The Broken Raven

by Joseph Elliott

  I tell Aileen his name and she says “Hello, Thistle-River,” and waves at him. She does not know that you should do bowing instead.

  Thistle-River tells me that he needs to find his herd. They were split up when the darkness came. He hopes they are still alive and the darkness didn’t get them. I wonder if the shadow things tried to get the deers because they couldn’t get the Raasay people.

  “What about tonight?” I ask Aileen.

  “What about tonight?” she says back to me.

  “The shadow things will come back t-tonight and try to get the deers again. They’ll get Th-Thistle-River and all the other ones. We have to — help them.”

  “What can we do?” says Aileen. “We can’t save every deer on the island.”

  “What if they came to Clann-na-Bruthaich’s — enclave?” I say. “We can make b-big fires and they will be — safe.”

  “I . . .” Aileen says. I think she will say it is a bad plan but then she changes and says, “I don’t see why not. If you can get them all there, we can at least try.”

  I smile a big one. I tell Thistle-River my plan. He thinks it is a good plan and he thanks me a very lot. He is going to find the rest of his deers and tell all the other ones on the island as well. I tell him he has to go to Clann-na-Bruthaich’s enclave. He didn’t know what is Clann-na-Bruthaich or what is the enclave so I had to do describing. Then he knows it and where it is. He calls it Big Rock Circle. That is a good name for it too. We will meet him there.

  I say goodbye and bow my head. He thanks me again and bows his head as well. Then he says, Goodbye, Sun-Leaf. I ask him what is Sun-Leaf? He says I gave him a name so he will give me a name too. He will call me Sun-Leaf because suns give life and so do leaves and so do I. It is a funny name. Okay, you can call me Sun-Leaf, I say. He goes away through the trees. I hope he finds his herd.

  We have to do walking again now and it is even worse. My head is pain and aching bad from talking with the stag. Aileen helps me by holding on to my arm. I like Aileen now. We are good friends and I hug her sometimes.

  We play raonabal again. It makes me think less about the walking and the boring. I go first and I say white which is for goats’ hair. It takes a long time for Aileen to guess that one. After she guesses it she tell me it was a good one. She is right. I was clever to think of it. Then it’s her turn and she says yellow. I do lots of guesses but it is not the sun and it is not flowers and it is not a wasp and it is not teeth. It is hard for me to guess. Aileen gives me the clues and then I guess it. It is wee! That is very funny and a little bit rude. I do not want to play anymore after that. My head is too hurting and it hurts more to do thinking.

  We will never be there it is so far. Sometimes I have my eyes closed and it is only because Aileen is holding me that I know which way to go. Walk walk walk walk walking.

  “Would you look at that,” says Aileen.

  I open my eyes. All the deers are there. My head is swamp so I have to do blinking to know they are real. There are so many of them. More than a hundred even. Maybe two hundred or a thousand. They are in a group all together near to where Clann-na-Bruthaich’s enclave is.

  One of the stags runs all the way toward us. It looks like it is jumping when it runs.

  Sun-Leaf, I hear in my head. It is Thistle-River. He found his herd and told the other deers my plan as well.

  Follow me, I say. I don’t say lots. My head is hurting and I don’t want it to hurt more.

  I walk the last bit to the enclave with Aileen and Thistle-River. There are lots of Hawks on the wall. They are looking at all the deers. One of them moves the launcher which is for firing arrows. She points it at Thistle-River.

  “No!” I say. I stand in front of Thistle-River with my arms out so they won’t shoot him.

  “What’s going on?” shouts Lenox from on the wall. On his face is big frowning eyebrows. “Where the blazes have you been?”

  “We have to h-help the — deers,” I say.

  “What?”

  “We have to let them inside. Otherwise the shadow things will — get them.”

  Lenox puts his hand on his head and rubs it like he is confused. I don’t know why. It is easy to understand.

  “I think you’d better speak to Catriona,” he says.

