The Broken Raven

by Joseph Elliott

  “I don’t — I don’t know; I didn’t — see,” I say. “He was m-moving.”

  We are both looking hard into the trees. The person moves again behind a tree. “There!” I say.

  Aileen does a sound like a cough. “That’s not a person, it’s a stag.” She stands up. “Wow, look at it. It’s beautiful.”

  I stand up too and I brush off the heather bits from my clothes and my hair. I look for the stag. The shadow things brought us a dead stag when we were at Dunnottar Castle but I have not seen an alive one before. It is hiding a bit so I cannot see it properly.

  “It’s limping,” says Aileen. “I think it’s injured.”

  “Are stags dangerous ones?” I ask. They have big antlers for stabbing.

  “I don’t think so. He’s probably more scared of us than we are of him.”

  Aileen walks toward it. I follow her. When I am closer I can see it is very big. Its antlers are like branches. Big tree ones. They make me remember the horrible man the king of Norveg who is called Konge Grímr. He had antlers on his crown even though he was a man and not a stag. He was a very bad man. He is dead now which is good so I will never see him again.

  When we are too close the stag moves away. It is hard for it to move because it is hurt. Aileen was right. It is its leg and also some cuts on its side.

  Don’t go, I say to it in my head. We will help you. Talking to big animals makes my head sore, but it is kind to help people and also animals when they are poorly and I am good at helping.

  The stag stops and looks at me. Its eyes are big and black.

  “Did you talk to it?” says Aileen in a whisper voice. “You did, didn’t you?” I nod my head yes. “Incredible,” she says. “What’s it saying?”

  It’s not saying anything because she keeps talking, is what I am thinking. I do not say that, though. I talk to the stag again. I say, Are you hurt? and We can make you better.

  It is only looking at me still. It does not move one teeny bit.

  Then I can hear it in my head.

  We’re all going to die is what it says.

  There are so many things that could go wrong. We could get lost and never find our way back; we could be attacked by wildwolves and eaten alive; we could find the Badhbh after days — or even weeks — of searching, only for him to refuse to help us; or he could agree to help us, but then we arrive back on Skye too late and find the sgàilean have already killed everyone in the enclave . . .

  Circling through the endless negative possibilities appears to be my new greatest skill.

  Everything around us — the plants, the hills, the trees — is steeped in some of my worst-ever memories. The land feels poised to unleash something terrible upon us at any moment.

  Yet even my most pessimistic side has to admit that I’m a lot better prepared this time around. I have sturdy footwear and warmer clothes, we have plenty of food and materials to make a shelter, and — best of all — I have people to follow. I prefer following; it means I don’t have to think.

  Our plan is to go straight to the Bó Riders’ camp. I explained the journey I took last time and — even though my recollection was sketchy at best — Violet thinks she’ll be able to find it. I don’t know how. I guess by smoke trails or hoofprints or something. Occasionally, she asks me questions about certain landscapes or whether something looks familiar, but for the majority of the time, she decides which way we should go.

  I left the Badhbh’s diary with Cray, which is why we decided the camp is our best starting point. Not that I can imagine finding anything useful in it; I read it from front to back several times, and as far as I can remember, the Badhbh didn’t leave any other clues about where he was heading. At the very least, though, the Bó Riders will help us search for him. I’m sure they will. The thought of seeing them again engulfs me in an almost giddy joy, a sensation I can’t remember feeling in weeks. Cray will be there. And Mór and Finn and all the others, but it’s the thought of seeing Cray that spurs me on the most. He is the friend I need right now. Everything will be better with their help.

  “You doing okay?” Donal asks, coupled with the high-pitched chuckle that comes out nearly every time he speaks.

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s tiring work this walking, isn’t it? Give me a saw and a hammer any day.” He takes in a loud, drawn-out breath and then releases it. “Nice, though. It’s a beautiful country. When the rain stops for long enough to let you see it, that is.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Donal is a talker. He hasn’t worked out yet that I’m really not. “Well, you let us know if you need to rest up for a bit.”

  “I will.”

  He pats my shoulder far harder than he means to. “Good lad.”

