The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  “Yes. He was going to send Neptune to come get you, but I volunteered. Heavily.” She smiled. “Beck’s waiting for us down the street.”

  Beck was the Warden’s enigmatic chauffeur, a driver who ferried the Wardens around the city in a run-down cab. Horace felt a brief surge of excitement at the thought of seeing Beck, of returning once more to the Warren with Chloe, but almost as soon as his excitement appeared, it faded. Going to the Warren meant seeing Mr. Meister again, and Horace wasn’t ready for that. Not after what he’d learned.

  “Why do they want me?” he asked. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure. Mr. Meister was in full cryptic mode. He said, and I quote, ‘Something long asleep has been awakened.’” She imitated Mr. Meister’s crisp German accent.

  It was impossible for Horace’s sizable curiosity not to be stirred by those words, just for a second. But only a second. “Great,” he complained. “More secrets. Very helpful.”

  “Horace, what is going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ah,” she said wryly. “More secrets. Very helpful.”

  Horace sighed. He spoke lightly, but his heart pounded. “I found out something about my mom, okay?”

  Chloe frowned warily. “You say that like it’s bad. Are you about to tell me something bad about your mom? Because as someone who doesn’t have a mom of her own, I sort of rely on yours to be ongoingly awesome.”

  “Yeah, well, you tell me how bad it is. It turns out she knows who Mr. Meister is. It turns out she knows about the Fel’Daera—she’s known all along.”

  The wings of the Alvalaithen fluttered, just for an instant, as Chloe’s eyes went wide. Horace knew just how she felt. Mr. Meister was the leader of the Wardens—technically the Chief Taxonomer, overseeing the collection, cataloging, and safekeeping of all the instruments the Wardens could find, trying to keep them out of the hands of the Riven. And the old man was a recruiter, too. It was Mr. Meister—and his partner, Mrs. Hapsteade—who had made it possible for Horace to find the Fel’Daera in the first place, to become Tan’ji. But neither of Horace’s parents knew anything about all that.

  Or so he’d thought.

  “Explain, please,” Chloe said quietly.

  Horace told her the whole story, how he had come home before dawn after the escape from the nest, only to find his mother waiting for him. How she’d spoken of people and things she had no business knowing—Mr. Meister, Mrs. Hapsteade, leestones, Keepers, Tan’ji, the Box of Promises. “She knows about me,” Horace explained. “And you. She always has.”

  To his surprise, Chloe seemed to be suppressing a smile. When he finished his tale, she threw her arms wide. “Well, that explains everything,” she said, beaming. “That explains why your mom is so chill. She’s a Keeper, like us.”

  As usual, Chloe was adapting more quickly than he had. But Horace shook his head. “She told me she’s not a Keeper. She’s not Tan’ji.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Horace admitted.

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “I was pretty exhausted that night. She said we could talk about it after I recovered. She said I could ask her whatever I wanted, whenever I was ready. But . . .” He trailed off, shrugging.

  Chloe scowled, mimicking his shrug. “But what?”

  “But I never asked.”

  Now she reared back and shook her head. “Wait, your mom drops the bomb that she knows all about the box, and the dragonfly, and the Wardens and everything, and two weeks later, you still haven’t brought it up again?”

  “Nine days. Not two weeks.”

  “I mean seriously, what is wrong with you? You’re Captain Curious. You ask more questions than a five-year-old. You not asking questions is like me not . . .” She fished around for an example.

  “Hassling me?” Horace offered.

  “Very funny. But yeah, actually.”

  “It’s not so easy to ask about this. This is different.”

  “How is this possibly different?”

  “Because my mom says she knew the Maker of the Fel’Daera.”

  Chloe stared at him for a long time. As was his habit, Horace counted automatically while he waited. Five, six. Chloe’s eyes flicked to the box in its pouch at Horace’s belt, then back to his face. Eight, nine. She said softly, “But the Makers are the . . .”

  “Yeah,” Horace said, knowing they were both thinking the same thing.

