The raven

St Kevin knew a thing or two about ravens. His prophetic doom saying, preached up and down the land, earned him the name Raven-dark.

The people would shudder at the sight of the tall cloaked figure, making his way along the track into the village, his staff thumping into the mud in time with his heavy, stolid tread.

The square was his destination. He would stand there, waiting.
The ravens swooped, gathering about him, the whirr of feathers and their harsh croaking filling the cold air.

Th...