  He checks up on me a lot. I’d prefer it if he didn’t. We’re not going fast, but he’s right, the walking is tough. I didn’t sleep well last night — the land was alive with coos and howls and other unfamiliar sounds, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the wildwolves. They fled south after their fight with the Bó Riders, but I don’t know how far south, and they could easily have come back since.

  Violet is walking a couple of yards ahead of us, her long legs taking big strides. She’s the opposite of Donal; she only speaks when she has something meaningful to say. I couldn’t tell whether I liked her or not until last night, when, as we huddled together under our temporary shelter, she surprised us by telling a story. She didn’t ask us if we wanted to hear one, she just started talking. No one’s told me a story like that for years, yet it didn’t feel childish. It was the tale of a young boy who wanted to be a kingfisher. Every day the boy would scamper down to the river that ran through his enclave and watch the kingfishers as they dived into the water for fish. He tried to copy them, splashing into the river with none of their grace. The boy would not be deterred, however, and started living in the same tree as the kingfishers, eating nothing but insects and small frogs because he couldn’t catch any fish. The kingfishers grew accustomed to his presence and chirruped to him in the early morning and slept close to him at night.

  I was transfixed the whole time Violet was talking, but the end of the story took a dark turn: one night, a fox crept into the enclave and, mistaking the boy for a kingfisher, gobbled him up. I was left wondering what the moral of the story was, and if there was a reason Violet had decided to tell it.

  Even though her back is to me now, I can picture her face almost perfectly. Her broad mouth and wide-set eyes are at odds with her long face, and she has a mole under her right eye like a permanent tear. Her hair is such a pale brown it looks like it’s fading away. It streams behind her now as she walks. I don’t know how old she is. Quite old, maybe about thirty.

  She stops, and one of her hands drifts up, indicating that we should stop too. Her slender fingers play with the air while she peers at the horizon.

  “You see something?” asks Donal.

  “I don’t know,” she says, squinting into the distance.

  “We must be getting close, I would have thought,” says Donal.

  “Yes,” says Violet, although she doesn’t sound convinced. “Let’s keep going.”

  Midway through the afternoon we come to the bank of a river. The water speeds past us, desperate to arrive at its destination. It’s flowing too fast to cross, so we follow the river upstream, hoping it will shallow. As I walk, I kick stray stones into the river with increasing force. The river gulps them down without the slightest hesitation. We’ve already wasted so much time today traipsing around inconvenient lochs, and now this river. I thought we’d be at their camp by now.

  “It’s not going to lessen anytime soon,” say Violet. “I suggest we cross.”

  “Here?” I ask. The gushing water mocks us with its gurgles.

  “I agree,” says Donal. “Here’s just as good a place as anywhere else. You can swim, right, lad?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” I look at the river. My throat squeezes in on itself.

  “It wo
n’t be as deep as it looks,” says Donal. “I’ll go first.”

  Donal takes off his boots and socks, rolls up the bottom of his pants, and strolls into the water. His legs are like tree trunks, so of course it’s easy for him. He took the end of a long rope with him, and Violet now ties the other end around a sturdy rock, pulling it hard to check that the knot will hold. Donal wiggles his end, encouraging us to join him. Violet crosses next, fast and sure-footed. She holds on to the rope, even though I’m sure she’s only doing it so I won’t feel bad about having to rely on it when I cross.

  Copying the others, I remove my footwear and roll up my trousers. The water is so cold it feels like it’s sliced off my toes. I edge out, holding my boots in one hand and keeping a tight grip on the rope with the other. The riverbed is a mix of rough rock and slippery weeds, but it’s not that hard to navigate once I’ve gotten a feel for it. Donal is holding the other end of the rope, giving me encouraging looks and the occasional “That’s it, lad” and “Easy does it.” Halfway across, the water is up to my thighs and rages against my spindly legs. I don’t know why I bothered rolling up the ends of my trousers. There’s something familiar about the cold, about the way the water rushes, its power.

  Sgàilean.

