Split Feather Read online

  Pretty’s heart was beating like a drum against my wings as she pounded across the long room, leapt onto her pallet, and tried to shove me up through the smoke hole. I flapped and squawked in terror, clutching at her. My sharp claws became fouled in her hair, and the fish-jaw comb still in her hand, and the golden collar she wore about her neck.

  Puyuk lifted from the ground and flew at us, and her eye sockets burned with a deep, fell flame. Smoke poured from her mouth as she shrieked, and the walls shook as with thunder.

  Pretty struggled to tear me loose, held me at arm’s length, all tangled in hair and bones and heavy gold, and stuffed me out the hole into the dark, the bitter cold. With a harsh tearing sound, I tumbled, I fell, and then righted myself half a breath from the ground. My wings caught air and I strained up, up, befouled and weighed down as I was, crying out in terror and in sudden pain as if the heart had been torn from my living breast. Even as I fled I looked down and I could see her, the humanish girl, with her pretty round face pressed against the smoke hole, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched me go.

  Her face was shining with triumph, and harsh with pain, and tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched me go.

  28

  The trees stretched their arms toward me, waving away away away. They were delighted that someone had triumphed over the wicked old witch who had stolen their voices.

  A bitter wind sprang up, trying to force me back to the bone longhouse, but I was able to escape, skimming just above and between the very tops of the trees, fleeing the wrath of Puyuk. Great clouds gathered, bruise-purple and pregnant with ill intent, over the witch’s clearing.

  It shamed me how little thought I paid to the humanish girl, still a slave, and what price she might pay for setting me free. But the dark clouds boiled behind me, swirling like raven soup in a great black cauldron, and I did what any sensible bird would have done.

  I got the fuck out of there.

  My claws were hopelessly befouled, snarled as they were in a tangle of hair and fish-jaw comb and the humanish girl’s heavy golden collar. The weight dragged me down and back, and my wings tired quickly. A deep ache settled into my chest and back as I heaved, head bobbing with each wing stroke, straining with all I was toward the forest’s distant edge. I sank lower, lower, and the treetops brushed against the soft feathers of my belly. Lower, lower, and a strand of hair tangled itself in a dead branch, abruptly pulling me up short.

  “Wicked, wicked,” I squawked, sure the hair had done it on purpose, and pecked the tangle free. Nearly there. Nearly there.

  A tickle of wind caught at my tail feathers, blowing them up like a lady’s skirt, and I squawked again as it sent me tumbling down toward the forest floor. The trees might be rooting for me in their slow old hearts, but that wouldn’t matter one whit if I were to impale myself upon one of their jaggedy branches. Pushing off from the wind, I panted with exertion, and the wind tore away a fistful of feathers.

  “Fuck!” I squawked, and I meant it.

  Again the wind came, stronger, pushing me up and back, until I had to duck down and among the trees to avoid it, and lost my way. It’s one thing, I learned, to fly straight and true toward a distant goal, and another thing entirely to dodge and weave and duck a million branches until not even a bird’s heart is sure of the way home.

  Still, I did what I could, though my wings faltered and my mind clouded with exhaustion and I lost more feathers to the well-meaning trees. Though I was no longer sure of my way, I could feel Puyuk’s storm pulsing at the heart of the forest, wishing me every ill in the Underworld. So that became my point of reference. I sure as shit didn’t want to go toward that, so I flew away, as quick and true as my stubborn little heart could manage.

  It was almost enough.

  I found the edge of the forest, through effort and luck and sheer cussedness I found it, and the gleam of thin sunlight through the dark trees was a kiss, a blessing, a shiny trinket on a dark morning. I shouted with triumph, qa’hoq, qa’hoq, and shot toward freedom.

  The trees at the forest’s edge were thickest, a tangled black wall without enough room for a mouse to wriggle through, much less a bird like me. I gave the air one final push, lifting just above the trees, a whisper, a wish, a feather’s width, hardly enough for the wind to notice me and grab hold.