  The Upper Gate opens. The Moths stare at Thistle-River when we walk in. It is rude to stare; don’t they know that? The other deers stay outside which is being patient.

  We wait for Catriona. Then she comes.

  “You weren’t here last night,” she says. I hoped she didn’t know that. “Where were you?”

  “We went for firewood but got lost in the woods,” says Aileen. It is a lie but I am happy she says it. Catriona will be cross if she knows where we went. She wants all the Raasay people to be dead, even the children ones. “We didn’t want to risk coming back in the dark, so we made a fire and waited until morning.”

  “It’s midafternoon. How lost did you get?” Catriona looks like she doesn’t believe Aileen.

  “We made some friends,” says Aileen, and she puts her hand out toward Thistle-River. “We were helping them.”

  “And you’ve invited them to live in my enclave, I hear?” says Catriona.

  “It’s not — your enclave,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” Catriona turns her head to look at me.

  “I said it’s not your enclave. It is for all — all of your clan.”

  She does not like it when I say that. “Well, it is certainly not your enclave. Perhaps that’s one thing we can agree upon?”

  “This is Thistle-River,” I say. Catriona doesn’t say anything. “You’re supposed to b-bow your — head when you say hello.” Catriona does not bow her head and she does not say hello. “He’s my friend,” I say.

  “I’m sure he is,” says Catriona. “But why is he here?”

  “Last night his herd was attacked by the sgàilean,” says Aileen. “They need protection. We thought they’d be safer inside, where there’s fire.”

  “Oh, is that what you thought?” says Catriona. “And since when do you get to decide what happens in our enclave?”

  Aileen opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything.

  “They are n-nice animals, and it is what you do to be — nice,” I say.

  Catriona’s jaw goes tight and more tight and she is thinking. She looks at me and then at Aileen and then at Thistle-River. It is a not a nice way that she is looking.

  “Very well,” she says. “Bring them in.”

  I run all the way down the slope until I’m standing in the open field where the Bó Riders’ tents used to be. It’s familiar, yet completely different at the same time, as if the whole place has been sliced open and gutted. It’s so empty now, so hollow.

  Donal puts his hand on my shoulder. “You did say they were nomadic. I guess they moved on to somewhere else.”

  I’m nodding, but it feels like there’s more to it than that. Was it the wildwolves? Did they come back for another attack? This isn’t right; this isn’t what was supposed to happen.

  “There’s no sign of a fight,” says Violet. “They had time to pack up all their things before they left.” She crouches and examines the ground. “Although from the marks here and over there, it looks like they left in somewhat of a hurry.”

  “Can you tell which way they went?” I ask.

  She doesn’t have time to answer. The grass below us moves, turns into a shape, turns into a body. . . .

  It’s too quick. A colorless hand flashes up and grabs hold of Donal’s wrist. His body stiffens and his eyes bulge, then he collapses to the ground. The next instant, Violet is grappling with whatever it was that injured him. Its whole body looks like grass, but it’s an illusion, the patterns moving in sways beneath its skin. Contrasting colors ripple across its face.

  “Jaime, run!” Violet screams.

  But what about Donal? His body lies limp on the grass next to me.

  I back away, shaking my head. A movement to my lef
t, and the trunk of a nearby tree comes alive in the same way the grass did. Another body, this one patterned like bark. It makes straight for me. I run, as fast as I can, without considering which direction is best. The ground booms against my naked feet, every step an agonizing slap. The satchels are weighing me down, so I remove them both and fling them from me without a second thought. My sword thuds against my legs. I try to pull it from its scabbard, but it keeps juddering back in to the rhythm of my uneven steps. I’m breathing fast, too fast, like I’m running out of air. On my fourth attempt, the sword pulls loose and I risk a glance behind me. The shape is still chasing, its bark-colored skin fading into an almost translucent blue. What the hell is that thing? Its body is human-shaped, but that’s where the similarities end. It opens its mouth to reveal colorless gums. I throw my sword at it. It swerves, dodging the blade with minimal effort. Great, now I’m weaponless. Stupid. So stupid.