  The memory of them swarming my body outside Dunnottar Castle comes flooding back. I picture them rampaging across Skye — the greatest threat we’ve ever encountered — and us with no way of controlling them. It’s my fault. I should have taken the amulet from Nathara’s body the moment the sgàilean returned to it, not left it around her neck for anyone to claim. A wave of dizziness washes over me, and at the same moment, an errant torrent knocks into the back of my knees. My legs give way, I lose my grip on the rope, and the water sucks me under.

  I tumble downstream, surrendering to its power, with no awareness of what is up and what is down, until a mighty heave rips me from its grasp. Donal looks down at me, water dripping from his furrowed brow. He still has a hold of me even though he’s dragged me several feet from the water. Violet is standing behind him, her eyes full of concern.

  “You okay, lad?” Donal asks.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I stand up too quickly, my legs wobbling beneath me. “Let’s keep going.” I hobble away from him, not wanting him to see the shame on my face. Then it dawns on me. My boots. I must have dropped them after I slipped. They’ll be long gone by now.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to rest for a bit first?” Donal calls after me. “We can make a fire, dry your clothes?”

  “I’ll be fine.” There’s a graze on my left palm, which I hide beneath my cloak.

  “I can take your packs at least.” Donal catches up with me and reaches to take one of my satchels. Their straps are tangled around my neck and arms.

  “I can manage them.”

  I increase my pace, trying to untangle the straps as I go. My wet clothes start rubbing against my shoulder blades, making me shiver.

  “Wait, Jaime; you don’t have any boots.” Donal bounds off, farther downstream, in case they’ve washed ashore.

  “You can wear mine,” says Violet, already sitting down to take hers off.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll walk barefoot.”

  “But you’ll cut your feet. The ground’s sharper than it looks,” says Donal, giving up on his search.

  “I’ll be fine.” Their fussing only increases my humiliation.

  Donal rummages in one of his bags. “I’m sure I can find something in here to wrap around them.”

  “I said I’m fine,” I snap, twisting around to stare at them. “How many times do I need to say it?”

  They both stop what they’re doing and look at me. I turn away.

  “Suit yourself, lad,” says Donal.

  “The Bó Riders will have a pair I can borrow,” I say, not loud enough for either of them to hear. We just need to reach their camp, then everything will be fine. I fix my sights on the horizon and march on, ignoring the mud that squelches between my toes. It can’t be too far now.

  We pass between a couple of modest hills, where the bracken looks softer than it is. Occasional stones nip the soles of my feet, and each time I swallow the pain. The sky turns darker, into a sunken gray, and the wind picks up. My whole body’s shaking now. Without saying anything, Donal steps over to me and drapes a blanket across my shoulders. I pull it in tight.

  Despite the cold and the wet and the throbbing in my feet, the closer we get to the Bó Riders’ camp, the lighter I feel. I start to recognize certain landmarks, or at least I think I do. Maybe that’s the patch of trees we passed through when Mór and Cray first brought us here, and that could have been the rock I climbed when I was being chased by wildwolves. Violet points out piles of animal excrement — which she believes come from Highland cows — as well as several hoof marks which all lead in the same direction. We walk to the top of the last gentle slope, from where we should have our first view of the camp.

  I recognize the clearing immediately, but nothing in it is the same. There are no cows feeding on the grass, no tents, no fires, no people.

  All of the Bó Riders are gone.

  There’s hek loads of stairs in this skittin palace. We follow this slow ploddin man up these wide ones, then curve around, then up more stairs and along and more stairs again. At the top of the next ones the man opens a door to where Konge Grímr’s gunna be sleepin. Where I’m gunna be sleepin too, I guess. It’s bigger than the whole shack I lived in back in Norveg, though that isn’t sayin much. The bed is so bulkin it could sleep six people without them even touchin. There’s wooden chests carved with patterns, a mirror taller than I am, and a bright red rug coverin half the floor, what’s thick and soft. It’s not as nice as Granpa Halvor’s rug, though.

  The ploddin man leaves. Bolverk came up with us and checks around the room, sniffin for I dunno what. After I finish tellin Konge Grímr all what’s in the room, he makes me take him to the bed and he sits on the edge of it.