  But “hardly enough” is still enough. The leading edge of the storm closed around me and squeezed. It squeezed the air from my lungs, plucked at my feathers like a wicked child tearing away an insect’s wings, and took the fight out of me. As that great black fist closed all about me, it cut me off from light and air and hope.

  Puyuk had won. I was lost.

  Suddenly a light grew at the edge of the forest—a bright light, a clean light such as I hadn’t seen since the day I drowned. Closer it came, and closer still, as if the story the humanish girl had told was true, that Raven really had stolen the sun, and here he was. But no, I thought, this was no creator god bearing the sun in his beak. It was my grandmother, a little old lady with her walking stick in one hand and her bag of knitting in the other.

  Never underestimate your grandmother.

  She sang as she came… “Hush Little Baby” and “In the Treetops,” “No More Monkeys” and “Short’nin’ Bread.” She sang of Little Bunny Frou-Frou and castles in the cloud, of soft hands and hard love, and as she sang the light grew around her. It flared forth from her heart and set the Underworld afire. She looked like a star fallen from heaven, she looked like an avenging angel, and the air shivered at her passing.

  The storm’s fist gripped me all the harder, and found a whisper of air still left in my lungs to squeeze out. Even as the air about me grew brighter, I could feel myself slipping into darkness.

  Where do you go, I wondered, if you die in the Underworld? I was desperately sure that I did not want to find out.

  Grandma Catherine stopped just short of the trees, and set her walking stick firmly into the ground. She finished her song… cradle and all… but words still tumbled and played and sang all about her, a spell begun in the long ago when the first mother opened her mouth to sing the very first lullaby, and was carried in the hearts of women ever since.

  “You shall not have her,” she told the storm, and the storm trembled. But deep in the heart of it I could hear Puyuk laughing. It sounded like teeth on bones, like a bag full of knives, or a pit of angry snakes.

  You sent her to me, the wind hissed, you gave her away. I was lifted up, up and back, as the storm readied itself to blow me all the way back to Puyuk’s house.

  She is mine, now.

  Grandmother Catherine sighed as if she were dealing with a spoiled child in the candy aisle. “You shall not have her,” she said again, and again she brought her walking stick down with a thump. A third time…

  “You shall not have her. She is mine. My own. My Siggy.” Thump, thump, thump. She let go of the walking stick, which stood upright of its own accord, and set her bag of knitting down on the ground. She loosened the knot at its neck.

  I held my breath, what little was left of it. The storm held its breath, and it seemed to me that far away in her dark place, the witch Puyuk held hers, too. And then…

  A darkness flowed from my grandmother’s bag, a shadow cloaked in rainbow. A creature took shape before my eyes, impossibly huge, unspeakably powerful, a massive three-headed dog with eyes like river stones and tongues of fire, and its coat was a mad riot of…

  …yarn?

  The beast opened its mouths and bayed—a sound like church bells thrown down a well, the pealing of a clock striking the end of time—and that storm fist let go of me so quick I hadn’t even realized I was free till it was long gone, chased back to its master like a little bitch by a monster made of yarn.

  Then I fell.

  Spreading my wings I tried to fly, but my feathers were smashed, and they’d come loose in the storm’s grip. I tumbled through the air, faster and faster, spinning and falling and shedding feathers till I w
as naked and cold in the bitter air, and the ground rushed up to meet me…

  Grandma Catherine caught me up in arms that were not frail, and she bore me gently down so I lay upon her spread skirts with my head in her lap, as if I were just waking up from a pleasant sleep.

  “I will catch Siggy,” she whispered, “cradle and all.” Her tears wet my face as she kissed my forehead.

  “Aggy,” I croaked, and spat feathers. I flapped my wing—no, I raised my arm—

  I was so confused.

  “Siggy,” she corrected me, and her voice was everything good in the world. A fire on a cold day. Cookies warm from the oven. A cup of coffee after a good sleep. She was my grandma, and she loved me.

  A shadow passed over us, and I flinched away in reflex, but it was only…

  Only? Holy shit that thing was huge.

  …it was only the beast my grandma had summoned, the three-headed dog made of yarn and hellfire. Its tongues flickered and licked between mouths full of teeth, and it cocked all three heads to the side like an inquisitive puppy and barked.

