The Raven That the Chronicles Forgot

Eighteen ninety-five. That's the first time — the very first — anyone put it in writing that the Tower of London keeps special ravens. Not under the Tudors. Not under the Stuarts. Late nineteenth century, an age when gothic novels were read by gaslight and the Victorians adored anything dark and mysterious.

Look at the White Tower — there it is, pale stone, almost chalky under a grey sky. This is exactly where the legend attached itself to Brân the Blessed, a giant out of Welsh myth, whose head is said to be buried under this very hill as a charm protecting Britain. A convenient coincidence. Maybe too convenient.

In two thousand four, historian Geoffrey Parnell went through every archive he could find — and turned up no decree from Charles the Second, no astronomer Flamsteed, no prophecy about the crown. Just a later, romantic invention. And the Yeoman Warders — the Tower's own guards — by one insider's account, were happy to keep the myth alive: if the monarchy depends on your birds, you're not just a guard anymore.

During the Second World War, the bombing wiped out almost the entire flock. Only one raven survived — Molly. The crown did not fall. But the birds were quickly replaced, and ever since, the Tower has kept eight: six on duty and two in reserve. The legend, it turns out, needs a quorum.

Here's what gets me. The myth is younger than the London Underground. And yet it lives on — rustling black wings, smelling of wet stone and river — and hardly anyone seems to want to check the facts.

An episode like this takes about two minutes to make: name a topic, and the rest is done for you. moygid dot online.