasionally stealing food and other things as they see fit. Who’s to tell them they can’t? Not me!