The Broken Raven

by Joseph Elliott

  “Does it matter? The truth is you abandoned her. How could you do such a thing?”

  “I . . .” He struggles to find the words for his excuse. “You have no idea. Everyone was dead. Everyone. I had to start again. I knew if I took her with me . . .” His whole face stiffens. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “Well, you should know that she survived. She broke out of her room and spent her whole life in that castle, fending for herself, with only the sgàilean for company. I’m sure you can imagine the effect that would have on a child. Growing up without love, without family or friends.”

  He breaks eye contact and stares past me, at nothing. “I’ve thought about her every single day. Not one day has passed where I’ve not regretted my decision to leave her there.”

  “So why didn’t you go back? You could have rescued her at any time!” The thought makes me rage: that Nathara could have been saved from her tragic existence if only this man had had a little empathy.

  “You know nothing about me, about the life I’ve led, the choices I’ve had to make.” Flecks of dust float through the streaks of light. “How did she die?”

  “I only met her about six weeks ago. My clan was taken prisoner by deamhain, and she wanted to help rescue them. She thought we were going to rescue her family, and I couldn’t convince her otherwise. We sailed to Norveg and defeated the deamhain, but she died in the fight. She was very brave.”

  The Badhbh nods, a slow, repeated bob of his head. I don’t know what he’s agreeing to.

  “Her death means there’s no one left to control the sgàilean,” I say. “No one except you. So will you help us?”

  He’s still nodding, which is a good sign. Then he stops and says, “No.”

  One word, one decision that will affect the lives of thousands.

  I open my mouth to say something more, to convince him to change his mind somehow, but he cuts me off before I can speak.

  “Get out,” he says with pounding authority. “Leave this place and never come back.”

  “But — ”

  He raises his hand with terrifying force, as if he’s about to strike me or throw something at me, even though his hand is empty. I stumble backward, compelled by a sudden need to leave the hut.

  Once outside, I slam the crooked door and kick it as hard as I can, letting out a guttural cry of frustration as I do. I turn away and the brightness of the daylight smacks me in the face. Cray and Bras are where I left them, a short distance from the islet. Cray jumps off the bull’s back and comes toward me, dragging his spear as he walks. It leaves a dark snake in the wet sand.

  “Well?” he asks as I tumble down from the islet and slosh through the water toward him.

  “He said no,” I reply. “He’s not coming. He won’t help.” This whole trip has been a complete waste of time.

  “Need me to try a more assertive approach?” He raises his spear and flicks it in an elegant circle.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea; I get the impression he’s still quite powerful.”

  “Pah! I can handle one old man.”

  “No, I just . . . I need to think.”

  I trudge away from the islet, following the line of the shore. My trousers are sodden and my legs are freezing. All I want is to go home. My neck is starting to throb again. Without slowing my pace, I take out Mór’s poultice and smear it on. It cools the pain a little. Bras trots along beside me.

  “Jaime,” Cray calls from behind me. I don’t answer. Right now, all I want is to get as far away from the Badhbh as possible. He’s not going to help us. I tried, and I failed, just like I always do. How can one man be so insensitive, so heartless?

  “Uh, Jaime . . .” Cray’s voice is a little louder now. “I think you’ll want to see this. . . .”

  I turn around. At first I don’t know what he’s talking about; then I see the Badhbh. He’s left his hut and is wading through the water toward us. A weathered bag hangs limp at his side. I retrace a few of my steps, still wary. The Badhbh reaches Cray first but doesn’t acknowledge him. When there are only a few strides between us, he stops.

  “Take me to where they are,” he says.

  The Badhbh has agreed to come with us on three conditions: number one, that I ask him nothing about himself; number two, that I mention nothing about the past; and number three, that I have no expectations about what he may or may not be able to do for us. I’m fine with all of those. More than fine; I don’t know what made him change his mind, but I’m elated. He’s coming with us! I was sent to find him and convince him to help us, and against all odds, I’ve succeeded in doing just that. Now we need to return to Skye as quickly as possible; it’s been three days since I left — who knows what could have happened since then?

  My only other worry is that I won’t remember where we left the boat, as I wasn’t paying that much attention at the time; I presumed Donal and Violet would be with me to lead the way. I’m struck by yet another pang of guilt at the thought of leaving them here.

