KRO
When God, disgusted with man,
Turned towards heaven,
And man, disgusted with God,
Turned towards Eve,
Things looked like falling apart.
But Crow Crow
Crow nailed them together,
Nailing heaven and earth together-
So man cried, but with God’s voice.
And God bled, but with man’s blood.
Then heaven and earth creaked at the joint
Which became gangrenous and stank-
A horror beyond redemption.
The agony did not diminish.
Man could not be man nor God God.
The agony
Grew.
Crow
Grinned
Crying: “This is my Creation,” Flying the black flag of himself.
"Crow” Ted Hughes
Prologue
In the black cycle of life, we are at times so infested with thoughts of wealth and material well being that we are forced to consider where we are within the world, often judged and interpret our stance by our possessions alone. Yet at creation, at the dawn, we are forced to inhibit a start of eternity. The forced sensibility that our bodies are meant to lead somewhere, someway, somehow. Yet eerily there is no direction or path what has ever been paved. No, what we are given are the tools to pave the road, the stars that tell us north from south, the dirt that can be pulled towards the heavens and formed a route to salvation or damnation. No one once considers that both paths are mere distractions from an existence so vague and frightening that we dare not consider not building a road; to simply exist in stasis. We are contempt with the mortality given to us by God, nature or intervention from a beast too powerful for our conscious minds, contempt with our own haphazard methods to live this so-called life.
Kro.
In the black cycle of life, we are at times so infested with thoughts of wealth and material well being that we are forced to consider where we are within the world, often judged and interpret our stance by our possessions alone. Yet at creation, at the dawn, we are forced to inhibit a start of eternity. The forced sensibility that our bodies are meant to lead somewhere, someway, somehow. Yet eerily there is no direction or path what has ever been paved. No, what we are given are the tools to pave the road, the stars that tell us north from south, the dirt that can be pulled towards the heavens and formed a route to salvation or damnation. No one once considers that both paths are mere distractions from an existence so vague and frightening that we dare not consider not building a road; to simply exist in stasis. We are contempt with the mortality given to us by God, nature or intervention from a beast too powerful for our conscious minds, contempt with our own haphazard methods to live this so-called life.
Kro.
It was a massacre. A one docile lonely planet that had only ever seen the scales of large beasts and the hawks of giant birds had all died. In their place were Neanderthals, who had been gradually climbing the chain of a kingdom to preach dominants over what they saw was the inferior species. There was one however, who did not believe in this convention. A single voice that believed in his own views, his name was Kro. His tribe gave him this name from the black ink formed on his face in shape of a bird. Kro remembered that one day as an infant where that black bird perched over him for hours as he dug the graves to the woman and man who bore him. It had been pecking at their flesh, pulling of rolls of skin, as Kro had tried to shoo it away it would hop to a distance, but the black bird just hopped back each time, its beak pierced the eye of the woman, who had now turned the colour grey, he veins protruding from her flesh. It threw the eyeball into the eye and tried to catch it in its mouth for it only to scurry away. It hopped and hopped over and continuously pecked at it until the eye was indistinguishable, a mess of ooze, the colour white and of blood. For hours, he had held the spade in his hands, digging the ground deep enough so the rotting stench of the decaying corpses wouldn’t upset the prey. Death was a feared smell.
The black bird tormented Kro. When it was not pecking away at the carcasses it was perching above the hollow graves, if it was not perching then it was hopping between the legs of Kro. With each kick he gave the bird it became friendly, forcing Kro to accept its presence, having to ignore its mocking dances.
“What you want from me bird?” The bird starred, crooking its head, its black eyes staring into Kros, those black pearls reflected the light of the blazing sun; the hollow eyes sank deep into Kro. Kro took the pecked bodies and cautiously laid them in the sunken ground, with each new spade of dirt the crow hopped and screeched. Kro imagined the noise of a small child in pain, but as though it was with music, in small bursts but in a consistent rhythm- the noise itself felt to him like it was pecking into his brain, as if it made his mind bleed but was happy in the blanket of warm blood.
