The Broken Raven

by Joseph Elliott

  “Okay, I’ll talk to her,” says Maistreas Eilionoir, “but I doubt she’ll change her mind. She’s as stubborn as an old boot. Much like myself, I suppose, although I like to think my judgment is a little better than hers. Our only real hope for change is to make her people see her for the brute she is.”

  “How do we do that?” asks Aileen.

  “I have no idea, but she’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. No one that young commands the respect she does without a few monsters in her chest . . . Anyway, if I’m to talk to her, I need the two of you to stay here. Tell anyone who returns from the forest to leave their wood in a pile and I’ll distribute it when I get back.”

  Maistreas Eilionoir walks away. After she is gone, I go too.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Aileen asks me.

  “I have to g-go,” I say.

  “Maistreas Eilionoir said we have to wait here.” Aileen shakes her head and does a little laugh. “Is it impossible for you to stay still?”

  “No,” I say. It is not impossible for me but I cannot be still right now. I had a thought. I had it when Maistreas Eilionoir said about the monsters in Catriona’s chest. I do not know if it is a clever thought but I have to find out.

  I have to go back to Catriona’s bothan.

  I can’t see anything. All I can feel are the hands. They’re still on my neck, pumping their poison into my veins. I tear at them, digging in my nails. My scream is wild, but it’s trapped in my throat.

  “Hey, take it easy; it’s me. It’s me.”

  I’m so hot. It’s too hot. I can’t feel my toes.

  “Can you open your eyes?”

  Someone sealed my eyelids with tree sap. I’m still in the forest. Who’s talking to me? I know him. I do. The ground’s shaking, or is that me?

  “Stay with me, Jaime, okay? You’re going to be all right. I promise.”

  The world spins. Am I flying? It’s cold, so cold. I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.

  There’s fire in my throat and my head is pounding. My memories are slippery, flitting away like river sprats. Time has passed, but I don’t know how much. I was being carried, the sky was burning, someone was talking . . . It’s all a series of blurs.

  I’m lying down. The ground is hard, but there’s something soft beneath my head and someone is holding my hand. I grip the hand with the little strength I have and the hand squeezes back; a strong squeeze, full of concern. The kindness makes me want to cry. I peel apart my eyelids. It feels like my face is cracking in two.

  “Welcome back,” says Cray, giving my hand another squeeze.

  I smile at him, then glance at our hands. I peel mine out of his grip.

  He helps me sit up and I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Why can’t I speak? My heart starts pounding against my rib cage. It’s as if my whole throat has been torn out, taking my ability to speak with it. I raise my hands to my neck and probe at the tender skin. It’s all rumpled and clammy. What did that thing do to me? My breath is coming out faster and faster, even though breathing at that speed makes everything hurt more.

  “Whoa, Jaime, slow down, slow down.” Cray places one of his hands behind my neck and leans in until our foreheads are touching. I try to pull away, but I don’t have the strength. “Breathe with me. Just breathe,” he says. “It’s okay; you’re going to be okay.”

  His breath mixes with mine. Slow. Slow. Slow.

  The next time I wake up, my head is clearer. Everything still hurts, but the pain has lessened. Cray is leaning over me, his face pasted with apprehension. I start to cough, which makes my throat a hundred times worse. Cray turns me onto my side and rubs my back until the coughing stops.

  “Thanks,” I say. It comes out sounding like a drowning frog.

  Cray tries to repress a smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” he says.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” I say, hiding my own smile. I’m just glad I can speak again.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Honestly? Like sheep crap.”

  Cray places a hand on my forehead. A rush of heat floods my cheeks. From the fever.

  “You’re still hot,” says Cray, “but not as hot as you were.” He takes his hand away. “I have to admit, I hoped I might see you again one day, but this isn’t quite how I imagined it.”