  The Riven.

  Chloe squirmed. “Okay, but Mr. Meister said that the Riven of today aren’t really the Makers. They’re like the sad, scary leftovers of the original Makers.”

  Horace remembered the story. The Makers in question were the creators of the Tanu, wondrous and seemingly magical devices that operated outside the known laws of physics. Tanu came in all shapes and sizes, from simple Tan’kindi that could be used by anyone to powerful Tan’ji that would only bond to certain individuals. All the Tanu, both grand and humble, had been made by a mysterious race living quietly on the fringes of humanity, long ago.

  “The Altari,” Horace murmured. According to Mr. Meister, a few Altari had been friendly with humans from the start, even giving them gifts of Tan’kindi. Back then, it was assumed that only Altari could bond with and use the more potent Tan’ji. But at some point it was discovered that some humans had the ability to become Tan’ji as well. A rift then grew among the Makers. Some embraced the idea of human Keepers, but others rebelled. This rebellious group renamed themselves the Kesh’kiri, the Riven. They lurked in the shadows and dedicated themselves to reclaiming all the Tanu for themselves, to hunting down every last human Keeper. The rest of the Altari, meanwhile, went even deeper into hiding, all but vanishing from the face of the earth.

  Now, it turned out, Horace’s mother claimed to have met one of them—and not just any Altari, but the Maker of Horace’s own instrument. The very thought left him completely unmoored, full of doubts and an angry confusion that he couldn’t seem to tame.

  “Well,” said Chloe, “whether we say Riven or Altari, the Maker of the Fel’Daera must be terribly old.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Where is he now? Is he even still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Horace mumbled.

  “Why would your mother have met him? And when did that even happen?”

  “I have no idea. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go to the Warren.”

  Chloe shot up and planted her fists on her hips, fuming. “I see. So this is what happens when I’m not around. Wallowing. Throwing yourself a pity party.”

  “I’m not wallowing.”

  “You are. You feel sorry for yourself because somebody knew something you thought was private. And now you’re afraid to ask your mom about it. You’re afraid of the answers.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m just not ready to talk to her. What’s there to be afraid of?”

  “Betrayal,” Chloe said simply. “Jealousy.” She held out the dragonfly. “I know what the bond is like, Horace. My claim on the Alvalaithen is way beyond ownership—my instrument is me, completely and privately and forever. And if someone came along with some older claim to it, even a tiny one, it would drive me completely nuts. I would want to send that person packing, because who the hell are they to presume to know something about my Tan’ji? Heck, I didn’t even like having to ask Mr. Meister what the dragonfly’s name was.”

  It was true, of course. So true that there was nothing more to discuss. “Fine,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t want to ask my mom what she knows about the Fel’Daera, or its Maker. Not at all. So let’s go. Something’s going on at the Warren, right? Mr. Meister says someone woke up, or something.”

  Chloe snatched a pillow off Horace’s bed. The wings of the Alvalaithen began to whir, and she swung the pillow mightily, right at Horace’s face. He flinched, but the pillow passed clean through his head like a ghost, cool and shocking.

  “You’re the one who needs to wake up,” Chl
oe snapped. “I’m not taking you anywhere until you get your answers.”

  “I’ll get my answers when I’m ready.”

  Chloe swung the pillow again, and Horace forced himself not to flinch, but this time the pillow smacked him hard, right in the face.

  “Gah!” he cried.

  Chloe dropped the pillow. The dragonfly had gone still again. From the other end of the bed, Loki watched them with wide golden eyes. “You’re not fine,” Chloe said. “You’re distracted. Half your brain is curled up in the corner, worrying about what you don’t know. And the Keeper of the Fel’Daera can’t use his Tan’ji properly with only half a brain.”

  Now it was Horace’s turn to scowl. He picked up a marble and chucked it back into the pile with a clack. “If my mom wanted me to know, how come she hasn’t brought it up again?”

