Of Raven (Redactor’s Addendum)

It was December 2nd, when Herschel took that test. The first Monday of December.

I don’t remember what we did on December 1st. Nothing much, I imagine. The usual Sunday stuff: Herschel sat, I washed the dishes, Herschel wrote, I watched the tube.

It was on the 2nd, on that Monday, that his and my December began in earnest. With that test that Herschel took after school.

That was the first thing that happened.

So it should go at the start, shouldn’t it?

That’s where I’ve put it, for now.

“Of Raven,” I mean. Herschel’s story about the test, from his papers.

I’m putting “Of Raven” at the start, even though it was not the first thing my brother wrote in December.

Not by a long shot.

He wrote so much. He always did, from the start. Right from the moment he came out of that shell of his.

Even when he didn’t have anything he wanted to write about—which was rare, mind you—even then, he’d write. He’d write something. Even if it was just the same line, over and over.

And it was, sometimes. The same line, I mean, over and over.

Down one sheet of ruled paper, and down the next.

He always wrote so much. And he wrote even more than usual in December, naturally.

I’ve put “Of Raven” at the start, for now. But I guess you could argue that it’s not right, putting it there.

Seeing as it was only written later, on the 16th, the third Monday.

The 16th, or maybe even later. I don’t know exactly when my brother wrote “Of Raven.”

Herschel wrote a little heading at the top of every page, in his papers. Just like in a real book. You know the way they put chapter titles at the top of the pages, in real books?

He’d write the title, and sometimes a date, too, just under the title. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe half of them have a date? Half, give or take. Something like that.

My point is, “Of Raven” isn’t one of the ones with a date. So, although I believe that Herschel wrote “Of Raven” on December 16th, I can’t really know for sure.

I do believe it, however.

If he wrote “Of Raven” later on, that would mean he had started with something else, when he sat down on the night of the 16th and began writing his so-called “December chronicle.”

It would mean he had told the story out of order. And why would he do that?

I don’t know. Maybe he did write the story out of order. He did all kinds of things, and he always had his reasons for them.

You could argue that I should be starting at the start of his papers, as opposed to the start of our story.

Instead of starting with “Of Raven,” from the 16th or even later, I should be starting with—what?

With “Of Intransigence”? That one’s from the 1st of December, it says so at the top of the page.

I am sorry but

You think you know

Do you REALLY think that

With all due respect, I

He wrote so many

You

I don’t think it’s

I don’t think it’s right, to start the Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen with “Of Intransigence.”

I don’t think it’s right to put “Of Intransigence” in his Book at all, in fact.

He didn’t tell me to collect all his papers, and bind them up into some big, orderly, unreadable omnibus. He told me to make them whole.

I know what my brother meant by that, even if you don’t.

You think you know EVERYTHING about Herschel Schoen already and yet you’re begging me, don’t leave anything out

As if what, as if you NEED any of it, don’t you know EVERYTHING already

What, do you think I should put everything in? Top to bottom, start to finish? You can’t stand to see a single page left out, can you?

Every last page is a relic of your holy Herschel, precious unto itself, in need of your prayers and obeisances. You must touch them all, with your reverent and trembling hands.

Every last page?

Even the ones that were just the same line, written over and over?

Even the ones covered in little puncture marks, like from a cat’s claws, but they weren’t made by a cat, they were made by Herschel’s pen, pressing too hard onto the page, because he couldn’t control what was rushing out from inside him, the anger or the happiness or

It’s not all like “Of Raven,” you know.

It’s not all as nice as “Of Raven.”

You know what I mean. Carefully thought-through, and dolled up in nice words and phrases, the kind you might find in a real book. And telling a story, just like a real book would.

My brother didn’t always write like that. But he could. When he wanted to, he did.

He could speak plainly, like you or I would speak, in a way that you or I could easily understand. If anyone says he couldn’t, I’d like to have a word with them! I have the proof, right here!

He could have explained his little world in simple and plain words, like I used to do, when people would ask.

Like this:

There’s a secret that only babies know.

Somewhere in the sky, there’s a magical, amazing world, bigger and better than this one. We all used to live there, our souls did, before we were born.

When you’re a baby, you can still remember what it was like. You can still remember that you had a life before you were born, in the magical place in the sky.

But everyone forgets about the whole thing, sometime in the first few years of life.

Some kids forget early, in the first few months. Others hang on to the memory for a bit longer.

By the time a kid says his first word, though, it’s always too late. He’s forgotten, completely, about the world in the sky, and his life before he was born.

If babies could talk, or write, they’d tell you all about it. But they can’t, so they don’t.

So no one knows, except the babies. And the rest of us don’t even know that the babies have a secret, much less what the secret is.

When babies cry for no apparent reason, they’re really crying about how much worse this world is, compared to the world in the sky. When they flail around, like they can’t control their arms and fingers, it’s really because they are still used to the bodies they had before, when they lived in the sky.

Babies aren’t stupid, or senseless. They just seem that way because we’ve forgotten the secret they know.

Everyone forgets, by the time they learn to talk, except my brother Herschel. He still remembers.

He could have said it like that, without any of his usual riddles, if he’d wanted to.

He said it in his way, instead, because he chose to. He always had his reasons.

He had his reasons, too, for writing the story of his December the way he did, over that last week-and-a-half.

Writing it all nice, the way it is in “Of Raven,” and “Of War,” and the rest.

Why

What am I doing,

Is this what you want?

A critical edition? Calendar dates and editor’s notes and minutiae?

What—do you think my brother’s words can’t speak for themselves?

But I am trying to convince myself as much as anyone, I guess.

He told his story, as a story, and told me to make it whole, with my story in it, as a story.

I don’t have a story.

I don’t have a story. That is exactly what I have learned and what I have tried to say and explain over the last

Do your best, now, Miriam. If your little brother can do it, you can too.

 

 

I look back at this and see that it is all so dry and dusty—and so grim and heavy, too.

I mustn’t set the wrong tone.

I mustn’t make it sound as though the dark air of December took the lightness and gaiety out of my spirit, and made me grim. No, no!

Much the opposite!

It was just like Herschel would say, to me and Ma: “this is a time of merriment, and of rejoicing.”

So what that he said it over and over, and over, until it tried our patience?

He was right.