  “Where are we?” I ask. The words are like wasps, stinging the inside of my throat. From where I’m lying, all I can see is the sky above me and grass sloping up on either side. Morning light leaks through the tangle of clouds; I must have been unconscious all night. There’s a sound I wasn’t aware of until now: a slow, repeated rustle and crunch.

  “You’re in a small ditch outside the forest you found me in. I thought we’d be safer away from the trees but couldn’t move you too far, not with Mór injured as well.”

  Mór. How could I have forgotten about her? “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. She has a headache from hell, but other than that she’s all good. She’ll be back soon. Here, drink this.”

  He helps me sit up and hands me a leather flask. The liquid inside is sticky and hard to swallow, but as soon as I’ve taken a few swigs my throat feels a little better. The ditch we’re in is roughly the size of a small bothan, with tall spear thistles growing up its steep sides. Their fluffy purple flowers sway in the breeze. The big hairy faces of Duilleag and Bras look down at us from the top of the ditch. Duilleag wraps his tongue around a thistle and rips it from its base. The long spiny plant soon disappears into his mouth.

  “What happened? The imitator — ?”

  “It got away. I managed to land a few blows before it could finish you off, but then it bolted into the trees. I don’t know where and I haven’t seen it since. It was injured, but it’s still out there somewhere, and they seem to be able to heal remarkably quickly.” The veins in my neck start pulsing. “Thanks for pulling it off me when you did,” says Cray. “If you hadn’t done that . . .”

  “Hang on; are you saying I saved your life?”

  Cray brushes a few stray hairs away from his face. “Well, I’m sure I would have found a way to deal with the situation had you not dropped by.”

  “Stop it. I saved your life and you know it!”

  “All right, let’s not get carried away.” He smiles at me. “Besides, I saved yours almost immediately afterward.”

  “I wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t got yourself tied up in the first place,” I say.

  “Let’s not dwell on the specifics.”

  “Okay, fine, so I saved yours and you saved mine. We’re even.”

  “You say that, but I happen to remember a time not so long ago when you were stranded on a rock surrounded by wildwolves, about to face certain death, until this strapping hero turned up.” He points to himself and puffs his chest. “Which I think you’ll find makes it two-one me.”

  A short laugh huffs out of me, which makes the coughing start again. Once it’s died down, I ask, “How did you end up tied between two trees?”

  “Funny story, actually . . .”

  Before he has the chance to explain, Mór appears at the top of the ditch, holding a fistful of green leaves. She picks her way down to us. Her head is wrapped in a bandage of ferns and her skin is pale, but she smiles her modest smile when she sees I’m awake. “Welcome back,” she says.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Like I was pushed out of a tree and hit my head really hard,” she says. “But I’ll live. It’s a shame I was knocked out when I was. Sounds like I missed all the fun.”

  “If you call being strangled and poisoned at the same time fun, then yes, you missed out on that,” I say.

  She crouches beside me and gives the top of my arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re looking much better than you were, that’s for sure. You were lucky; if that thing had held on to you for much longer, I doubt you would’ve woken up again. You’re going to be left with some impressive scars, though.”

  “Really?” M
y hands rise toward my neck but stop before they reach it.

  “Afraid so. Cray’s been applying a poultice, which has drawn out the poison and should prevent infection, but even once it’s fully healed, there’s likely to be some scarring.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know why that bothers me so much.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got one too,” says Cray. He lifts the bottom of his trousers to show me the ankle the imitator touched. The skin is creased and raw in fingerprint-size ovals.

  “I found some more knitbone,” Mór says, waving the leaves in her hand at Cray, “so we can make more poultice. Although now you’re awake, Jaime, I suggest we all head back to the cavern. Finn will be able to heal you much better than we can. He probably even knows a few tricks to lessen the scarring.”

  I’m tempted — I don’t want to be scarred for the rest of my life — but it’ll take us half a day to retrace our steps and come all the way back again, and that’s half a day I can’t afford to lose.

  “I have to keep going,” I say. I turn to Cray. “Did Mór tell you where we were headed? That I need to find the Badhbh?”