  I keep running; it’s all I can do. Through sunken puddles and patches of wet heather, over low-rising hills and ground so brittle it decimates my feet. I ignore the pain and don’t look back.

  Daylight slinks away and it starts to rain, the drips tantalizing my lips. I lift my head and open my mouth as I run, too distracted by the rain to notice a sudden dip in the ground. It takes me by surprise, twisting my leg at an awkward angle. I crash forward, adding to the bruises I suffered in the river.

  I flip over onto my back, lean on my elbows, and try to bring my frantic breathing under control. Nothing has pounced on me. Yet. Does that mean I lost it? The soles of my feet are pulsing. They look like they’ve been chewed by a horde of rats. What a mess. I stand up, barely able to put any weight on them. I need shelter. The rain is coming down heavier, and my teeth are chattering so hard my whole face aches. There’s a rugged hillside not too far away; maybe I can find a ledge or an alcove to take shelter in while I wait for the rain to lessen. I hobble toward it, alert to every movement around me. The dark and the rain make it almost impossible to see or hear anything.

  I should go back. Violet and Donal might need me. The image of Donal lying pale on the ground hits me like a flash of harsh morning light. I have to go back; if the creatures caught Violet as well, I’m the only one who can help. Except I have no idea which direction I came from. I’m lost and I’m alone and if I don’t find a way to dry out my clothes, I won’t last the night. My flint was in one of the satchels, along with food and everything else useful. There’s no way I’d be able to find them again, not in this weather. I have nothing.

  I approach the hillside, which has huge rocks clinging to its side like giant limpets. I stumble around, pressing my weight into them for strength, looking for a nook or opening I can crawl into, but there’s nowhere to hide. I keep walking, keep looking. A noise draws my attention higher up the hillside. Something’s there! I blink back the rain. My imagination taunts me, seeing figures in every hollow.

  I turn back as a dark shape jumps off one of the rocks in front of me. My shout is cut off by the hand that clamps over my mouth. I’m spun around so my back is pressed against whatever it is that’s got me. I kick backward with my heel but don’t make contact.

  “Jaime?”

  How does it know my name? The voice is muffled, so it takes me a few moments to realize that I recognize it. The hold on my mouth relaxes, and I turn around to face her.

  “Huh” is the only sound I can make.

  Her gloved hand pulls down the material covering her face. Tears of relief spring into my eyes.

  “Mór!” I say. I wrap my arms around her in an awkward hug, which she doesn’t reciprocate. I forgot that hugging is not one of the Bó Riders’ customs. The rain bounces off her hood.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, the words jolting out between cold breaths. The last time I saw her was in the harbor at Dunnottar Castle, before Agatha, Nathara, and I set sail for Norveg. “We went to your camp. Where are all the other Bó Riders? Where’s Cray?”

  “Questions later; we need to get out of this rain.”

  She takes hold of my wrist and guides me farther around the hill. There’s a slim crack between two boulders, which we both squeeze through. It opens up into blackness. I have no idea how big the space is. I’m stooped, cramped. I raise my hand in front of my face and wave it around, but I can’t see a thing.

  “Stay still,” says Mór after I trip over something on the ground. There’s the sound of flint and a couple of blinding sparks. After the third strike, a fire begins to take hold. As it hisses into life, the hidden cave materializes around me. Its ceiling is low, but it goes back quite far.

  “Where are we?” My teeth are still rattling together.

  “In one of our hideouts. Come closer to the fire; you look half dead. Let me see your feet.” I slump down next to the flames, greedy for their heat. “Take off your clothes and wrap yourself in this.” She hands me a cloak lined with fur. “Don’t worry, I won’t look.”

  I peel off my outer layers, wring them out, and then lay them flat to dry. “Why did you leave your camp?” I ask once I’m wrapped in the cloak’s folds. “We were looking for you, but there were these . . . things. One looked like grass and another one looked like tree bark. But then they changed. . . . They attacked us. Are they the reason you left?”

