“Whurrrrf,” he told me, very gently. His hellfire eyes were sad as an actual puppy’s as he nudged me with one great cold nose, almost knocking me off my feet again. “Whuhurrrf.”
Then I saw it. He’d begun to unravel.
It had started at his tail; the yarn had maybe snagged on something and his bits and pieces were all falling to bits and pieces. Even as I watched, the loops and knots undid themselves; one hind leg fell apart and he sat hard, listing to one side.
“Mister Fuzzykins, no!” I yelled. I would find Grandma’s knitting needles—I’d find Grandma—and she’d knit him back together, she’d…
But I couldn’t save him, either.
He put his heads down on his forepaws, and wagged his yarn at me in an attempt to make me smile, and then Mister Fuzzykins died. His yarn came all apart, and the lights went out of his eyes, and he died.
I screamed. Grabbed my hair in both hands, and I doubled over and I screamed at the world, at the Underworld, at every fucking thing everywhere. I screamed till my throat tore and my heart tore and my lungs burned, I screamed till I had no voice and then I screamed with my whole face, silent and awful like a demon. If I could have torn my heart from my chest, I would have. If I could have ripped the world to shreds with my hands, I would have.
If I could have traded places with them, oh yes, I would have.
But I couldn’t do any of those things. I had no power here or anywhere else, and never had. I couldn’t destroy everything, and I couldn’t fix anything. The only choices left to me were to lie down and die, or to keep going just as I always had, a stubborn stupid girl who didn’t know when to give up.
It would be so easy, I thought. Just lay down here, in the ice and the cold, and fall asleep…
But my grandma had saved me, right? She’d put me back together and made me whole again, she’d sung me back to life, and it seemed a rotten thing to do, a waste of her beautiful magic, for me to give up now.
I turned to look at her little hut, fallen in on itself as if some giant had stepped on it and smushed it flat. I had to find Grandma. The breath stuttered in my chest.
Maybe she’s still alive. Yeah, and maybe I’d tap my mukluks together three times and wake up in Kansas, and this all would have been a terrible dream.
“Fuck,” I said, and I spat red blood upon the snow. Then, because it suited the situation so well, I said it again. “Fuck.” My voice was rough and harsh, and sounded like a raven’s. I laughed, a terrible sound, and shouted to the sky, “Qa’hoq! Qa’hoq!”
Qa’hoq! The sky laughed back. Qa’hoq!
I may have gone a little crazy.
Well… crazier.
* * *
I didn’t find Grandma.
I found the golden collar, and brushed the dirt away. It was undamaged, the snarling bears as sharp and fine as the day some artist had brought them to life, a handful of beauty in an ugly, dead world. I twisted the heads one this way, one that, and pushed the torc onto my neck. The little bears warmed as they rested against my collarbones, and I tried to take comfort in their company.
My mother had worn this.
Mama.
I found Grandma’s knitting needles, and stuck them in my pocket along with a big fistful of Mister Fuzzykins’s yarn. Maybe I’d learn to knit someday, when I’d gotten out of this frozen-over hell and I was back home in my trailer…
Oh, wait, my trailer had burned to the ground. I was still homeless.
Fuck.
I found the Giyeg’s knife and stuck that in my other pocket. I didn’t look at it, didn’t think about it, and didn’t want to, but leaving the knife here seemed like a worse idea than taking it with me, so I took the damn thing and hoped it wouldn’t stab me through my pants.
I found the white bearskin, and tugged and dug and dragged it free of the rubble. As I held the bundle in my arms, feeling my own life-force within, it seemed I could hear a low, wild, beautiful song. Like what I thought it would sound like if a wolf was calling to her mate, or like a whale telling the story of creation to her calf.
A thought grew in my mind, a wish in my heart. If I could look upon my soul but once, it seemed as if my two halves would simply join together like water droplets in a bowl. The more I thought on it, the stronger my desire grew, until I couldn’t think of anything else. Laying the bearskin down on the bone-white earth, I unwrapped it carefully, gently, so as not to further damage my poor battered soul. My hands shook as I drew the last flap of bearskin aside to reveal…
…nothing.