  “Yes, she told me,” he says. “But she can’t take you any farther; it’s not safe for her to ride fast after a head injury like that.”

  “Sorry,” says Mór. She taps her head. “Got to protect my pretty little brain.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “But I’m happy to take you the rest of the way if you want me to,” says Cray.

  “Really?”

  “Think of it as returning the favor for that one time you may have saved my life.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and I really mean it. I struggle to my feet. “Can we leave now? I’m feeling much better.” My words are undermined by another bout of harsh coughs.

  Cray raises his eyebrows. “If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The three of us stagger out of the ditch, avoiding scratches from the hostile spear thistles. Mór gives the fresh knitbone to Cray, and the two of them touch foreheads.

  “Come home soon,” she says to him. “And stay out of trouble.”

  “Always,” he replies.

  They hold each other for a moment, and I find myself longing to be included in their closeness.

  “Goodbye, Mór,” I say once they’ve separated. I give her a small wave.

  “That’s not good enough for me, I’m afraid,” she says. She places her hand on the base of my skull and brings our foreheads together. “Don’t let this one push you around, okay?” She indicates Cray with her head, our noses still touching.

  “I won’t.”

  “And good luck.” She lets go, and our heads drift apart. “Take this with you.” She reaches into a pocket and hands me a small pot carved from the trunk of a thin tree. Inside is a gloopy paste with a pale green shimmer. “For your neck. Put it on whenever you’re in pain.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here, you can keep it in this.” Cray slings a flimsy satchel at me. I stumble as it hits, still a little unsteady on my feet. “Oops.”

  Mór slaps his arm. “You’re supposed to be taking care of him.”

  “Don’t you worry about us,” says Cray.

  Mór mounts Duilleag, gives us one final nod, and then plods off in the direction of the cavern.

  Bras steps forward and pushes his big wet nose into my face.

  “Sorry, Bras, was I ignoring you?” I say. “It’s good to see you again.” I delve my fingers into his long hair and scratch him behind his ears, where I know he likes it. Cray leaps onto his back and then pulls me up behind him. I wrap my arms around his waist, my heart beating a little faster as I feel the warmth of his body through his clothes.

  “Just like old times,” he says, looking back at me.

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Cray holds on to Bras’s enormous horns, and the bull responds by trampling the ground, finding his footing before he breaks into an unrestrained gallop.

  It’s hard to talk on the bull, so we mainly travel in silence. A fine drizzle sets in, and before long my hair is clinging to the sides of my face. I lift my head and let the droplets trickle past my chin. The coolness of the water soothes my neck.

  The old fort Hendry told us to look out for is easy to spot: a ramshackle cluster of crumbling stones speckling the top of an ocher hill. We turn west as instructed and, when the coast comes back into view, take a break to have some food under the scant shelter of some measly trees. I dismount Bras — something I’m still unable to do without looking like a drunken crow — and stretch my back.

  Cray swings down and offers me a strip of dried meat. It’s hard to swallow and irritates my throat, so I don’t eat much. I take out the poultice Mór gave me and smooth some over my neck.

  “So tell me: what have you been up to since I last saw you?” Cray asks. “Mór said you managed to rescue your clan.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.” I tell him what happened in Norveg, although I’m scant on the details. It’s still strange remembering it all, like it didn’t actually happen or that it wasn’t really me.

  “Wow,” says Cray once I’ve finished. “Sounds like you were a real hero. Spending time with me must have rubbed off on you.”

  Now that I’m with him, I don’t know why I was so eager to see him again; I’d forgotten how arrogant he can be.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You still haven’t told me how you ended up captured and totally helpless.” I can’t resist the opportunity to batter his ego a little.