The black bird tormented Kro. When it was not pecking away at the carcasses it was perching above the hollow graves, if it was not perching then it was hopping between the legs of Kro. With each kick he gave the bird it became friendly, forcing Kro to accept its presence, having to ignore its mocking dances.
“What you want from me bird?” The bird starred, crooking its head, its black eyes staring into Kros, those black pearls reflected the light of the blazing sun; the hollow eyes sank deep into Kro. Kro took the pecked bodies and cautiously laid them in the sunken ground, with each new spade of dirt the crow hopped and screeched. Kro imagined the noise of a small child in pain, but as though it was with music, in small bursts but in a consistent rhythm- the noise itself felt to him like it was pecking into his brain, as if it made his mind bleed but was happy in the blanket of warm blood.
From that moment, Kro had never seen life so clearly. It bird was not mocking him, it was not playing with him, it was existing the way it was brought into the earth to exist. It could fly but it chose to perch, it could be alone but it chose not to. Kro became obsessed, and he began to think. In solitary he thought. For a person of his tribe he knew too much, and he did not want to be tribe leader but knew that he would be forced to fight to be a tribe leader. Kro had no objections with death, but he wished not to waste his death on a trivial fight of pride. Instead, he exiled, believing his role on Earth was not confined to Lionesq leadership. He was not to fight for his life to rule only to be murdered by a younger, more brutish tribe member.
The black bird followed Kro. Kro never tried to do anything but walk. He walked through many other tribes, he noticed how they were becoming increasingly obsesses with status. With power, the tools in their hands, the hides on their back, the women they raped, the animals they slaughtered. Kro had killed himself, the smell of the red taint of dripping meat was too familiar to him, he knew how to wield a knife. He regularly needed to butcher his own, never for a prize and never to impress. Kro felt so foreign in the land that was meant to be his own. Even as he walked he chose to ignore and avoid any that appeared similar to him. As he walked on, he noticed his pale flesh becoming increasingly darker, and the strangers who saw him noticed all too well his eyes. For a man who had his face in black ink it was a wonder they paid any notice to his ever-increasing sunken eyes.
The black bird followed Kro. Kro never tried to do anything but walk. He walked through many other tribes, he noticed how they were becoming increasingly obsesses with status. With power, the tools in their hands, the hides on their back, the women they raped, the animals they slaughtered. Kro had killed himself, the smell of the red taint of dripping meat was too familiar to him, he knew how to wield a knife. He regularly needed to butcher his own, never for a prize and never to impress. Kro felt so foreign in the land that was meant to be his own. Even as he walked he chose to ignore and avoid any that appeared similar to him. As he walked on, he noticed his pale flesh becoming increasingly darker, and the strangers who saw him noticed all too well his eyes. For a man who had his face in black ink it was a wonder they paid any notice to his ever-increasing sunken eyes.
Kro never considered himself a loner, he like the black bird was simply free of society’s ties. However, as time lingered on Kro became jealous of the black bird. So often it soared into the abyss of the sun, its silhouette flickering in the pupils of Kro, causing him to grow angry with rage. A feeling that he had not felt in his short life, but with each wave of feather above his head the rage became unavoidable, there and present. Kro wanted the black bird dead. Kro needed to eat the black bird, become the black bird. Kro wanted to fly like the black bird. Have feathers like the black bird. He obsessed over how the black bird could be in the air and stay in the air. As he wondered the black brid would hop back around his feet, perch on a tree as he slept, crooking its head, penetrating Kro with a stare as he was moments away from sleep. “Sweet eternity” Kro dreamed, a voice from the black bird, a link to the creature he believed.
Kro’s stomach churned, he had gone days and there was no cattle in site. He could hear the current of water from a stream, he gathered bark, wood, and a stone and haphazard himself a spear for fish. With each throw the fish pierced itself onto the rock arrowhead, the entrails hung out, a trophy for Kro’s efforts. He grabbed the fishes scales and sunk into its meat with his teeth, prying out the bones with his fingers, the moisture caught between his fingers as he ate, holding them together forming a scoop of his hand. Perplexed he looked at his hand and he saw small feathers forming, the black skin was mutating.