  “Probably because she’s a good mom—unlike mine. She’s here. She’s not pushing. It’s your Tan’ji, Horace, and she’s waiting for you to bring it up—waiting for you to be you, as usual. And instead of doing that, you’ve been pouting.”

  Another marble. Another clack. “Ah, crap,” he said. She was right. She was right, and he’d been stupid—a pity party indeed.

  Chloe grabbed him by the hand and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s go. Right now. Beck can wait.”

  His mother wasn’t in her room. They went downstairs, past the empty living room. As they entered the kitchen, Horace started to have second thoughts. “Chloe,” he began, “Maybe right now isn’t—”

  Chloe came to a sudden halt. “Too late,” she said.

  Horace’s mother sat at the kitchen table, smiling tentatively, clearly expecting them. A vase of freshly cut daisies sat on the windowsill beside her, white petals vibrantly aglow in the afternoon sunlight. But Horace’s eyes fell immediately upon the strange, delicate object in his mother’s hands. About the size of a football, it was obviously Tanu. Horace had never seen anything quite like it—four curved pieces of wood bent together, outlining a shape kind of like a fish. The open space within seemed to glimmer faintly.

  “Hi,” said Horace’s mother.

  Horace was rooted to the spot. He looked over at Chloe, sure she had planned this whole encounter from the start. But Chloe just stared at the strange Tanu, clearly as stunned as he was.

  His mother said, “I hope I haven’t guessed wrong, Horace, but I think maybe you’re ready to finish the conversation I started when you came home that night.” Smoothly she unfolded the Tanu in her hands, unfolding the four curving arms one by one until it became a bowl-shaped letter X. From each arm a rising ribwork of shimmering strings ran toward the center. The device looked like two sailboats crisscrossed at right angles, each with glinting strands of light for sails. Horace couldn’t quite pin those strands down, though. The moment he focused on one, it vanished, twinkling. Counting them was an impossibility.

  “What is that thing?” Horace breathed.

  “Sit and let me tell you,” his mother said kindly. “You too, Chloe. Both of you, please—sit and let me tell you everything I can.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wild Now

  LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, WHILE DEREK AND UNCLE HARRISON were still at work, April headed over to Doc Durbin’s. She wore her most practical hiking dress—simple and sturdy—and the rugged old boots she’d inherited from Derek. She walked the path through the woods to the clinic with her eyes closed, finding the way by memory and feel, and also with the help of the vine. She could sense the presence of the forest all around her, especially the trees. Plants didn’t truly have consciousness, and didn’t really think, but they were alive and had a presence she could feel, like the faintest mist of rain. Especially trees. Especially forests. She walked slowly beneath the peaceful, outstretched boughs now, headed for the veterinarian’s house.

  April was hoping not to run into Doc. Not only did Doc have a way of reading April’s moods, but she wasn’t shy about asking questions, and April didn’t feel very equipped to handle many questions right now. She was risking the visit only because there was someone else she had to say good-bye to. Someone she knew for a fact she would never see again. Not after today.

  April and Isabel had arranged to meet after dinner, at the old abandoned barn, fifteen minutes away on foot. That, apparently, was where Isabel had been staying. April knew the barn well, having discovered it years ago when exploring the far side of Moraine Lake. It was the kind of abandoned barn people might stop to take pictures of, collapsing elegantly into a picturesque meadow. It was a dramatic place to hide out, a dramatic setting for a secret rendezvous. April hadn’t yet decided whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

  After Isabel’s departure that morning, April had immediately marched inside and packed her things. She’d already decided to go searching for the missing piece, so there was no reason to delay getting ready. Plus, there was something about getting ready to leave that made the leaving more certain. Not that she was uncertain, not at all. She had actually never been so certain in her life.

  So certain it scared her.