  A strong gust of wind nearly blows me off my feet. It’s been really windy all afternoon. We walked a little inland to escape the worst of the sea breeze, but it’s still cold enough to make my ears sting. Ahead, two crows bicker over a morsel of food. The wind flings their bodies this way and that as they squabble midair.

  Cray and Bras are still with us. I didn’t ask Cray to come, or expect him to, but I’m grateful that he has. For some reason it’s easier to breathe when he’s around. I thought he’d want to head straight back to his tribe’s cavern, but he volunteered to take us as far as the boat. It’s a good thing, really, since despite being fit for his age, I’m sure the Badhbh would have struggled to walk the whole way. He’s sitting up on Bras, and Cray and I walk on either side of him. Occasionally we jog for a short stretch to keep our pace up. Even so, we won’t make it to the boat before nightfall, which means another night my clan will have to spend fending off the sgàilean on their own. As long as they keep the fires burning, they shouldn’t be in any danger.

  Bras stops and so does Cray. “What is it, friend?” Cray asks the bull.

  Bras puffs air through his nose and turns his head first one way and then the other. Cray’s knuckles tense as he tightens his grip on his spear.

  The Badhbh dismounts from Bras with more grace than I’ve ever managed. “Something’s near,” he says.

  I don’t know how he knows it, how they all seem to know; I can’t see or hear anything.

  “An imitator,” says Cray.

  “A what?” asks the Badhbh.

  “An imitator. They’re — ”

  Before he can explain, the imitator strikes. It does something to Bras that spooks him into a gallop. Cray runs after him, leaving me alone with the Badhbh. The imitator’s disappeared. The Badhbh looks intrigued and not the slightest bit afraid. He doesn’t know what they’re capable of.

  “Look out!” I yell as the grass-and-sky-colored imitator grabs the Badhbh from behind. One of its hands is around the Badhbh’s waist and the other is reaching for the exposed skin of his face. Still, there is nothing but fascination in the Badhbh’s eyes. Then a bright spark emanates from the Badhbh’s body, and the imitator is flung several yards away from him. What the hell?

  I keep my focus on the imitator as its skin spasms green and brown, replicating both the color and the texture of the bracken on which it landed. As long as I don’t blink, I’ll know where it is. It jumps up and runs at me. Ò daingead! My neck burns. I grit my teeth and raise my skinny arms in front of me, willing them to be stronger than they are.

  The moment before the imitator reaches me, there is a rush to my left as Bras comes charging with Cray on his back. Bras lowers his head and smashes into the imitator’s chest. At the moment of impact, an orange-brown burst — the same color as the bull’s hair — spreads all over the imitator’s skin. Soon after, the imitator is prostrate on the grass, violent flashes of purple and red streaking its body from head to toe. Cray jumps down
and stalks toward it. He raises his spear and throws it at the imitator’s neck. The imitator’s reflexes are lightning-fast. It catches the spear inches from its face and leaps back onto its feet without using its hands. They stare at each other, the imitator holding the spear, Cray now weaponless. The imitator lunges.

  Cray bats away the spear as the imitator thrusts it again and again. He’s defending himself well, given the disadvantage he’s at. He even manages to land a few punches, although the imitator makes no sign of being hurt. Bras hovers nearby, inching forward a little, horns lowered, before backing away again. I know how he feels; I’m also looking for an opportunity to help, but the spear is swinging so wildly I can’t get close.

  Cray is tiring. He misjudges a feint, and the imitator lands a kick to his ribs. As he stumbles, the imitator jabs with the spear once again. This time it makes contact, its sharp point slicing through Cray’s upper arm. Cray cries out and falls backward onto the ground. The imitator’s going to kill him. I look around for a weapon, a rock, anything I can use to stop it, which is when I see the Badhbh. I’d forgotten he was there. He’s standing watching the fight with no emotion on his face whatsoever.

  “Help him!” I yell. “It’s going to kill him!”

  The Badhbh looks at me as if he hasn’t even considered that as an option. The imitator raises the spear above its head, preparing for a final strike. I’m about to throw myself at the imitator when the Badhbh thrusts his hand in its direction. His fingers twitch as if pressing holes on an invisible set of pipes, then he twists his hand to the left in one sudden jerk. The instant he does it, the imitator’s neck makes the exact same motion. There is a sickening crack, and the imitator collapses to the ground.

