Ashen Valley

Prologue

He had never seen the sun before.

What must it be like, to see a continuous burning ball of flame lighting the day, too bright to even look at? From the stories he'd heard, it was sometimes too hot to bear, causing burns on your skin, and causing you to sweat. The only time he had ever sweat was when he got too close to the fireplace at night. He couldn't imagine how terrible it would be to sweat every time you took a step outside.

Yet, for some reason, he wished he could see it. He wished he could stroll through a forest of weeping willows, the warm sun leaking through the branches, butterflies flying around him.

He had never seen a butterfly before. But he'd been told what they looked like. Like flying flowers, they had said. Though, they had also had to explain what flowers looked like.

He had never heard birds sing before. Yes, he had certainly heard birds before---only ravens and the occasional hawk that somehow found food to survive in this terrible icy world---but never the small, colorful, singing birds that made every spring day the most beautiful day in existence.

Once, just once, he had seen a cardinal. He knew it was a cardinal because his great grandmother had a picture of one in her locket. It was the most colorful thing he'd ever seen, and by far the most beautiful.

But it didn't sing. He didn't blame it. This was too sad of a world to sing.

The cardinal had flown away into the foggy afternoon without giving him even a sample of what he so longed for.

He cried himself to sleep that night.

He had seen snow before. He had seen plenty of snow. It never seemed to end. Every day of his life---that he could remember---it snowed. Not thick flurries, just lightly. Like there was someone floating in the sky with an endless jar of white glitter that they eternally sprinkled upon the sunless mountains.

Sometimes, after a blizzard would drop eight feet of snow on them, it would warm up and the snow would melt away; most of it, anyway. It never completely melted. It was just the right balance between temperature and rate of snowfall, it seemed, to always keep at least a few inches of snow on the ground.

He had seen mountains before. In fact, he'd never left them. He'd never seen anything but mountains. His entire life, he had lived in the little log cabin by the forest in the valley.

He had seen wolves before. In fact, that was his role in the family; while other members had roles like hunting, gathering, and cooking---if they could find food, that is---his role was killing the wolves before they ever had a chance to attack the yaks. He'd seen plenty of them.

The ravens were smart. The ravens were very, very smart. They learned to tell each member of his family apart. They learned that wherever he went, something would die. They had also learned to stay far enough away so he couldn't shoot them.

The ravens seemed to take great pleasure in their battles. Typically, he would perch himself high in a tree and pick them off with his rifle, but sometimes, when he was feeling confident, he would engage them on the ground. His rifle slung on his arm and his knife in his hand, the game he played was a dangerous one. But it wasn't like he had anything to lose.

They had enough wolfskins to last them a thousand years, and they couldn't eat the wolves. It made them sick for some reason. So he always left the carcasses laying on the ground.

The ravens, knowing this, would wait by the dozens for him to emerge from his home in the valley every morning, and then follow him, circling in the sky above him, creating hundreds of inky black circles in the gray sky, watching the boy slay the wolves.

He had seen ravens before. He hated them.

He hated the way they looked. Their haunting blackness was a nice relief from the cold grays and whites that dominated the rest of the planet, but it was still black.

He hated the way they sounded. They sounded like angry geese---the last of which he hadn't seen for years, as they all had died off---choking on sandpaper.

He hated their entire presence. The last time he'd shot one, he had to shoot it twice for it to actually fall out of the sky. It landed in the snow with a soft thump. The snow around it turned red.

And yet, it was alive. He discovered that the hard way when he approached it. The raven turned its head to look at him, and gave a soft, mournful caw.

He wasn't sure what to make of it. It seemed threatening, yet reassuring. Frightening, yet peaceful. Sad, yet joyful. As if the raven was thanking him for finally freeing it from this barren world.

And then the raven died.