  When the ringing in my ears had settled down, I wiped sulfurous dog drool from my naked self and sat up. I was shaking because I was cold, dammit, and not because I was almost scared enough to pee myself.

  “What,” I asked Grandma, “is that?”

  “Hmmmm? Oh, you mean Mister Fuzzykins.” Grandma’s eyes were all round and innocent, but her smile was wicked. “He’s my Afghan hound.”

  29

  We sat at the table, my grandmother and I, with the loot from my odd adventure sitting between us. It wasn’t much of a haul—a fish-jaw comb with its tangle of silvery hair. A spruce needle. The golden collar was tucked away under my bedding, my own private treasure, secret and safe. Grandmother hadn’t seemed to notice it in all the feathery excitement of my return, and I’d hidden it away with only a small pang of guilt. I’d show the collar to her later, of course I would—I just wanted to think about it for a while, first.

  She used a knitting needle to push the comb off to one side, grimacing in distaste, and then turned her attention to the spruce needle, lying naked and lonely before our eyes.

  “Poor Siggy,” she murmured, and her eyes filled with tears. “My poor little Siggy.”

  “Um,” I said. “Okay?”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I should have fought harder for you. I should have snatched you up and run away into the woods with you when they came the first time. I should have done something.” Her chin quivered, and fat tears rolled down the tracks in her cheeks.

  “Is this like, uh, fortune-telling?” I stared suspiciously at the spruce needle, which told me absolutely zilch. “Like reading tea leaves or something?”

  “Nothing of the sort. This…” She paused, maybe for dramatic effect. “…is your soul, Siggy.”

  I pursed my lips and bit them. I mean, it was hard to argue—being in the Underworld, and having been turned into a raven by a demon and all that—but, yeah.

  This spruce needle was my soul.

  Maybe my being gone had finally pushed the old lady over the edge.

  “Okay, it’s my soul,” I said cautiously. “Now what?”

  She reached across the table and smacked me upside the head. “Don’t sass me, girl. I’m telling you, this is your bear-yega. When a person, especially a child, is hurt, badly hurt, sometimes a piece of their soul breaks away and hides until it’s safe to return to the body. Only sometimes the piece of soul gets lost. Maybe it can’t find its way back on its own…”

  “Or maybe,” I said softly, looking at the spruce needle, “maybe it’s never safe to return so the soul stays lost.”

  Her old hand covered mine, and squeezed hard. “You’re in a safe place now, Siggy.”

  A thunderous bark shook the hut, and a scream like knives rent the air. I jumped up, knocking my chair backward, but Grandma just shook her head and groped for her walking stick.

  “Safe is a relative term, of course.”

  * * *

  The Giyeg had come for me.

  She was some distance from the hut, floating a few feet up in the air. Her hair whipped about like a beggar’s rags in the wind, and her eyes glowed hot and angry as she glared at the Afghan hound. Mister Fuzzykins, for his part, stood between us and the Giyeg with his teeth bared, his yarn-hackles standing stiff as a lion’s mane, and his whippy little tail curled high. The growl that came from him sounded like it came from a far, deep place, and I could feel it through the soles of my mukluks.

  Grandma pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

  “Mister Fuzzykins, sit.”

  He turned one head toward her and snarled.

  “Mister Fuzzykins,” she roared, and Grandma smacked his knitted behind with her walking stick. “Bad dog! I… said… SIT!”

  Mister Fuzzykins sat.

  The Giyeg sat.

  I snickered, but Grandma turned and glared at me and I flinched… and realized that I was sitting, too.

  I’m telling you, don’t mess with your grandmother.

  “Now then,” she said, and Grandma turned her glare back to the bemused Giyeg, “let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  “The girl has returned,” the Giyeg observed. A flash of yellow sheened across her wide eyes. “I will have what is promised. Unless you have been… unsuccessful?” She bared her tusks in a sweet smile that sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Give it to her, Siggy,” Grandma said. She kept one eye on Mister Fuzzykins, one eye on the Giyeg, and both eyes on me.

