Raven Speak (9781442402492) (8 page)

With unnatural quickness, the woman had Asa's arm in her grip. “Off to where?” Beneath her angular brow her one birdlike eye glinted, callous and cold.

Ice chugged through Asa's veins. She'd thought it would end differently; she had expected hunger or a storm to take them, but it was going to be this stranger. This was how she was going to die.

The woman shook her arm. “Off to where?” she repeated.

“To my clan. They'll be wondering where I am.”

That snort again. “Who will—the dead ones or the dying ones? Who will be wondering about a headstrong girl who took her horse and ran off in the night? Who will care?”

Jorgen will.
That thought came to her unbidden, and while she knew it was true, the idea made her squirm. Instead she answered, “My mother will care.”

The woman released her arm with a dramatic flourish, the fingers of her rheumatic hand splayed against the lightening sky. She sucked in a sharp breath as the fingers stiffened; her blue eye rolled upward and back until only the mucous, yellowy white showed beneath her fluttering lid. “Your mother is dead.”

All the smells trapped in the close space conspired to strangle Asa: the moldy dampness lining the dark crevices; the sour haze enveloping unwashed bodies; the briny tang of decay that filmed every surface, hovering. As if from a distance, she heard Rune's hide scrape the jutting wall and her own breath rushing out of her nose.

“That's not true.”

The woman melted back into the present. She fixed her eye,
returned to its faded blue, on Asa. “So now you think you have answers. Tell me, then, little girl of only fourteen winters: Where is your father?”

A challenging tone, and an archly confident one, as if she already knew the answer and—Asa forced herself not to shiver—as if it were the same one given for her mother. She refused to accept either. A lot of people had died, true, but not her father and not her mother. Her mother was strong, and in a month's time or less she'd be standing at the shore welcoming the
Sea Dragon
's return.

Jerking her chin toward the ocean, that great gray-green monster that swelled and retreated like a breathing entity, she replied, “He's there, sailing south.” She didn't know for certain that her father had sailed south, but the details seemed unimportant. “He and six men from our clan sailed yesterday … or maybe it was the day before … to find food. Last year's rains rotted most of our crops and all our meat's gone. This winter a lot of people got sick and some …” But the odd woman had already mentioned the dead and dying. How had she known? “Your people,” Asa began hesitantly, cautious about asking yet another question. “Has someone from your clan seen the ship … or heard news from it?”

She half-expected to be struck across the face, so she was taken aback when the woman laughed, revealing a stubble of small brown teeth. “I don't have a clan, unless you count these two black beasties here.” She indicated the ravens, which had turned to tormenting each other with knocking bills and indignant cackles.

“Then where do you live? How do you live?” Asa couldn't help it; she asked questions. She had
always
asked questions. They spilled out of her as naturally as breathing.

The woman ignored her to scold the two quarreling birds. She made a throaty noise, sort of a drawn-out croak ending in a clacking of her tongue. Her raven speak halted the birds' bickering. One lifted into the air and flapped to a perch on her left shoulder while the other hopped onto her right. They bobbed and conversed anew in a soft, whining language that blended human and bird. Reaching into her pouch, she fed each one something small, something different from the barley cakes. That got Rune's attention and he nickered. The woman handed him another barley cake, then flicked her fingers at him, sweeping him away. Obediently he backed out of the space and wandered off toward the shoreline. They both watched him in silence before the woman turned Asa's questions back on her. “Where are
you
going to live?
How
are you going to live?”

“I don't know.” The answer, inadequate even to her own ears, tightened her jaw. “Last night our skald tried to kill him,” she said, nodding toward Rune, “so we ran away. If we're going to stay alive we have to find food.” To let the woman know she wasn't expecting any more handouts, she explained, “I'm going to search the shore some more, then I'm going to try to get up into the mountains, look for leeks or some fallen nuts. If there's a lake, I can catch a fish.”

The woman blinked dispassionately. “A leek. A fish. Why not
a barley field? Why not a whale? You are thinking only of a single mouthful.”