Tears finally pricked my eyes, stinging as they froze on my cheeks. The spruce needle was gone. Of course it was gone. Why wouldn’t it be?
I’d lost my soul.
I’d lost my grandma.
I’d lost my mama… again.
“Fuck!” I croaked.
“Qa’hoq!” a voice laughed far overhead. I looked up, startled, but it was only a raven, and he didn’t bother to stop and talk to me. I shivered, cold and alone.
Okay, now what? I’d decided not to give up and die, but how exactly was I supposed to accomplish that? I had no food, no water, no shelter. No fire. I was alone, and I was cold…
So cold.
And I was tired… so tired…
I shivered again, hard enough to make my teeth rattle. I’d lost a mitten when the hut collapsed, and I stuck that hand into my parka. How the hell was I supposed to do anything one-handed? I needed to find my mitten.
Later. I’d find it later. I staggered over to the bearskin… it looked warm, and I was so cold.
I needed to find Grandma, and give her a proper burial.
Later. I knelt on the bearskin… it was soft, and I was so tired. I’d scrape up some supplies, and head back to the forest. I needed to find out whether my mama was alive, and if she was I’d find a way to rescue her…
Later. Later.
It was so cold, and I was so tired. I lay down on the bearskin, I wrapped its warmth around me… I was so tired, and it was so warm.
I wrapped myself up in the white bearskin, and as I drifted off, it seemed I could hear voices singing, singing to me, singing me to sleep…
Bye, Baby Bunting…
I slept.
…and slept…
…and slept.
33
I woke, as all fairy tale creatures do, when the singing stopped.
The pale light gave little warmth, but my fur was thick and I was young and strong, and unafraid of the cold. Hunger coiled like a snake in my belly, but I’d been hungry for as long as I could remember. I wasn’t afraid of that, either.
The smells, though, the smells were disturbing. I lifted my head and curled my lip back, let the scents of the day dance across my tongue. Carrion-sulfur and soulstone. The Giyeg had been here. A hound, an old human woman, and…
…and…
I sneezed. It didn’t matter; they were all gone now, and my hunger was waking. I heaved to my feet and stretched, my claws digging into the ice as I arched my back and shook. It was good. The air was good, too, crisp and clear, and it brought to me the smell of fish and the taste of berries, close by. The humans’ den had collapsed, and the humans were gone, but they had left some food behind.
Silly creatures.
I followed the good food smells, grumbling a little as my claws tangled in the hound’s abandoned shell, snuffling and whuffing and growling low lest it be a trap. Humans were murderous, ugly, tricksy things, not much good for eating or anything else, as likely to poison food as to eat it. Every bear knows that when coming across a human in the wild, it’s best to run away, or play dead if running isn’t an option.
A good long sniff assured me that there were no living humans here. Satisfied, I dug my way into the den. It was a nice little space, dry and snug, good for caching a kill or raising a brood. It smelled of woodsmoke and burnt hair, but wind and time would wash these things away, make it clean again. There were human things—cold iron and strange furs, and a pile of old bones tha
t made my nose tingle when I sniffed them—but they held neither the threat of death nor the promise of life, and so held little interest for me.
And there was food, good food, a great deal of it. Fish and fat-meat, bones to crack between my powerful jaws, berries and sweets and a round pumpkin. After I’d gorged and was no longer hungry I played with the pumpkin, but when I swatted it too hard it broke, and I ate that, too.
When I’d licked my paws clean and rubbed my muzzle along the den’s sturdy wall, I yawned. Though I’d only just woken, I was dreadfully sleepy. Pushing the old bones out of a pile of furs and strings and other soft things, I clawed and nosed at the bedding till I was satisfied, and curled up for a nice Long Sleep.
I could feel my breathing slow, sloooowwww…
And the blood in my veins slow, slooowwww…
My heart beating like a dance-drum, slow, sloooowwww.
My belly was full, my heart content, my soul whole. It was good. I began to sing a bear-song—a long song, a strong song, a song of all the things I’d seen and done and eaten since my last Long Sleep. Then I closed my eyes and drifted away.
