We continued to roost at UW Bothell and its wetlands with an army of domestic animals starting their new lives in our vicinity. We all banded together—a necessary adaptation for survival. We were an odd and unprecedented bunch—birds and reptiles and great apes and cats and an ark-load of zoo animals—but a known adage of nature became our motto. Kraai once said to me, “We are more powerful when we work together because we look out for one another by being one. That is the code of murder.” Kraai still said it all the time so it was easy to remember. We stockpiled food, grew in numbers, and collected MoFo things that the parrot pandemonium and I deemed valuable. We kept localized peace, even with some of the larger predators like the flamingo-snuffing snow leopard and the mama bear and cubs from the university public library who sought shelter from The Changed Ones. We all sought shelter. There were triumphs, like fending off The One Who Spits who showed up in many forms, and tribulations, like Orange the orangutan’s beastly marital problems (they all stemmed from him discovering and coveting a healthy stash of Victoria’s Secret catalogs). Kraai thrived in his role as the head of the Sky Sentinels. Pressa became a true MoFo apprentice, assiduously reciting MoFo words and, eventually, Bon Jovi lyrics. Ghubari became an unspoken leader, enlisting the help of the elephants to keep the peace, though even they were anxious around a short-haired tyrant named Genghis Cat. Migisi was the only living organism brave enough to mess with that cat. She was, after all, an adventure eagle.
There would always be dangers, especially with the ever-changing MoFos, but we focused on our present joy, which blossomed like a pink valerian flower growing through a crack in concrete. Perhaps the darker times made the good times sweeter, like the caramelized edge of a marshmallow, but it’s hard to say. We were too busy living to dwell on these sorts of things.
One night, Kraai, Ghubari, Pressa, and a small assemblage of noble birds—a Steller’s sea eagle, a northern harrier, and a sharp-shinned hawk—came to me (I now joined the murder as they met to socialize on the UW rooftops and roosted with them in the treetops of the north creek wetlands). It was an odd group of austere-looking birds of prey who said they had something to show me.
“We are going on a journey. You can tell no one,” said the northern harrier with resting death face.
I had questions. “Where—”
“SHHHH!” They all shushed me in unison, this strange, sneaky conglomeration of feathereds.
“It has to be top secret,” said the enormous Steller’s sea eagle. “We will not discuss any of this—not even among ourselves—until we have arrived.” I looked at Pressa and Kraai for confirmation. Pressa nodded in agreement with the eagle and his terrifying beak that was roughly the size of a toaster.
“Trust us,” she said.
Trust, that raspberry-flavored treat, was something I embraced, even cached, and though they didn’t seem the most lighthearted of travel companions with their intense raptor expressions, I trusted Pressa, Ghubari, and Kraai enough to follow blindly. Once I had Migisi’s promise to carry me, the matter was settled. And so, in the dead of night, we silently lifted into the sky. This was especially strange given that we were all diurnal birds and how much Ghubari loves his sleep.
The air had grown colder, breathing ice into our feathers. We headed due north, following a mind map delivered to Migisi in the utmost confidence. The journey was indeed a fucking long one. We slept in evergreens, and by day we flew over snowcapped mountains and rivers and streams that sparkled as if filled with loose diamonds. One morning, as Aura erupted around us, we flew over the crowns of trees that were draped in a giant netting of silver silks. I felt Migisi shudder beneath me and I knew that we were looking at the homes and damage of The Weavers. We pressed on, through rain and sun, choosing to focus on our secret mission instead of the darkness that spun its savagery below.
And I have to be honest with you here and tell you that I knew exactly what we were going for. It had been clear from the shine in Kraai’s eyes, from the barely contained excitement that threatened to bubble out of the northern harrier, and the hawk’s incessant talon taps, that this really had been a top secret mission just for yours truly. They had approached me in the manner Big Jim had when he had offered Tiffany S. a ring with three diamonds on it that we worked double shifts to afford. And so I already knew as we left the safety of the Sky Sentinels and the boundaries of our recently defended territory that Kraai and this little circle of imposing birds had located someone for me. I already knew, deep within my bird bones, that when we’d land we’d be met by a small lump of wrinkly folds. A slobbering codpiece of a canine who would eventually chew through and ravage my sacred Cheetos® stash, bay loud enough that little black fledglings would tumble from low branches, and wreak general havoc on the college murder. There weren’t many bloodhounds in Seattle, so the long journey made sense, and to be honest, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea. How could any poor dog live up to my Dennis? I didn’t want a replacement, but I didn’t know how to turn down this elaborate gift, how to crush the excitement of birds with talons like pocket katanas. So I tried to think about other things, but found myself enjoying imagining what the pup might be like—whether he or she would, like young Dennis, bark at mustard bottles and have to overcome a fear of windshield wipers. I kept it to myself and feigned total ignorance, concentrating on the beauty of the flight, from the hairy musk oxen that grazed happily on emerald hills to the pod of narwhals we skimmed above, darting between their majestic horns as they whistled a well-wishing song. What a surprise and a delight to see them so far south. But the farther we flew, the more I felt my heart quivering, the more I imagined a pair of stupid melted eyes, and soon I found myself shivering with excitement. And I tell you, eventually, I just couldn’t wait to meet him. Listen, I knew he wouldn’t be Dennis, but I also knew I’d teach him all the things I’d taught Dennis while he lounged around and licked his nuts, terrorized salacious squirrels, or bulldozed the unruly flower beds on the college grounds. I wanted to scream my gratitude to Kraai and my new friends for the touching gesture. It honestly took every ounce of my energy not to sing.
