Excerpt of Let Us All Pray Now to Our Own Strange Gods by John Brantingham

The Secrets of Crows Harrison is sitting on the front step of his cabin on day thirty-five of an annual forty-day trip into the back country when a crow bounces up ten feet in front of him. It’s because he’s been sitting so still, he knows, for so long. He’s been doing that, sitting still for long periods of time, for about a week since his reading material ran out. Before he’d come up for this yearly survey of the water in the back country, he’d become interested in the field of world history -- the study of trends that know no nationality, and in fact often occurred before nations had risen. He’d become fascinated with the subject because of a friend who was finishing his Ph.D. on the idea that cross cultural contacts helped to spur medical advances more than any other force. His friend had fitted him out with a library before he left, one that seemed sufficient for his forty days and nights in the wilderness, but he devoured the books, and since he’s finished them, he has been left with nothing but his thoughts, which have been spinning around the big ideas of the universe: free will, objective truth, history -- all as they relate to world history. He has thought his thoughts and spoken to no one for so long now that it seems that there is nothing in his life but this. So this is the mood he is in when the bird bounces in front of him, and this disposition probably accounts for his sudden desire to throw himself on the bird, to catch the bird, to hunt, in other words, as his ancestors hunted before there were nations or even the most basic technologies, like stone tools. His primal forebears are pushing him to rush forward and grab the bird and eat it. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s rising slowly to his feet. Rushing forward and diving would be stupid. The bird would be up and into the safety of the air before Harrison were even standing. He has to do this correctly if he’s going to do it at all, so he becomes upright only slowly getting into a stance when the crow has turned its back on Harrison to peck at something on the ground. He tries to imagine himself back ages ago, hungry, alone, hoping not to starve and knowing that this bird will save him for a while at least. It’s the most important thing in the world -- he can’t chase it too soon, but he can’t wait too long either, else his meal will simply move on. The critical moment comes. Harrison can see it and knows that it’s there. The bird has bounced once again, making its vision of the world bounce around it, confusing it for half a second perhaps, enough time perhaps, and in that moment, Harrison has launched himself towards the crow taking two steps before it seems to notice him, another before it begins to stretch its wings. He takes a fourth and throws himself into the air headfirst towards the only thing in the world that matters anymore. And Harrison can see his hands stretching out before him. He sees his fingers touch the animal’s tail feathers. He’s close enough almost to grasp something, but then there he is, sliding on his belly crossing a couple of feet of grass, and turning over to lie on his back, so he can watch the crow fly away. It circles above him once, the crucifix of its body transecting the sun, and then it drifts away. Harrison’s meal is lost to him. Lying on his back, he smiles. He is, of course, glad that he missed the opportunity, glad he isn’t feasting at this moment on the living blood of the bird, but he feels that he’s being watched. He looks around without bothering to sit up, but he knows what it is. It’s not animals or people or even satellites circling above him and spying down on him. It’s his ancestor now, watching him mutely, considering his failure with the crow, wondering what it is that Harrison will do next.