  I’m so shocked it takes a couple of moments to process what just happened. I approach the imitator and flip it over with my foot. Swirls of color drift away from its skin like clouds swallowing a sunset, and then all that’s left is a body. Without the patterns camouflaging its skin it looks more human than ever. Did it ask to be made this way or was it forced into it, the result of some sick experimentation? It looks so cold and exposed, its lips already tinged blue. Part of me wishes we could stay and bury it, but we don’t have time for that.

  “It’s the same one that attacked us in the forest,” says Cray, nudging its body with the toe of his boot. “There’s the knife wound I gave it before. You okay?” I nod. I should be the one asking him; it didn’t even touch me. He prods at the spear wound on his arm and then dismisses it as unworthy of his attention. “Thank you,” he says to the Badhbh, “for . . . whatever it was you did.”

  The Badhbh doesn’t acknowledge him. “Let’s keep going, shall we?” he says.

  Without further discussion — and with no one mentioning the fact that we all just watched the Badhbh snap someone’s neck without even touching it — we keep walking, leaving the imitator’s cold body behind us.

  No way. That’s the first thing I think. No way in high hell am I endin up in some scraghag’s dinner pot. I’m gettin out of here. This is not the way I die.

  The woman who’s got me tied up sees my resolve, cuz all in a sudden she gets serious. She stops cryin and her harsk gaunt face grows mean. “Yer can’t escape,” she ses, “so don’t even try.”

  “Watch me, you skittin grotweasel,” I say in my own language cuz I don’t know how to say words like that in the foreign tongue, and hek sure this is a situation what needs swearin.

  The woman’s surprised hearin me speak foreign words. Don’t know why; she knows I’m not from round here.

  “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she ses, almost like she’s beggin me now. Tight, hard-faced beggin. “I should’ve killed yer sooner — I could’ve done, you know.” Too right she shoulda, cuz I’m a whole lot more skapped now than I woulda been if I’d of been nappin.

  She comes at me then, swingin the knife wild. I duck it once, then lean back, missin her second strike. She’s not trained for fightin, that’s for hek sure. Her stance is off, her slashin’s erratic, her left side’s wide open. Doesn’t mean it’s gunna be easy, though, what with me bein tied up and all. After her third swing, I make my move, launchin from my knees, batterin my head straight into her legs. I slam her left kneecap and somethin cracks. She falls to the floor in an ugly twist, lettin go of the knife, which goes off spinnin. She’s screamin and wailin and holdin her busted knee. I crawl on my side toward the knife like some drunken caterpilly. She sees me doin it and starts crawlin too, like we’re in some mad drunken-caterpilly race. It’s easier for her cuz she’s got her arms, so she reaches the knife first. She grabs it and starts lumberin up on one leg. I turn so I’m lyin on my back, then kick my tied-together feet smack into her ankles. She doesn’t scream nothin at first, she’s too shocked by what she didn’t see comin. She stumbles away from me some, her knee gives way again, and she falls backward straight into the pot on the fire. The pot tips, splashin water all over her, and I know from her screamin that it’s hot as hellfire. I scoot back, away from where it’s spillin. The fire’s spreadin now too, twistin out of its place and jumpin up the walls. The woman tries to get up, slips on the water, tries again. She’s in a bad way, manic, hek crazy. She knows the fire’s comin for her. She struggles up once more, headin for the open door, but she’s so batcrazed she misses it and runs straight into the wall. Bam! And she’s on the floor again, not movin.

  I dunno what I’m waitin for. The whole shack’s on fire now. I gotta get out of here. I push myself up onto to my feet, then jump outta there with plenty of stumblin.

  I’m outside and the air is fresh and I’m gulpin it in, but it’s not over yet. I’m still tied up and she could wake at any moment. I gotta get free. There’s a nail stickin out of one corner of the shack. I drop to it. The walls are turnin black from the fire inside. It’s hek scorchin and I’m sweatin seas just by bein near. I find the nail with my hands behind my back, and use it to scratch away the rope. The fire is burnin my wrists through the wall, but I’m nearly there, nearly there.