And then we flew over a devastatingly beautiful landscape. I suddenly recalled the words of a waxy monkey tree frog I’d once encountered…
Pass the moonstone river, he had said, and I heard his croaky voice on repeat as we sailed over a radiant river. Its waters looked exactly like the precious silvery white and icy blues of a moonstone gem.
“What is this? Below us?” I called out to Kraai.
While cruising below the clouds, he dipped his head to take in the breathtaking scene underneath him and said, “Moonstone river.” I realized at that precise moment that the alpine carpet of trees were all pointing one branch north, guiding us forward and the skin under my plumage erupted into microscopic mountains. How had that weird little frog known I’d be here?
We eventually finished our avian tour with the Bering Sea and touched down to grass, surrounded by an abandoned village that had a sign that read “Welcome To Nunakauyak (Toksook Bay). We do not allow drugs/alcohol in our community. Violators will be prosecuted per our Nunakauyarmiut Tribal Codes.” There was an abandoned yellow seaplane, presumably how MoFos flew to this remote village before the virus wiped everyone away. This had been the home of the Yup’ik, a First Nations people who were hunters and gatherers. A lineage of bloodhounds must live in this small village, tucked away in a sequestered envelope, an Alaskan sanctuary. We fluttered over to the top of a quaint little house, which sat next to a mud-splattered ATV resting peacefully for eternity. And across from the roof where we sat was a mural that stopped my pulse. On a brick wall, someone with great skill—the skill only a MoFo could have—had made a black ink drawing of a bird rising above an evergreen. In its beak, the bird held an eight-pointed star. Next to the bird was a perfect MoFo handprint. My skin rippled with bumps.
The bird was a crow.
This was the same depiction I’d seen at the horrible Seattle town house with the drug para
phernalia and a MoFo hanging by a rope and a litter of huskies that wouldn’t have survived another day. I looked at my travel companions—raptors with eyes as sharp as a blade’s edge—all beckoning for me to follow them to the open doorway of the tiny house whose roof I sat and shivered on.
I hopped back onto Migisi’s chocolate feathers and we dropped to the ground. Dismounting, I shuffled up three wooden steps and through the frame of a green front door. Inside was chilly. There were cobwebs hanging over pots, and dishes littered the tiny kitchen sink. A charming old wooden stove, the likes of which I’d only seen on the History Channel, sat moodily, dreaming of hot stew. A pair of muddy boots rested lonely on the floor, calling out to be worn again. The northern harrier, sharp-shinned hawk, and the Steller’s sea eagle all watched me. And surrounding the puppy, in front of the hawks and the eagle, in front of Kraai who gazed at them in awe, were five snowy owls. They had faces like perfect porcelain dinner plates, the alabaster plumage below their necks erupting into dappled black and white that looked like the salt and peppering of a thousand distant birds in flight.
The snowy owls were unsure. I could feel their uncertainty hovering like the motes of dust that danced through the cabin. It was written in their chatoyant yellow eyes. Kraai was facing my new friend, the little wrinkled pup with his droopy eyes, his fat little fawn belly and enormous spongy paws that he had yet to grow into. One of the snowy owls inched itself closer to the tiny puppy. Kraai looked back at me, his eyes full of expectancy. He was looking to me for answers. Pressa’s eyes were wide and shiny. The eagles and hawks parted, giving way to me as I approached the bloodhound pup. And as I stood next to the five magnificent owls who held their breath in my presence, I realized that it wasn’t a bloodhound baby. It was a MoFo baby.
The tiny MoFo was sleeping, bundled crudely in all sorts of material—kitchen towels, sheep’s fleece, a paper bag, a pair of shorts. She was a little girl and her cheeks were flushed like blushing fireweed blooms, her tiny hands balled by her sides. And the moment I laid my beady little hybrid eyes upon you, my nestling, I was a goner. I fell in love with the smoothness of your skin and the roundness of your perfect little face that felt like discovering a new planet and a whole new beginning, a new chance at life. The owls had done the best they could, bundling you in their feathers to keep you warm, feeding you with what they scavenged—mostly water and drops of nectar and fresh wild honey—but you were starving and malnourished despite their efforts and so I vowed then and there, my nestling, that I would take over your care and I would be your guardian against this New World. I remembered how Pressa told me that all females are survivors and you are no exception. This is the moment I vowed to teach you everything I could about how to survive the sharp edges of where we now lived. I named you Dee after your Uncle Dennis, who I promised to tell you all about and who lives on in everything we do. Uncle Dennis who floated away on the wings of a butterfly.
