“…And the old church bell still sounds, sending its mournful toll throughout the cemetery. The ravens still caw as they make their way around the grave stones, beady eyes glaring into the darkness of the night. The grave stones themselves still sit here making their mark on the soil. The flowers that give respect to the dead still rest with their roots buried in the earth, their petals wilted and bent as if bearing the weight of the world on their stems. The ancient pines that grow next to the weathered gravestones still reach towards the frigid stars, still seeking for the one thing they cannot have. The same is true for the dead themselves, those poor souls that were once people with lives of grandeur, for they search for the one thing they cannot have, a life among the living.” The young Elvin girl paused and cast her gaze over the crowd of adults, her yellow eyes alert yet far away. She had the audience’s rapt attention, the power of her words casting a spell over the people in the crowd.

“The cries of those who have supposedly long since passed still echo here,” called a new voice, one of a male this time. With fluid movements an Elvin boy came to stand next to the girl, his sea green eyes gentle as he smiled at her. “And they are heard for miles throughout what we call the Valley of the Dead!” he cried. “And as they cry out for the one thing they cannot have the Raven swoops down and tears out their eyes, thus ending the Cries of the Dead! They are rendered silent for evermore, and if they dare rise again then once more shall the ravens strike! For these winged creatures of the air do not take kindly the theatrics of the dead. The Valley of the Dead is silent now, the dreadful stillness of the air smothering. And so the Ravens fly overhead, watching the Valley until the end of time.” The girl once again continued the story, a far away look in her yellow eyes.

“As the Valley is in mourning over the deeds of the Raven, a new shape takes form,” she said, locking eyes with a few of the seated Elves. “It is that of the morning sun, that ageless fireball in the sky that has watched over us for centuries. The sun casts its blinding rays over the earth, throwing those creatures of the shadows into disarray. Yet it is at night when the wonders truly begin. For as the vivid stars appear in the velvet of the night sky, for as the sun sets, it is the moon that rises and thus takes charge of the future. The push and pull of the tides, that ancient rhythmic dance, still moves the earth. And the earth itself, just as the moon waxes and wanes, just as the sun rises and sets, is an ever-changing pulsing being.” Now the story had taken a form of its own, the changing scenes being described gliding smoothly into one another. It seemed now that it was not the children giving life to the story, but the story giving life to the children. The story itself seemed to be whispering words to the pair as they spoke, and that is what marks the true art of storytelling.

“But the Ballad of the Dead is not yet finished!” cried the boy. “For the story of those who have passed is never ceasing. Even as the raven’s spread their mighty wings and take flight into the vast expanse of the sky, the creatures of the night awaken at last from their slumber! Wolves prowl through the Valley of the Dead and those vile scavengers of the air, the appalling crow, swoops through the clouds to take the job of the majestic raven. But these winged creatures of the air do not approve of the crow, and seeks to destroy these vile beings.” A hushed silence falls over the crowd, each person awaiting with baited breaths the actions of the raven. The boy’s eyes flashed with a deadly light and it seemed as though he was no longer there in the forest, but in the Valley of the Dead itself. Sensing that it was her time the girl slid smoothly forward and cried out, “But the crows are intelligent beings, and know how to avoid the actions of the raven. Scratching with their talons, they fend off the protectors of the dead! However even these beings know when to hide. With a last infuriating screech the crows wheel away into the clouds, never to be see again. And as the raven’s settle down to watch over the Valley of the Dead once more, those who have passed on know that they have only to wait until the next wax and wane of the moon. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the Light Elves, is the end of the Ballad of the Dead.” So the children ended their tale and retreated into the darkening forest.