The Keeper of Names

In the days when truth moved faster underground than through the sky, and some names held more weight than actions, Raven flew beyond the mapped kingdoms, seeking the ones who remembered the stories right.

The land she entered now was hushed and green, grown wild with memory. Thick vines wove through the bones of old trade routes, and the air hummed with the low pulse of rooted things. Here lived the Keeper of Names, tucked in a dwelling shaped like a listening ear and nestled beneath a birch whose bark peeled like stories waiting to be told.

The Keeper was a quiet sort, known for speaking rarely but never forgetting a word. Some said they cataloged truths, others called them a myth. But Raven had heard of their skill: not in maps, but in memory.

The Keeper looked up from a long scroll of names and details, their face calm as still water. They did not squint at Raven's colors, nor frown at her offbeat path. Instead, they said, "You're earlier than I thought you'd be."

"You knew I was coming?"

"I knew you'd be misread. Misread birds always find their way here."

Raven tilted her head. "I try to explain, but, "

"Let them talk," the Keeper said gently. "You're not theirs to decode."

A silence bloomed. Then Raven laughed, not to deflect, but because it felt good. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a feather she'd been saving, one she hadn't known the purpose of until now. It shimmered like oil on water. "Would you add this to your scroll?"

The Keeper took it reverently. "A name isn’t a sound, it's a story. You bring many."

Later, a band of travelers arrived from the west. One, wrapped in fine fabric and tighter opinions, parroted a tale about a reckless Raven who disrupted the maps.

The Keeper did not flinch. "That is not the Raven I know," they said, their voice as soft as moss but firm as stone. "Some people study maps. Others live the land. I trust the one who’s flown it."

The travelers grew quiet. Raven said nothing. She didn’t need to.

That night, Raven and the Keeper shared a fire with no agenda. The smoke curled upward, free and wild, and no one tried to catch it. Raven’s curiosity flickered, still bright, still untamed, but here, it was not a threat. It was simply a flame.

And for the first time in many moons, Raven slept with both eyes closed.

© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.