A whale. Her mouth leaped to water. How long had it been since she'd tasted boiled
gryn
, salted
spikihval
, chewy
mylja
? Two summers ago, at least, when that unbelievably enormous whale had stranded itself. She swallowed her saliva to her stomach's disappointment. Such thoughts were ridiculous, precious time wasted on extravagant dreaming. If she and Rune were going to stay alive, they had to begin searching out food for their very next meal, not go chasing after a feast for a season. “Well, two mouthfuls is what we're after right now,” she said, pulling her cloak around her. She began making her way to Rune, newly realizing how stiff and sore she was. “Thank you for the barley cakes.”

“You don't want a whale?”

That involuntary rush of water crossed Asa's tongue again. A pleading rumbled in her belly. Temptation sat on one hand, suspicion on the other. She paused, considering. If this strange woman knew of a stranded whale, she could ride back and tell her clan. A whale would feed them for months, well into the summer. A year from now the oil would still be lighting their lamps; the bones would be crafted into smoothing boards and gaming pieces and traded for other foodstuffs.

“Ach! I see it in your eyes.” The ravens bobbed noisy agreement. “You want a whale.” The stoop-shouldered woman extended a claw. “Then you will have to follow me.”

How she ached! Both Asa's shoulder and hip felt as bruised as bottom-of-the-barrel apples, and a raw knob on her knee protested every step. As she followed the old woman up the twisting path hidden among the spray-darkened boulders, her tongue kept seeking out the swollen ridge inside her lip, a tender spot that still tasted of blood. She paused to check on Rune, and in brushing the windblown hair from her eyes, she accidentally bumped her nose. The unexpected sting brought a gasp.

What was Jorgen's condition, then? With a flash of heat she hoped he'd suffered more. She envisioned him awakening to debilitating pain—how would he explain it to the others?—and imagined him fingering the scratches she must have left on his face. That rekindled the memory of his greasy skin beneath her nails, and her stomach upended. Hastily she wiped her hands on the nearest boulder. Not enough. Scooping up some coarse earth, she scrubbed both hands until a raw, tingling sensation replaced the greasy one. There. Now if she could only so easily scrub herself free of the man.

But things were going to change. She and Rune were off to find a whale. There would be enough food to bring everyone back to health. Jorgen would be forced to pack up his awful stories and slink away from her father's empty seat. And the rest of them would manage to survive until both summer and the men returned.

Assuming there
was
a whale, that is. A nagging doubt girdled her belly like a tightening rope. She was putting an awful lot of trust in a stranger, and a peculiar stranger at that.

Just look. The old woman could have been one of her feathered companions, the way she bent forward at the hip, climbing in a stiff, birdlike walk. An occasional bobble brought her elbows up for balance, and the cloak trailing over them resembled wings, but she never used a hand to steady herself.

The ravens, meanwhile, circled above, rising on the updrafts until they were only black dots against the pearly morning sky. There they initiated their own game. First one bird would fold its wings and plummet, spinning, rolling, and tumbling, until lifting itself out of the dive at the last moment with an exuberant call. Accepting the challenge, the other bird would then fold its wings and plummet, mimicking the same spinning, tumbling combination, but adding some unique flourish. The intricate dives were repeated again and again, and the ravens' unfettered spirits lifted her heart. She took that as further sign that things were changing for the good.

Around the next boulder the path shot steeply upward,
hugging the cliff wall so closely as to be little more than a chalky band of sunlight. There wasn't room for a horse, and just as that thought came to her she heard the sudden clatter of rocks and pebbles, a surprised grunt, and the sickening sound of scrambling hooves. She spun, her heart exploding.

Rune had managed to stop his fall but he balanced precariously, one back leg wedged between two rocks below the path, the other folded at a high, awkward angle, grasping for solid ground. Gathering himself, he made a desperate lunge. More pebbles skidded down the embankment, but he remained captive. His anxious whinny tore through her.

In an instant she was back to him, a hand on his sweating neck. Blood reddened the ankle of his trapped leg. “Whoa, whoa,” she soothed, forcing the fear from her voice while her mind raced. How was she going to pull him free? And even then, how was she going to get him turned around and safely down to the shore? The path was so dangerously narrow, the cliff way too steep. Glancing up, she met the woman's impatient scowl.

“He can't do it,” Asa called.