  “What do you make of him?” Konge Grímr asks Bolverk.

  “Make of who?” Bolverk replies.

  “Our esteemed host . . .”

  “King Edmund? Well, he looks ready to drop dead at any moment, but I reckon he’ll keep to his word. His desperation to kill all Scotians is apparent enough.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m not sure he trusts us, though, with all that armor he was wearing. Old fool. He’d already taken all our weapons — what was he expecting us to do? Stab him with a dog bone?” Bolverk laughs at his own joke, even though it was a measly one. “Plus, he had about thirty guards watching him while we were eating.”

  “Thirty-two,” I say. Dunno why I said that. I’m makin a bad habit of speakin when no one’s talkin to me.

  “What did you say?” Bolverk turns on me.

  “Thirty-two,” I say again. “There were thirty-two guards watchin the Inglish king while he was eatin . . . Your Supremacy.”

  “No one asked your opinion,” Bolverk snarls. “You don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

  “Let her talk,” ses Konge Grímr.

  Bolverk’s head snaps up like he’s been hit. Konge Grímr doesn’t move none. He’s waitin for me to do more talkin, but I haven’t got nothin more to say. Bolverk stares at me like he wants to rip out my loller.

  “There were two guards with their hands on the king’s shoulders, six stood behind, two opposite him, another six sat up and down our table, four by the door we went in by, four by the other door, and twelve around the outside of the room.”

  Konge Grímr tilts his head a speck. “Well, aren’t you an observant little mouse?” he ses.

  “Why were you counting guards?” Bolverk asks. His face is mud and thunder.

  “I wasn’t countin,” I say. “I just remember it.”

  “Exactly how good is your memory?” asks Konge Grímr.

  “Good, Your Supremacy,” I say.

  Konge Grímr nods and grins with grottin lips. Bolverk’s starin daggers at
me. Don’t know why he’s so mad at me for answerin one question.

  “Were you aware that all of the king’s guards were male?” he ses to Konge Grímr. What is this — a competition who can tell him the most or somethin?

  “I was not,” ses Konge Grímr. “Whyever would he not have women? They are far more attentive.”

  “There were no Inglish women dining with us at all,” Bolverk continues, “except for the king’s wife, of course. I do believe they view women differently here. As inferior. My point is . . . perhaps you should reconsider having this girl” — he flings a sneer in my direction — “beside you when you are talking to him. It may be offensive in their culture.”

  “Don’t be preposterous,” Konge Grímr replies. “If he has an issue with women, that’s his problem, not mine.” He kicks off his boots, leavin smears of dirt over the rug. “Leave me now, Bolverk. I’m weary.”

  Bolverk looks like he doesn’t wanna go. He’s starin at me and his teeth are clamped. I smile at him as gutsick as I can, which makes his teeth clench even tighter.

  “Sleep strong, Your Supremacy,” he ses. He bows low then slashes me with one more look before goin.

  “Take this,” ses Konge Grímr after Bolverk’s gone. He’s taken off his antler crown and holds it out to me. He hasn’t never let me touch his crown before. “Put it somewhere safe.”

  I take it from him. It’s heavier than what it looks. Must be hek skap to lug that around on your kog all day. I lift it above my own head, thinkin maybe I’ll try it on quick.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Konge Grímr ses. He’s lookin at me with his gnarled, knotted not-eyes.

  I place the crown down careful on one of the chests, pretendin I never had no intention of tryin it.

  The next day I’m all aches and bones. The chain wasn’t long enough to reach the rug, so I had to sleep on the hard stone floor. Not that I slept much, with it bein so cold all night. The window doesn’t have no shutter, and course Konge Grímr didn’t give me no blanket again.

  Konge Grímr spends the day bein shown around the palace and the gardens, so I spend the day trompin around next to him, tellin him evrythin he’s not seein. It was diffrunt in Norveg cuz he knew his way around for the most, and it was diffrunt on the longboat cuz it wasn’t so big, but here at the palace I gotta do even more for him cuz it’s all so bulkin and there’s so much what’s new.