Away, away…
Dreaming of fish and honey.
* * *
I slept as a bear sleeps, as the nights waxed and the days waned, as demons and the Giyeg and all manner of fell creatures prowled about, howled about, hunted and killed and ate one another as creatures do. I slept through the blackest heart of winter, singing the song of my people as I dreamed, adding my voice to theirs, feeling their strength in my bones and their wisdom in my heart.
Salmon swam deep in the frigid river, Orca sung her sad song as the waters ran too warm and sweet, Raven laughed qa’hoq qa’hoq as His creations struggled to make sense of His cosmic joke. I felt them all. The world turned, the world burned, and I slept on, as bears do. It was good.
* * *
Then I woke up.
My fur itched, my stomach had turned inside out with hunger, and I was in a seriously pissy mood. I hadn’t shat in months, or bathed, and my teeth felt as if some fucking squirrel had crawled into my mouth and died while I was hibernating.
Gaaah.
I pushed and dug free from my stinking den, blinking in the pale light of spring, nose twitching in the cold, clear air, half hoping I’d find an enemy nearby so I could take my foul mood out on somebody. It had snowed well as I’d slept, and the deep white blanket showed no spoor—not so much as a rabbit had dared enter my territory.
I grunted, satisfied and annoyed at once, and made my way to the river. It had just started to thaw, far out in the middle, and I was thirsty. A good drink of sweet water, and maybe a chance at a nice, fat fish. I could hear the river singing to me, singing of life and fish, of a fine, sleek mate and strong cubs. I walked out onto the ice.
Something, some little thing, came skittering across and slid to a stop just between my feet. I stopped and stared at it, surprised. What would dare? What thing would dare to approach me, at this time, and in this place? I stared at it, sniffed it.
A rock.
I walked on. Again, a small shape hurled itself across the water, skip-skip-skitter-skip, to land at my feet.
And another.
Curiosity roused, I forgot my thirst and my hunger, I forgot my cranky mood, and I followed the trail of little rocks, and they led me to the river’s edge. Skip-skip-skitter-skip went the stones, and I ignored the warning crackle in the ice’s voice as it warned me away from the water, ignored the gurgle in the river’s song as she warned me back, back.
The stones spoke to me, they spoke to me of home and warmth and family. They sang to me, with their little voices, they called me by name. A name I’d heard once.
Siggy!
Heard in a dream.
In a lullaby.
Calling, calling…
Siggy!
I leaned closer to listen, and abruptly the river pulled me down.
Siggy, come back!
34
Light hurt, sound hurt, my skin hurt, my insides hurt, my outsides… I exploded into consciousness with a tintinnabulation of pain. Yeah, life after death isn’t a fuckin’ dance party.
The world crushed down upon my chest, heaved air into my collapsed lungs, crushed me flat again, pumped me up again, as I filled my body like coffee filling a cup, drip by drip. I could feel, I could hear…
I could hear everything. I was everything.
The sun in the trees, the laughter of Raven as he flew overhead, the little lives safe in the mud. I was the ocean, I was a hurricane gathering strength far out to sea, molten rock coiling deep beneath the Earth’s mantle. I was life, I was everything, and it was good.
I was everything, but I was Siggy, too.
Siggy was broken.
My heart wasn’t beating. That wasn’t right. I concentrated… squeeze, push, whoosh, like that, easy-peasy. The blood lay soft and somnolent in my veins. I sang it to life and warmth. My lungs had forgotten how to breathe, and that wasn’t right, either. I closed my ears to the outside sounds so I could listen to the inside sounds, so I could remind my lungs of the song of air, how to sing it, how to be a part of the world again. I sank down, down into my body, as once I’d sunk down, down into the river, losing everything.
I remembered Siggy.
I was Siggy John Aleksov, and it was good.
My heart began to beat, a tremulous backbeat, lub-dub, lub-dub. My lungs filled with air, too fast, too much, a mouth clamped down on mine, forcing it, forcing me…
It hurt.