  She doesn’t answer. She holds her hand toward one of my feet and clicks her fingers. I raise it off the ground and she inspects it by the light of the fire. From a weathered bag she takes out a wooden pot. She scoops out a generous amount of its contents and lathers it over my cuts. I scrunch up my eyes to stop myself from squealing. The balm has a pungent smell like sour spit. After the initial sting, a cooling sensation sets in that does wonders to stop the throbbing. Mór then wraps the foot in a length of tough cloth, like a second skin. It might even be skin; I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. Once she’s finished my first foot, she places it on the ground and gestures toward my other one. I lift it up and she performs the same procedure again.

  “Thank you,” I say once she’s finished. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you.”

  “I think it was me who found you, actually.” Mór smiles, but the joy doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “That’s fair.”

  We sit in silence for a while. Then she says, “They’re called ‘imitators.’ At least that’s what we’ve taken to calling them. We don’t know what they are or where they’ve come from. We only saw them for the first time about a week ago.”

  “They must have come from somewhere.”

  “Some people think they crawled out of the lochs, others that they’ve traveled from across the sea. My guess is that they’re from the south, from Ingland. Maybe sent here by King Edmund, if it’s true he’s still alive. It seems too much of a coincidence that they should turn up so soon after we found out about him, especially when we know how intent he is on killing us all.”

  “You think they were sent here to kill you?”

  “No. To spy on us, more likely. The first one we discovered was lurking in our meeting tent. The scuffle that followed was not pretty.”

  “The ones I saw looked almost human . . . but also not.”

  “They may have been human once, but they’ve been altered in some way, giving them the ability to change the color and texture of their skin.”

  “They reminded me of a — ”

  “Jellysquid? Yes. I expect that’s how they were made, by extracting some element from the animal and putting it inside them.”

  “They attacked us, back where your camp used to be.”

  “Interesting. That’s not their usual behavior. They tend to just slink around, observing and absorbing information. You must have disturbed them.”

  “One of the people I was traveling with was hurt. The imitator grabbed him,” I say. “The other one, I don’t know. . . . I have to go back to the camp, to see if I can find them. They might need my help.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I’m sorry, but if an imitator mad
e contact, your companion may already be dead. There’s poison in their fingertips. Whatever you do, never let one touch your skin with its hands.”

  I let the reality of what she has said sink it. Your companion may already be dead. My head spins.

  “I can’t just leave them out there.”

  “Go if you like, but in this weather, without knowing the land, you’ll struggle to find your way. If you can wait until morning, I’ll ride you through on Duilleag.”

  Duilleag, I remember, is Mór’s bull. “Where is he?” I ask. It’s unusual to see a Bó Rider without their companion.

  “Close,” she says, without further explanation.

  “And what about the other Riders? Where are they?”

  Mór rubs her hands over her head, flinging rainwater into the fire. Her cropped hair looks dusty yellow in this light.

  “In a large cavern on the west coast. Once the imitators became known to us, we had to move to somewhere less exposed.”

  “So everyone’s all right? Is Cray there?”

  “Everyone’s there and everyone’s fine. Like I said, the imitators appear to want to spy on us more than attack us. So far, at least.”

  “How many imitators are there?”

  “No idea. They’re hard to detect and impossible to tell apart. We’ve taken out a couple, but, as you can imagine, they’re not the easiest to track down. That’s what I was doing when I found you — hunting for more of them. They’re actually easier to spot in the rain because of the way it rebounds off their bodies. We’re concerned about how much they’ve already learned about us.” Mór cracks her knuckles, one at a time. “What about you? What are you doing back here? Not that it isn’t nice to see you. Did you make it to Norveg? What happened with your clan?”

  I fill her in without going into much detail, telling her about the victory in the mountain and the subsequent shame of not being able to reclaim our enclave; about the sgàilean being released on Skye and how I was sent here to try and track down the Badhbh.

  At the mention of the Badhbh, Mór’s eyebrows rise. “The man who made the sgàilean?”