I walk among ruins: glory of old – today a heap of stones. Once a royal seat, a great monastery, a meeting place for throngs of nobles, friars and common folk, where people, goods and ideas flowed. From the high ground one could see the marshes that reached all the way here from a distant lake, a day's walk away. By now the kings have died, the waters have run dry, the people are lost, the walls have fallen. One column remains at the corner of the cloister, only the lines of the foundations mark out the former courtyard, and an artificial herb garden tries blindly to recreate the physic garden of the monastery that once was. Under a gravestone lies a king long dead, and under the heavy layers of time the past lies hidden. I walk on the rubble of the past, as if the present were pieced together from the shards of long ago, yet it forms no more than a fragmentary torso.
Though the ruins are lofty, and the concentrated power of former days can still be felt, my heart does not leap. The memorial park is official, done by the book, its surroundings lifeless, the past irrevocably past. I turn my back on the official garden of ruins and strike out on the path that winds into the hills and, they say, leads to another place of remembrance. The space is wilderness, the age the time before kings and monasteries. Here there is no stone, no ground plan, no surviving vault and no recreated herb garden, but there is a mossy tree trunk, a map drawn by nature, and instead of carved stone the vault of the sky and the raw, bold primeval garden of Mother Nature. There is no king, but there is order, no ordinance, but there is law, no rule, but there is truth.
Silence. Not a soul anywhere, yet this solitude is not lonely. In the clearing a cairn of rough stones, heaped one upon another, marks a place of remembrance that evokes ancient times: a sentence, a coloured ribbon, withered petals. The leafless crown-ring of the trees leaves a wide expanse of the endless sky open. There is no wind, no cloud either, and the outer silence creates all those conditions for inner silence that lie outside me.
– Kraaa, kraaa… – a rough voice calls from on high. So I am not alone after all. I would say a crow is circling in the sky, but no, its flight is different, its voice is different. It is a raven, not a white raven but a black one. It flies high, circles, glides, and now and then calls out. It does not go about in flocks like crows, but alone – could it be the guardian of this sacred place, now keeping watch on the intruder? An ancient totem animal come to life, knower of the secrets of creation, keeper of time – such things are said of the raven. Ravens carry news of humankind to the northern gods, and entrust their secrets only to those who are worthy of them.
I keep glancing up at the sky, trying to follow his circling. He is watching. When I answer, mimicking his voice, he waits a little, and then he too caws. We are talking. The raven is a faithful, monogamous companion, and now he is getting to know me. Although he is also held to be the herald of death, the bird of passing, his company bodes no ill, and it is true he ventures no closer. The raven keeps company only with the saints, bringing them food, as many legends tell. I move, walk round, step a little away from the cairn that marks the place, and he too disappears. I call up to the sky: kraaa – he appears again and answers. His incantation speaks of change. Could he be an ancient raven, thousands of years old, whom fate has appointed to guard this hidden place of pilgrimage? Perhaps he thinks he recognises me, and hopes we may have met before? He circles in the space the crown-ring leaves open, high up, but what if we have already changed places a thousand times?
Was I once the raven, and he the shaman? Now he is the feathered keeper of the place, and I the visitor who has strayed here. I too would like to believe that this is not our first meeting. I would offer him food, but he is too far off. Pi-i-ity…
I feel him watching me even as I lay an evergreen bough at the cairn, even as I make my offering to the ancestors with prayer and vow – and so perhaps to him as well, the old comrade. For some time now he has kept silent. I gather my things, lift my face to the sky in farewell, and search for him on high. He has sensed it, and he too is taking his leave. Soundlessly he glides away, vanishing behind the silhouette of the trees' bare crowns, as if he had never been here. A few steps, and no trace of me remains either, as if I had never been here. But his memory stays with me, even his living reality, and who knows what he takes with him – of me?