Oh, fuck, it hurt. I pushed weakly at the weight that pinned me down, clung to life as poor Sedna had clung to her father’s boat, pleading for just one more chance to make things right, one more day, one more breath.
One more breath was forced into my lungs, hot and moist and foul, and I dug deep, I tapped into my last reservoirs of strength, and I fought back against my attacker. I bit down.
Hard.
The weight lifted from my chest and I could breathe, wonderful air, and my heart was beating, lub-dub, lub-dub, blessed sun on my face… My blessed stomach gave me just enough warning to flop onto my side before I threw up half of the river—water, mud, fish and all.
Hands grabbed hold of me, strong hands, small hands, hands gnarled and tough as old tree roots, and that’s when I knew I’d come home. The hands lifted me up, they held me close, and brushed the hair from my face. I could hear voices, beating about the edge of my senses like a raven trying to get in through a closed window, I could see sun and shadow against my eyelids, and I could feel pain. Lots and lots of pain.
That was all I felt, for quite a while. I wanted to rest, to slip back down into the cool water, but the voices kept beating, beating, and the shapes kept moving, moving, and the hands kept shaking me this way and that till I gave up and opened my eyes. I opened my mouth, too, to tell them to leave me alone, and the other half of the river rushed out instead. Ugh.
I threw up all over Garvin, who had pulled me into his lap and was cradling me as if I were a small, hurt child. He was rocking me back and forth, and crying, and Grandpa was clinging to both of us, crying, and Emily was squashed in between, crying.
“You guys are going to drown me all over again,” I protested. It hurt to talk. Hell, it hurt to be alive.
I’d take it.
“Siggy, don’t you ever…” Garvin began. “And where are your clothes?” He took off his own shirt and covered my nakedness. I didn’t really care much one way or the other. After so much time in the Underworld, I welcomed the sun on my skin.
“Siggy!” Grandpa shouted, loud enough to make me wince. Everything still sounded like I was underwater. He touched my torc with shaking hands. “Where did you get this?”
“Siggy,” Emily whispered, eyes wide as skipping-stones. “What happened to your hair?”
“The better to eat you with,” I mumbled, and laughed a little. They all stared. Well, let them stare. It made sense to me. “Is there any coffee? I need coffee.”
“She’ll be okay.” Grandpa patted at my head, my arms, as if to reassure himself that I was still there. He nodded to himself. “She’ll be okay.” It was a little talisman, I could feel it, a tiny spell from the heart of a shaman’s son. A little push toward life.
I’d take that, too.
“Come on, Siggy,” Garvin said. He struggled to his feet, never putting me down, though I’m no featherweight by half. “Let’s go home.”
Never in the history of language had any words sounded so sweet. I clung to my cousin, to my family, as they carried me to the waiting boat. I still clutched the Giyeg’s knife in one hand, and this I hid in a fold of my shirt—Garvin’s shirt. I didn’t want to talk about it, any of it, not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Certainly not before I’d had some damn coffee.
* * *
Coffee.
The smell of it, the taste, the heat as it rolled across my tongue, was everything good in the world, everything right and fine. I didn’t really listen to the conversation swirling about me, just clung to my cup, coughing occasionally—which hurt a lot—and shivering occasionally, though I was wrapped in every blanket Grandpa could scrounge up and though the day was like a fucktillion degrees warmer than it’d been in the Underworld.
It would have been wonderful to think it had all been a dream—really, that’d be awesome—but the torc, and the knife, and the handful of soggy yarn that had gotten tangled in my hair all kinda suggested that it had been a real thing.
Oh, and speaking of hair, mine had gone white. Not gray-white like an old lady’s, not blonde-white like some Hollywood starlet, but white-white, snow-white.
Bear-white.
One look in the mirror, and I’d turned away. I really didn’t want to deal with any of this yet, not before coffee. Not before all the coffee.
Garvin talked in a tight and nervous voice, about how sometimes a traumatic experience can make a person’s hair go prematurely gray. I snorted into my coffee. Turned into a raven by the Giyeg, chased by a witch, yeah, those probably counted as traumatic experiences.
Split Feather Page 20