  “It wasn’t really my fault. . . . I presume Mór told you that a group of us went out searching for imitators the other night? We were supposed to stay together but thought we’d be able to cover more ground if we split up. We’re faster than the imitators when we’re riding bulls, and they’d seemed much more intent on spying than attacking, so we thought we’d be safe. We were wrong. I was farther east, on my own, when one of them ambushed me. It jumped out of a tree and landed on top of me. There was a scuffle, and it fled soon after, but it had made a fatal mistake: the tree it’d been hiding in was a bleeding birch, which stains anyone who touches its bloodred bark. The imitator was covered in great red smears, making it impossible to fully camouflage. I couldn’t waste the opportunity, so I left in pursuit of it. I tracked it for the rest of the day before finally defeating it.”

  “And the part where you ended up in desperate need of rescuing?”

  “I’m getting to that . . . I didn’t realize it at the time, but the whole while I was pursuing the imitator, it was leading me straight into the hands of another of its kind — the one you encountered in the forest. I was hit over the head with what felt like a tree branch, and the next thing I know, I’m stretched out like an animal hide, way up in the air. I don’t know what it was planning to do to me. They don’t have teeth, so I don’t think it was going to eat me.”

  “Maybe it was going to suck out your blood,” I suggest.

  “Nice image, thanks. I think it was more likely to torture me, or maybe it was always its plan to use me as bait and lure in other people. Which is exactly what happened, of course, when you and Mór showed up. They’re unpredictable creatures; I can’t figure them out. Lucky for me, it underestimated my rescuers.” He turns and grins at me. “That was a compliment, by the way.”

  “I know,” I say. I look down and pick a handful of grass so he can’t see me blush.

  “That’s half the reason I agreed to come north with you; my mother is going to be furious when she finds out I got caught. She didn’t want me heading out in the first place.”

  “Who’s your mother? Have I met her?” I forgot that the Bó Riders are told who their birth parents are.

  “Murdina. You remember her, don’t you?”

  “Wait. Murdina is your mother?” How did I not know that? I suppose I didn’t ask many personal questions last time we were traveling together. There must be lots of things I don’t know about him.

  “Yes, and Mór’s my
sister. Did you know that one?”

  “What?” That’s a lot of information to take in at once.

  Cray laughs at my astonished face. “I thought you knew that too.”

  “I didn’t; I . . .” The subject of birth parents and siblings is toirmisgte in my clan — no one’s allowed to speak about it. All of the grown-ups are my parents and the other children are my siblings. Maybe that’s why I never thought to ask. “Do you know your father as well?”

  “He died when Mór and I were young.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine; I didn’t know him well.” Cray picks a leaf out of Bras’s hair and rubs the bull on his nose. “Shall we keep going?”

  The western coastline is rugged and beautiful despite the rain’s attempts to taint it. We pass great sloping mountains of luscious green and serene bays tinged with mist. Dramatic rock formations burst out of the sea, repeatedly assaulted by explosions of water. I scour the view for any signs of habitation, but the burning in my neck makes it hard to concentrate. I close my eyes to shut out the pain and am struck by a surge of tiredness. I rest my head against Cray’s back. It’s warm in contrast to the cold of the rain, and I feel safer than I can remember feeling in a long time.

  I jerk awake as Bras comes to a sudden halt. I don’t know how long I was asleep. We’re on the edge of a gritty beach, which has been ambushed by long streaks of black seaweed.

  “Look over there,” says Cray, pointing to a tiny islet a short distance out into the sea. At first I don’t know what he’s talking about, but then I notice the hut. It’s been built on the islet in between two boulders, making it well hidden and hard to spot.

  “A hut,” I say.

  “Think it’s him?”

  “It could be.”

  “How do you want to do this?”

  I hadn’t planned that far ahead. “I suppose we just go in and ask for his help. If it is him and he still lives there.”

  “As you wish,” says Cray. He whistles, and Bras trots toward the water. As he crosses the seaweed, it squelches and pops, filling my nose with its briny stench.

  “Maybe I should go in by myself?” I say as we draw nearer. “We don’t want to startle whoever’s in there.”