That brought the one-eyed stranger picking her way back down the path. Tugging Asa aside with an unnatural strength, she forcibly seated her on a boulder. “Flap will help,” she said, and thrust out her arm. Immediately one of the ravens came spiraling through the air. A whoosh of cold swept Asa's face as it landed. The big black bird neatly folded its wings before sidestepping to the woman's shoulder and bobbing in anticipation. With one
gnarled finger she ruffled its chest feathers until it fell completely still. Then she lifted her lips close to its face. As she murmured, it cocked its head, and its shiny brown eyes rolled and blinked. Asa couldn't make out words; it appeared to be more raven speak, because as soon as the woman was finished the bird gave an agreeable
kr-r-up
, spread its wings, and lifted upward with a heavy flapping. It circled once, then swooped close to Rune's ears and soared ahead. Encouraged, Rune struggled. That sent a few more rocks tumbling into the chasm, and he gave up.

Asa started for him. “He can't—,” she began, but the woman had Asa's arm in a twisting grip that choked the words from her.

The raven returned. It circled again, its black wings spread nearly as long as Asa was tall. Then, voicing a harsh
kra
, it dived toward Rune's back. The attack by beak and claw startled Rune into a leap forward and sent more rocks skittering. A second attack propelled him to scramble a few more steps and he regained the path, breathing heavily. But the raven wasn't finished. It kept up its barrage until it had driven Rune past the two women—they sucked themselves tight to the cliff wall—and on up the trail.

The old woman grinned smugly. “He
can
.” She released Asa's arm and continued up the path. Asa had no choice but to follow, bewildered.

Before long they were well into the shadowy fjord and beyond the reaches of daylight. Higher and higher they climbed, farther and farther away from the shoreline and any possibility of a stranded whale, and her doubt grew suffocating. Why did
she continue to follow? They were obviously going in the wrong direction. Was she really so spineless?

“Mylja.”

The word came drifting down the trail without the woman even turning around, and the hairs on the back of Asa's neck stirred. How did the woman know? Just how did she know she could lead Asa on to the edge of the world by dangling the promise of her favorite meal: melted whale blubber spread thickly across a chunk of warm flatbread? It was a treat she'd enjoyed only that one lovely summer, but one that she'd often mused of since, especially when sitting beside the fire mouthing its crumbly, barren substitute.

“
Mylja
.” The word floated past her again, whispered this time. Or arising from the fog inside her own mind. Was she losing her wits? Under some sort of spell? She needed to stay alert; this was unknown territory—not just the path, but the woman, too. Her heart thumped spasmodically as she recalled her father's oft-repeated warning: The cloak of a stranger hides helping hand … or deathly dagger.

Why hadn't she brought Astrid's knife with her? She had no way of defending herself if the woman attacked. One quick shove would send her plummeting to the jagged rocks below. Her scream would be swallowed by the ocean's frigid waters. No one would ever know, she thought with a twinge, and before long, no one would even remember her. Determined to avoid such a humiliating fate, she gingerly wiped the mist from her face and pulled her cloak about her more tightly.

For what must have been half the day they skirted the fjord, though who could sift morning from night while traveling within the ever-present dusk hemming the towering cliffs? Asa found that the fjord wasn't that long, though it was unusually narrow. The ocean breezes had died at the shore, leaving the chasm eerily still. Far, far below, iron-black water noiselessly lipped toothlike boulders. A sense of otherworldliness, of stepping through a dream, enveloped her. She wished Rune weren't so far ahead. He was her safety, her means of quick escape. Having the old woman positioned between her and her horse only added to her unease.

Time dragged on and Asa's steadily throbbing head measured its passage. When she thought she couldn't possibly take another step without shattering into fragments, she found herself on the opposite side of the fjord at the camouflaged entrance to a cave. A rack of drying fish leaned there, protected from the mist by an overhang. The old woman squawked. Muttering a spate of grunts and cackles that again blended human with bird, she hastily dragged the rack inside. There she carefully inspected each silvery fish with a probing finger. Asa couldn't help but notice that the eyes on every fish had been neatly gouged out. The blind victims hung by their tails, mouths rigidly agape.