“The land is all too shallowIt is painted on the skyAnd trembles like the wind-shook rainWhen the Raven King passed by”

“Not long, not long my father saidNot long shall you be oursThe Raven King knows all too wellWhich are the fairest flowers.The priest was all too worldlyThough he prayed and rang his bellThe Raven King three candles litThe priest said it was wellHer arms were all too feebleThough she claimed to love me soThe Raven King stretched out his handShe sighed and let me goThe land is all too shallowIt is painted on the skyAnd trembles like the wind-shook rainWhen the Raven King goes by For always and for alwaysI pray remember meUpon the moors, beneath the starsWith the King’s wild company.”

“Like a feather in a dust storm, with no direction The Raven flies through life, helpless and omitted Until night declares and the wind expires. Then it flies to the land of stones and etchings And becomes an Ember, breaking away”

“Oompa-Loompa Land?” He shook his head. “No way. Orange people give me the creeps. I don’t even like fake tans. I’d never be their king.”

“There is nothing else in magic but the wild thought of the bird as it casts itself into the void. There is no creature upon the earth with such potential for magic. Even the least of them may fly straight out of this world and come by chance to the Other Lands. Where does the wind come from that blows upon your face, that fans the pages of your book? Where the harum-scarum magic of small wild creatures meets the magic of Man, where the language of the wind and the rain and the trees can be understood, there we will find the Raven King.”

“One day he trapped a large raven, whose wings he painted red, the breast green, and the tail blue. When a flock of ravens appeared over our hut, Lekh freed the painted bird. As soon as it joined the flock a desperate battle began. The changeling was attacked from all sides. Black, red, green, blue feathers began to drop at our feet. The ravens ran amuck in the skies, and suddenly the painted raven plummeted to the freshly-plowed soil. It was still alive, opening its beak and vainly trying to move its wings. Its eyes had been pecked out, and fresh blood streamed over its painted feathers. It made yet another attempt to flutter up from the sticky earth, but its strength was gone.”