  The rope splits and my hands come free. I crawl forward, away from the burnin shack, and rip at the ropes on my ankles. Soon they’re off too and I get up, ready to run, only somethin stops me. The woman. She’s gunna burn to death if I leave her in there. Even though she tried to kill me, I can’t let her go that way; it’s not her fault she’s been thrown a rotten’s life after all.

  I go back into the shack. There’s so much smoke I can’t hardly see nothin but black. My breathin turns to chalk and my eyes are streamin. I get down on my knees and feel around. She was near the door somewhere; that’s where she fell. Unless she woke up and moved. There’s a tearin ripcreak and part of the roof falls down, far too close to my head for likin. Sparks fly up like lightnin dust, then disappear into nothin. I feel around some more, quicker now. I’ll be hek skapped if I die tryin to save this skittin kerl. I grab somethin. An ankle. It’s her. Jarg, she’s heavy. I pull and pull with all I’ve got until we’re outside and I keep pullin, away from the shack, away from the fire, just in time, as the whole place collapses in on itself, dead. The fire looks mighty pleased with its doin.

  I wipe at my eyes and my hand comes away black. I’m black all over. A cough rolls out of me, and once I start it I can’t stop. I’m coughin so hard it feels like my insides are gunna come right outta my yapper. I spit black and spit some more. Then I lean down and feel for the woman’s heart. She’s alive. Whatever nearly happened, I’m pleased about that. Now I gotta get outta here quickspit.

  I stand up, ready to run, but am stilled to stone when I see the boy — the woman’s brother — standing at the edge of the trees. He looks at the burnin shack, then at his wreckmess of a sister lyin on the ground, then at me. His eyes turn hek fiery and he starts comin toward me.

  “Stop,” I say. Somethin about the way I say it makes him obey.

  “You killed my sister,” he ses, showin me all of his teeth.

  “No. Alive.” I give her leg a small kick with my
foot, but she doesn’t move, which doesn’t help prove my point none. I’m weighin up my chances of bein able to outrun him; he’s a lot older than me and his legs are long. Also, he knows the land here a hek lot better than I do. He pulls out some sorta stick from his belt and puts it to his mouth. A blowpipe. It musta been him what was firin at me before.

  I hear the fwihsss of a dart and dive outta its path in a sideways roll what gets me straight back on my feet again. Then I’m runnin and I’m not lookin back, followed by the sound of him chasin close behind.

  Up ahead is a hump in the ground that I run toward as fast as my flamin lungs will let me. The slope beyond it is steeper than what I’d hoped, but I haven’t got no choice but to go down it. I’m half runnin, half slippin-slidin. I can hardly hear nothin over the scrunchin of the branches beneath me and the pantin of my breath and the thunderboomin of my heart. I can hear enough to know he’s still followin, though. I slip on wet mud and land bamsmack on my backside, sharp stones grazin my hands. Jarg! I haven’t got time for bleedin. I get back up and carry on stumblin.

  I reach the bottom of the slope and don’t stop for one blink, even though my throat is burnin and my legs are sapped. The ground is flat again. I risk a look back and there he is, comin down the last part of the slope, lookin even more skapped. Only good thing is he can’t run and use the blowpipe at the same time, and for now he’s focusin on runnin. The grass starts sloshin beneath me and then drizzles away, replaced by thick mud what sucks at my feet, makin it hard to lift them. If I don’t get outta here soon, I’m gunna get stuck, makin me easy pickins for that rotweed what’s chasin me. The mud’s gettin deeper the farther I go, but I can’t turn back nor reach the side neither. I’ve slowed down so much, it’s given him a chance to get closer. He stops and lifts the blowpipe to his mouth, gettin ready to fire another dart.

  A whinny to my left. I’m foolin myself that I recognize it, but swear Øden I do. Then I see her. Eydis, my hek brimmin horse, runnin straight for me. I can’t think where she’s been or what she’s been doin or why she’s comin to rescue me now, but holy godsmite am I glad to see her. Only problem is, how in a hundred winters am I sposed to get on her back while we’re both runnin? It’s hard enough when she’s stood still, and I never had no madfire boy tryin to get me at the same time before neither.