And my big journey, the one I slowly tell you as a bedtime story—along with The Hobbit because that’s a goddamned classic—is how I know what I’ve told you is true. About how Mother Nature is not kind, but she is balanced. Every single one of us, from amoeba to blue whale to the tenacious bloom that dares to dream of tomorrow, have their own destiny-fulfilling journey as long as their minds and hearts are open. And how we are all connected by a web that looks gossamer but is stronger than a chain-link fence. And though Nature is tough, she is always conspiring for your success, encouraging you to evolve. You can even hear her if you listen carefully.
I am The One Who Keeps you, my nestling. I am The One Who Keeps us safe. I’m The One Who Keeps the stories alive. I’m The One Who Keeps up hope, staving off The Black Tide. I am not just one thing but a combination of them, peacock proud and imperfect. And I have kept my promise that I would tell you everything when you were old enough to understand. As an honorary MoFo, I’m here to be utterly honest and tell you what happened to your kind. The thing none of us saw coming.
And somewhere far away in a world we feel but cannot see, a bloodhound named Dennis now lives a dream where he chases rabbits in a field, trailing every last delicious smell to the ends of the earth and far, far, far beyond.
And somewhere in the ocean is a giant Pacific octopus. She pours forward, fluid and bone-free, on the tail of a current. Only she is the current, a magical liquid wonder and the fluid sum of Mother Nature’s wisdom.
It is known.
Acknowledgments
Thank you first and foremost to my superstar agent, Bill Clegg, for his incomparable brilliance, his vulpine instincts, and eagle eyes. This book was elevated in every possible way because of his guidance and literary finesse. I am eternally grateful. If Shit Turd got to Freaky Friday himself into a human, he would choose to be Bill Clegg.
My heartfelt thanks to all the incredible MoFos at The Clegg Agency—Simon Toop, David Kambhu, and Marion Duvert for shepherding Hollow Kingdom along its amazing journey. Many thanks to Chris Clemans. And special thanks to my wonderful film and television agent, Kassie Evashevski.
I am truly grateful to the Grand Central Publishing team. This book would not be what it is without my editor extraordinaire, Karen Kosztolnyik. Her ideas were sharp, funny, insightful, and Shit Turd–approved. Karen never even complained when she had to google a reference I’d made to water buffalo testicles. Thank you to Elizabeth Kulhanek, my Komodo friend, ally to animals, and genius editor. What an immense pleasure to work with you both. Thank you to Jarrod Taylor for my jaw-droppingly beautiful cover art and to Anjuli Johnson and Alayna Johnson, whose copyedit was so thorough it was a thing of great and humbling beauty. Thank you to my rock-star publicists, Andy Dodds and Jordan Rubinstein. Thank you to Thomas Louie, Andrew Duncan, Joseph Benincase, Alison Lazarus, Chris Murphy, Karen Torres, Matthew Ballast, Brian McLendon, and Ben Sevier.
To Douglas Wacker, PhD, our resident crow pro at UW Bothell. Thank you for the corvid counsel and the bird nerd chats. If you have a chance to listen to Doug give one of his excellent talks on crows—treat yourself.
Writers are solitary beasts, but I would be lost in the woods without my friends (literally—this has actually happened). They have shown endless support, whether it was listening to early drafts, joining me on research trips, hydrating me with prosecco, or watering their garden while wearing a crow mask in Shit Turd’s honor. Thank you to Susan Urban, Stacy Lawson, Shoshana Levenberg, Corry Venema-Weiss, Randy Hale, Janet Yoder, Billie Condon, Susan Knox, Shelley Motz, Jennifer Fliss, Sharon Van Epps, Fredrika Sprengle, Vicki Olafson, Mark Michaels, Drake and Olivia Michaels, Paul China, Bergen Buck, Laura Wisk, Rebecca Wallwork, Sasha R. Moghimi-Kian, and John and Wendy Whitcomb. To Robin Quick, thank you for believing in me from the beginning.
A very special thanks to Karen Joy Fowler for her sage advice and an early read despite battling a bedbug apocalypse in Budapest. Thank you to Waverly Fitzgerald, who set me on the right path with her enthusiasm and generous spirit. To Monona Wali for the writing class that lit me up inside.
For help with translation, thank you to Dina Ayoub, Veena Lertpachin, Cynthia Large, and Duaa Al-Jassim.
Special thanks to Tree Swenson and Hugo House, Seattle’s home for writers.
Thank you to Hedgebrook, an essential organization that supports women authoring change. To Nancy Nordhoff, who built a beautiful nest for women writers. Amy Wheeler, Vito Zingarelli, Lynn Hays, Cathy Bruemmer, Julie O’Brien, Harolynne Bobis, Denise Barr, Britt Conn, Evie Wilson-Lingbloom, and everyone I’ve met through Vortext. Your encouragement has meant everything.
Thank you to Erin, Simon, and Nathan Twine for all the love and support. Erin, thank you for always having the answers in life and literature. You are the sister I’d choose even if we weren’t related.
To Em and Pops, who always encouraged me to follow my dreams, except the one about bringing home a twenty-foot snake. Thank you for my sense of adventure and devotion to animals. I think you knew I was an artist when I was knee-high to a fainting goat
. Thank you for nurturing it—I would have made a horrendous accountant. I am so very proud to be your daughter.
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