This Side of the Pond

Reassuring news from across the pond: the United Kingdom will not be collapsing at this time. The number of large black corvids housed at the Tower of London is no longer in danger of falling below the threshold that would have spelled our immediate doom.

This is thanks to two little heroes by the names of Huginn and Muninn. Together, they form the resident breeding pair stationed at the Tower of London and are responsible for laying enough eggs to keep the local raven population steady.

Legend has it that the Tower will fall if its ravens fly away – and so will the kingdom around it. Obviously there are more important things to worry about, but it’s best not to tempt fate in such matters.

According to the legend, there must always be ravens at the Tower. Nobody knows when the birds first took up residence, but the fortress itself is coming up on its thousandth birthday.

It was a prison for most of its existence, but has also served as the secure location for the Crown Jewels (even today), a public record office, a treasury, an armory, a menagerie and the home of the Royal Mint.

However, it wasn’t until the 1600s that the ravens became necessary decorations. The legend is said to come from the reign of Charles II, who had reason to be overly superstitious.

King Charles watched as one catastrophe after another befell the capital city, including a plague and the Great Fire of London. I’m not sure why he linked all this to the ravens, but he is said to have decreed that there must always be at least six of them to prevent disaster. It’s said the royal astronomer was less than pleased with his announcement, because the ravens kept getting in the way of his observations.

Is there any truth to the story? Ordinarily I’d call it a bunch of olde time bunkum, but there’s one story that seems to suggest otherwise.

During World War II, the ravens were understandably upset by the bombs that kept landing on London. Several left their post until, just as the Blitz reached its worst point and the fortunes of Britain were at their most uncertain, only a single raven remained.

His name was Grip, and we should be thankful he stuck around. Even if you question Grip’s contribution to military strategy, you can’t deny that we never did get invaded by Hitler’s army.

Strange as the decree might seem – and even stranger that we’re still adhering to it now – it’s not the only creature-based myth about the security of the kingdom. On Gibraltar, you’ll find a world-famous band of Barbary Macaques.

The monkeys were there before the Brits turned up – they probably predated us by several hundred years – but the tale is told of a combined effort between Spain and France at the end of the eighteenth century to wrest control of Gibraltar from its British occupants.

The surprise attack was foiled when the monkeys kicked up a fuss, alerting nearby soldiers. So long as there are monkeys on the Rock of Gibraltar, it’s said the British will maintain control.

In World War II, the monkey population dropped to just seven, prompting a panic from Sir Winston Churchill. He ordered their ranks to be replenished, concerned what their loss might do to Britain’s wartime morale. Today, there are plentiful monkeys in residence, most of them preoccupied with devising new ways to thieve cameras from tourists.

Back at the Tower, the ravens roam the grounds throughout the day, though visitors are warned not to get too close because they can be a little bitey. To keep them from wandering off, one of their wings is clipped to make them slightly unbalanced in flight – it doesn’t harm them, but you can see why they might be grumpy.

Some of the birds do manage to escape, of course, including Grog in 1981. He was last seen outside a pub called the “Rose and Punchbowl” in the East End, so he certainly lived up to his name.

The Tower’s new inhabitants have increased the population to a reassuring nine. One of them has already been given the name Edgar (without the “Allen Poe”.)

The Ravenmaster has created a shortlist for the second baby bird and is allowing the public to take their pick. As well as having probably the best job title of all time, he is clearly a sensible man, because he isn’t allowing the Brits to come up with their own potential monikers.

Sadly, this means we won’t have a Raven McRavenface flapping around the Tower. On the plus side, the alternatives we’ve been given are pretty cool.

The chick may end up named after the Celtic deity Branwen, whose name means “Blessed Raven,” or she might be titled Brontë after the literary sisters who gave us “Wuthering Heights” and “Jane Eyre.” The public might choose to call her Winifred, after the Countess of Nithsdale, who managed to break her husband out of the Tower in 1716 by disguising him as a woman.

Our little bird might be named Florence, after Ms. Nightingale, the pioneering British nurse. She could also be called Matilda, though not in honor of the one from the Roald Dahl books; instead, she would be named for the medieval Empress Matilda, who battled her cousin Stephen of Blois over her claim to the throne of England in the twelfth century.

I think my vote goes to Branwen, if someone could please pass that on to the Ravenmaster. It doesn’t seem like a bad idea to invoke a little otherworldly favor, just in case there’s any truth to this myth. I might be several thousand miles away, but I do like knowing my homeland will still be standing next time I visit.