By Paul Carrier
It’s not at all unusual for people who have interesting careers — surgeons, veterinarians, prominent trial lawyers, athletes — to write about their professional exploits. But you might be hard-pressed to find a memoir from an author with a more exotic job, or a bigger mouthful of a job title, than Christopher Skaife
Skaife, a native-born Briton and a veteran of the British Army, is a yeoman warder (yes, warder, not warden) assigned to Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, the Tower of London, and a member of the Sovereign’s Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary.
Which means what, exactly? Skaife is part of a team that provides tours, security and other services at the Tower. In Skaife’s case, its those added duties that are the most interesting; Skaife is in charge of the ravens that live at the Tower of London, hence the title of The Ravenmaster. His job is to keep the Tower’s seven resident ravens safe, healthy, happy and, ideally, on the premises.
That is no small task, because the ravens are large (three times the size of a crow), highly intelligent, sometimes mischievous birds that can fly away if they choose (although their flight feathers get trimmed a bit). Ravens may or may not have lived at the Tower since the 17th century, but they definitely have done so since the late 1800s. Legend has it that, if they ever leave, the Tower will crumble to dust and great harm will befall the kingdom.
Thanks to his position and his personality, Skaife is, by turns, a historian, folklorist, raconteur, student of animal (and human) behavior, and humorist. He does occasionally venture beyond the confines of the Tower in The Ravenmaster, to look back on his youth in Dover and his military service. (All of the yeoman warders assigned to the Tower previously served in the armed forces.)
But not surprisingly, the birds are the primary focus of Skaife’s memoir: those at the Tower, with whom he tries to speak “ravenish,” and those Skaife has seen elsewhere. Skaife clearly loves them, describing ravens as “some of the world’s most extraordinary nonhuman creatures.” Recalling the time he once spotted two ravens in Cornwall, circling side by side and diving and turning in formation, he says the spectacle “moved me more than any human performance ever could.”
Each of the avian occupants of the Tower — Munin (who died during the publication of the book and has been succeeded by Poppy), Merlina, Erin, Rocky, Jubilee II, Gripp II and Harris — is profiled individually in The Ravenmaster, with short biographical sketches that include gender, age, and the month and year in which the bird “entered Tower service,” as Skaife puts it.
A sampling: Merlina, the “Tower Princess,” is a free-spirited loner who steals sandwiches from tourists and has been known to “play dead” by lying on her back with her wings spread and her feet in the air, much to the dismay of visitors. Erin, one of the smallest but noisiest ravens, loves to “invade another bird’s territory, pick a fight, cause all sorts of commotion, and then suddenly back off.”
The Tower itself, which was founded close to 1,000 years ago, figures prominently in Skaife’s memoir, thanks to a storied past that has made it a World Heritage Site, a celebrated tourist attraction and the supposed haunt of assorted ghosts, including that of Anne Boleyn, who was beheaded there in 1636.
Skaife doesn’t put much stock in such spirited tales, but he believes there are “echoes of the past” everywhere at the Tower, “shadows that beckon and call out to us . . . .” When the sun sets and the shadows grow long, “memories and imaginings of a bloody and glorious past” come to the fore.
Written with wit, insight and verve, The Ravenmaster will appeal to fans of British history and, of course, to bird lovers. None of the Tower’s ravens cries out “Nevermore,” but the author does offer a tip of his ornate hat to Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens (the latter had pet ravens), as well as to assorted experts whose work Skaife has studied.
The Tower ravens “have a job to do,” Skaife writes, “upholding tradition and reminding us of our past. In return, they get their food and lodgings for free. They rely on us, and we rely on them.”
Skaife, a native-born Briton and a veteran of the British Army, is a yeoman warder (yes, warder, not warden) assigned to Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, the Tower of London, and a member of the Sovereign’s Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary.
Which means what, exactly? Skaife is part of a team that provides tours, security and other services at the Tower. In Skaife’s case, its those added duties that are the most interesting; Skaife is in charge of the ravens that live at the Tower of London, hence the title of The Ravenmaster. His job is to keep the Tower’s seven resident ravens safe, healthy, happy and, ideally, on the premises.
That is no small task, because the ravens are large (three times the size of a crow), highly intelligent, sometimes mischievous birds that can fly away if they choose (although their flight feathers get trimmed a bit). Ravens may or may not have lived at the Tower since the 17th century, but they definitely have done so since the late 1800s. Legend has it that, if they ever leave, the Tower will crumble to dust and great harm will befall the kingdom.
Thanks to his position and his personality, Skaife is, by turns, a historian, folklorist, raconteur, student of animal (and human) behavior, and humorist. He does occasionally venture beyond the confines of the Tower in The Ravenmaster, to look back on his youth in Dover and his military service. (All of the yeoman warders assigned to the Tower previously served in the armed forces.)
But not surprisingly, the birds are the primary focus of Skaife’s memoir: those at the Tower, with whom he tries to speak “ravenish,” and those Skaife has seen elsewhere. Skaife clearly loves them, describing ravens as “some of the world’s most extraordinary nonhuman creatures.” Recalling the time he once spotted two ravens in Cornwall, circling side by side and diving and turning in formation, he says the spectacle “moved me more than any human performance ever could.”
Each of the avian occupants of the Tower — Munin (who died during the publication of the book and has been succeeded by Poppy), Merlina, Erin, Rocky, Jubilee II, Gripp II and Harris — is profiled individually in The Ravenmaster, with short biographical sketches that include gender, age, and the month and year in which the bird “entered Tower service,” as Skaife puts it.
A sampling: Merlina, the “Tower Princess,” is a free-spirited loner who steals sandwiches from tourists and has been known to “play dead” by lying on her back with her wings spread and her feet in the air, much to the dismay of visitors. Erin, one of the smallest but noisiest ravens, loves to “invade another bird’s territory, pick a fight, cause all sorts of commotion, and then suddenly back off.”
The Tower itself, which was founded close to 1,000 years ago, figures prominently in Skaife’s memoir, thanks to a storied past that has made it a World Heritage Site, a celebrated tourist attraction and the supposed haunt of assorted ghosts, including that of Anne Boleyn, who was beheaded there in 1636.
Skaife doesn’t put much stock in such spirited tales, but he believes there are “echoes of the past” everywhere at the Tower, “shadows that beckon and call out to us . . . .” When the sun sets and the shadows grow long, “memories and imaginings of a bloody and glorious past” come to the fore.
Written with wit, insight and verve, The Ravenmaster will appeal to fans of British history and, of course, to bird lovers. None of the Tower’s ravens cries out “Nevermore,” but the author does offer a tip of his ornate hat to Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens (the latter had pet ravens), as well as to assorted experts whose work Skaife has studied.
The Tower ravens “have a job to do,” Skaife writes, “upholding tradition and reminding us of our past. In return, they get their food and lodgings for free. They rely on us, and we rely on them.”
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