Kro’s tribe had a belief. If one were to leave the tribe they would be leaving God behind, without God there is anarchism and carnage. For it is a joined belief that creates the god, a man having faith one his own creates as much faith as one man can only bring. Kro, a believer in the faith of his tribe began to think he has caused blasphemy in his actions. He was sure that he needed to go back to prevent his transformation. He had been gone for so long, he was not sure he would be welcome back; he even doubted if he would be remembered. Kro then thought, with his covered face, they just might.
He roughly remembered how to get back to where his tribe was. Every time that Kro stopped, the black bird would stop, and when he sat, the black bird would now sit on him. It would force its beak between his legs and flap its wings dramatically. Kro bemused by the bird nevertheless forced it off him, he needed to rest and the black bird was distracting. He thought of his desire to kill it, to strangle it. That the black bird may have been a curse, it was the black bird after all that caused him to travel; so why not relieve himself of the curse. Then he discouraged the idea, the bird had brought him here. It was not just his own journey but also the black birds, Kro had always believed in respect. A trait he imagined would have vanquished on his exhibition.
Kro wondered what would become of him. He questioned if they would just banish him if he returned, or if they would judge him for his hunting skills, and the intelligence for that was the original reason he abandoned them. He was smart, the smartest he knew of, he was sure he could persuade them. Yet, his mind reached an epiphany. They would recognise the man that left, but he was now coated in black feathers, and his feet were becoming talons. His toes had decayed off his feet and his foot and splintered into folks. They would not welcome a man such as he, he was a monster, a birdman.
Finally, he approached the tribe, the village was of crude nature, but for Kro it was paradise. For the long exile he had taken, he had longed for a place he could rest. People began to approach him, they had recognised him from the moment he had walked into the village. Not even one talked, they just starred, waiting for Kro to say something, to make a stance, to speak.
“Kro left village. Kro now back. Kro has power of black bird. Strong Kro”.
The tribe began to laugh at Kro.
“Stupid Kro thinks he’s bird”
“Fly birdy Kro”
“You go. Now you back. Now you bird? Kro no brains”.
Kro’s frustration grew, he was standing there before them, half man, half bird, yet they did not believe in him. He was expected to be banished, not ridiculed.
“Kro show you. Kro fly”.
Kro led the tribe to a steep hill that overlooked the landscape, mountains could be seen in the distance, the blazing sun heated the faces of everyone underneath. They followed him to a rock that hung just over the cliff, he walked across it, the black bird hopped every step of the way.
As Kro stood upon the rock he starred at the tribe members as black wings sprouted out from his shoulders. His arms fused and were soon vanished; his face creaked as a beak sprouted where his lips once protruded. The black bird hopped and squawked as the tribe looked on in amusement.
“Now see. Kro is crow. Kro shaped himself to be black bird”.
The black bird flew off into the distance as Kro began to step back for his flight. He chased after the black bird, he had watched so many times as the creature took fight he knew its motions by memory. He leaped and manoeuvred his wings, taking momentum and he took flight, he tasted the clouds, white, and soft, he breathed in the air that smelt rich and fresh. The wind brushed by his face, he dared not open his eyes. For as he did he saw himself plummet towards the earth beneath him, the last thing he could remember was the hit on his head and the warm blood rushing into his skull. It brought him back to a safer place.
The tribe looked on at the dead Kro, who claimed he could find prosperity out of their own tribe, he had believed there was more to creation than what was given to him and he tried. He followed the calling of a black bird, believing himself to become the bird itself. The tribe picked up his body, a half beaten face, bones crushed, skin blackened by the sun, feet cut, possibly self mutilated, and patches of dead leaves plastered on his body. The black bird looked at the broken Kro, it crooked its head, its eyes staring straight into Kro’s. It hopped and it squawked, and as it flew it curved its beak, smiling.