  “Huh?” I asked, smooth as ever.

  “The comb, Siggy.”

  “Oh. Derp.” I stood up and walked a few steps toward the Giyeg, holding the witch’s comb on my outstretched mitten. “Here you go… the hair of Puyuk the witch.”

  The Giyeg snatched that comb out of my hand before my mind had time to register that she’d moved. She hovered in front of me, smelling of sulfur and musk, and between two fingers held that comb with its tangle of hair. For a long moment she just stayed like that, not moving, waves of light murking across her eyes like an oil slick. Maybe she flared her nostrils; maybe she grimaced. My brain was pretty much frozen in terror, so I didn’t exactly register what happened before she smiled.

  I saw that smile, though, and if the memory of it ever starts to fade, I’m sure my nightmares will remind me.

  “Is it enough?” I hoped she hadn’t been expecting me to fetch the whole braid.

  “Yessssss, human girl,” the Giyeg hissed, “it is enough.” She hugged the comb to her breast like a little girl with a teddy bear, and whirled around, laughing with delight. “It is enough! I could just…” The Giyeg stood so close I could feel her heat all along my body. She’d done that faster-than-light thing again. Her breath fanned my hair.

  I whimpered.

  “…kiss you,” she breathed.

  Lust thrilled through my body, shocking me speechless.

  Mister Fuzzykins growled and twitched, clearly wanting to stand, and just as clearly not wanting another whack from Grandma’s walking stick.

  “That is quite enough,” Grandma said. “The debt is paid—do you agree?” The look on her face said she was done screwing around.

  The Giyeg inclined her head. “The debt is paid.” She continued giving me the side-eye, though.

  “You still owe me,” I reminded her. I hated the sound of my voice, all weak and trembly-like, but what the fuck, you know? I’d had a shitty couple of days.

  “Hmmmm. Do I?” A smile stole across her face, sly and secret, as if the two of us were sharing a joke. “Ah yessssss, I remember. A weapon, was it? A weapon bright and strong. A weapon powerful enough to slay your worst enemy.” She leaned in, all hot musk and rending teeth. “A weapon fit for a hero.” She licked her lips.

  “Yes,” I breathed, leaning toward her against my will. “A weapon fit for a hero.”

  Wait, what? What was that I’d just said? I…

  “Done,” the Giyeg said, and sh
e laughed. “Done and done. Three days, sweetling. It will take me three days to make such a weapon. Such a weapon…” Her eyes glowed ruby-red, sunset-red, the red of roses in a bowlful of blood. She winked at me, and blew me a kiss…

  Then she was gone.

  “What the fuck?” I breathed, hugging myself tight. “What. The fuck.”

  “Whurrrrrfrrrk,” Mister Fuzzykins agreed.

  “Well,” Grandma snapped, “that could have been handled better.” She stomped into her hut and slammed the door. An after-image of the Giyeg lingered in the air, mocking me with its eyes full of secrets.

  Mister Fuzzykins laid all three heads between his paws and whined.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “I have a bad feeling about this, too.”

  30

  Three days, the Giyeg had said. Three days. What she hadn’t told me was how, exactly, I was supposed to measure time in this blasted place. Sometimes it was light…ish, and sometimes it was dark…ish, but you couldn’t really say this is morning or now it’s night. Everything was just kind of… bleh.

  Of course, when I asked Grandma about it she told me that, hutlani, the question was too big for my mouth and set me to cleaning fish. Where did the fish come from? Hutlani.

  If I wasn’t already dead, I’d have died of frustration.

  On the first day, near as I could tell anyhow, I ate, and slept, and ate again. Fish stew with odd gray mushrooms that I didn’t want to look at too closely because they looked kind of like people ears. Akutaq made from caribou tallow and… kiwi? Maybe? And hot damn it was even better than fish. A sweet red wine poured from the same bottle that had held mead before. The Underworld might be confusing as fuck, but the food was good—as long as I didn’t think too hard about where it might come from. I joked that maybe I’d died and gone to heaven after all, and Grandma chuckled over her knitting.