Kro’s stomach churned, he had gone days and there was no cattle in site. He could hear the current of water from a stream, he gathered bark, wood, and a stone and haphazard himself a spear for fish. With each throw the fish pierced itself onto the rock arrowhead, the entrails hung out, a trophy for Kro’s efforts. He grabbed the fishes scales and sunk into its meat with his teeth, prying out the bones with his fingers, the moisture caught between his fingers as he ate, holding them together forming a scoop of his hand. Perplexed he looked at his hand and he saw small feathers forming, the black skin was mutating.
Kro’s tribe had a belief. If one were to leave the tribe they would be leaving God behind, without God there is anarchism and carnage. For it is a joined belief that creates the god, a man having faith one his own creates as much faith as one man can only bring. Kro, a believer in the faith of his tribe began to think he has caused blasphemy in his actions. He was sure that he needed to go back to prevent his transformation. He had been gone for so long, he was not sure he would be welcome back; he even doubted if he would be remembered. Kro then thought, with his covered face, they just might.
He roughly remembered how to get back to where his tribe was. Every time that Kro stopped, the black bird would stop, and when he sat, the black bird would now sit on him. It would force its beak between his legs and flap its wings dramatically. Kro bemused by the bird nevertheless forced it off him, he needed to rest and the black bird was distracting. He thought of his desire to kill it, to strangle it. That the black bird may have been a curse, it was the black bird after all that caused him to travel; so why not relieve himself of the curse. Then he discouraged the idea, the bird had brought him here. It was not just his own journey but also the black birds, Kro had always believed in respect. A trait he imagined would have vanquished on his exhibition.
Kro wondered what would become of him. He questioned if they would just banish him if he returned, or if they would judge him for his hunting skills, and the intelligence for that was the original reason he abandoned them. He was smart, the smartest he knew of, he was sure he could persuade them. Yet, his mind reached an epiphany. They would recognise the man that left, but he was now coated in black feathers, and his feet were becoming talons. His toes had decayed off his feet and his foot and splintered into folks. They would not welcome a man such as he, he was a monster, a birdman.
Finally, he approached the tribe, the village was of crude nature, but for Kro it was paradise. For the long exile he had taken, he had longed for a place he could rest. People began to approach him, they had recognised him from the moment he had walked into the village. Not even one talked, they just starred, waiting for Kro to say something, to make a stance, to speak.
“Kro left village. Kro now back. Kro has power of black bird. Strong Kro”.
The tribe began to laugh at Kro.
“Stupid Kro thinks he’s bird”
“Fly birdy Kro”
“You go. Now you back. Now you bird? Kro no brains”.
Kro’s frustration grew, he was standing there before them, half man, half bird, yet they did not believe in him. He was expected to be banished, not ridiculed.
“Kro show you. Kro fly”.
Kro led the tribe to a steep hill that overlooked the landscape, mountains could be seen in the distance, the blazing sun heated the faces of everyone underneath. They followed him to a rock that hung just over the cliff, he walked across it, the black bird hopped every step of the way.
As Kro stood upon the rock he starred at the tribe members as black wings sprouted out from his shoulders. His arms fused and were soon vanished; his face creaked as a beak sprouted where his lips once protruded. The black bird hopped and squawked as the tribe looked on in amusement.
“Now see. Kro is crow. Kro shaped himself to be black bird”.
The black bird flew off into the distance as Kro began to step back for his flight. He chased after the black bird, he had watched so many times as the creature took fight he knew its motions by memory. He leaped and manoeuvred his wings, taking momentum and he took flight, he tasted the clouds, white, and soft, he breathed in the air that smelt rich and fresh. The wind brushed by his face, he dared not open his eyes. For as he did he saw himself plummet towards the earth beneath him, the last thing he could remember was the hit on his head and the warm blood rushing into his skull. It brought him back to a safer place.
The tribe looked on at the dead Kro, who claimed he could find prosperity out of their own tribe, he had believed there was more to creation than what was given to him and he tried. He followed the calling of a black bird, believing himself to become the bird itself. The tribe picked up his body, a half beaten face, bones crushed, skin blackened by the sun, feet cut, possibly self mutilated, and patches of dead leaves plastered on his body. The black bird looked at the broken Kro, it crooked its head, its eyes staring straight into Kro’s. It hopped and it squawked, and as it flew it curved its beak, smiling.
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