  What she was about to do should have been unthinkable. Not only was she going to leave home, but she’d have to lie to Derek about it. She’d never lied to her brother before—well, not until recently, and certainly not about something so big. Her determination to leave should have been wilting under mounds of guilt and love and loyalty. Or at the very least, she should have been keeping her determination alive by reminding herself that she was doing this partly for Derek’s sake. Staying here was dangerous. The Riven were coming for her. Though she didn’t know what they were, exactly, she knew they were bad. Very bad. By leaving, she was keeping Derek out of harm’s way.

  But that wasn’t why she was leaving. As far as the Riven went, she’d only seen shadows, only heard Isabel’s stories. Frightening shadows, frightening stories, yes—but it wasn’t fear or nobility or sacrifice that fueled April now. It was selfishness. All day long, the call of the mysterious missing piece had grown stronger, more true. By late morning it had begun to tingle tenaciously in her brain and her spine, an itch she could neither scratch nor ignore. And now it beckoned to her with a voice so powerful that she suspected—but could not quite admit—that she would go looking for it even if it meant putting Derek in more danger. The thought wasn’t a happy one, but it didn’t matter. She had to go. She had to become whole again. And after that, well . . .

  It was hard to imagine past that.

  She’d packed her school backpack with two more hiking dresses, an extra pair of shorts, two shirts, and plenty of underwear. Also toothpaste, her toothbrush, her retainer—which felt more than ever like a burden, but at least a familiar one—a small blanket, two favorite issues of National Geographic, and a can of bug spray. After a moment’s thought, she’d also pinned her armadillo brooch to the inside of her bag. The brooch, which she hadn’t worn since she was eight, was the only piece of her mother’s jewelry she still held on to.

  Isabel had told April to bring food and money as well, which to be honest wasn’t very encouraging, but it didn’t matter. She’d scrounged up all her savings, seventeen dollars and forty-seven cents. Then she’d gone to the kitchen and grabbed a few apples, four bottles of water, a half-empty bag of rippled potato chips, and five packages of beef jerky from Uncle Harrison’s massive jerky supply. Beef jerky was not April’s favorite—partly because ever since he quit smoking, Uncle Harrison always had a stick of it hanging out of his chubby mouth—but it still seemed like a very adventury sort of food.

  Now, with the backpack stashed safely in her closet at home and the call of the missing piece coursing through her bones, she walked the well-worn trail to Doc Durbin’s, eager to see Arthur the raven one last time. Doc was keeping the raven far out back, in one of the big pens she used for larger animals. That was good, because with the vine it could be overwhelming getting too close to the vet clinic itself. Being around so many animals at once—especially domesticated animals like cats and dogs—was l
ike having a dozen people talking inside her brain all at once. Even now, just walking through the trees, she was bombarded by the presence of hidden creatures in the forest all around her, most of them alert to and alarmed by her passing.

  It was a strange existence, living with the vine. She had always been attuned to animals, but now a walk through the woods or around the lake was a whole new experience, a whole new plane of awareness. More often than not, she never saw the wild creatures she sensed. She could guess some of their identities by location—birds or squirrels overhead, mice or toads or salamanders down on the ground. Usually she could identify them vaguely by their temperaments too: smaller creatures tended to be more neurotic; mammals tended to be keener and more conflicted; reptiles and amphibians were sludgy and torpid. Birds were often as sharp and complicated as mammals, but definitely more foreign—their brains felt older, somehow.

  Insects were largely unnoticeable, thank goodness, unless she really focused. Bigger insects were easier to tune in to than small ones like flies and mosquitoes, but she’d learned to avoid insect brains whenever possible. Last week she’d been watching the hummingbirds dart around the feeder outside Doc’s house, feeling their hyperkinetic and surprisingly ill-tempered minds tumbling about inside her own. Suddenly she’d become aware of an alien presence in the mix, predatory and hungry. No—worse than that. Murderous. A mind that had no trace of consciousness or self-awareness, as cold and as dark as the underside of an iceberg.

  Fighting off the savage thoughts, she’d circled around the feeder and was horrified to spot an enormous praying mantis, almost as long as her hand. Unbelievably, it was trying to catch one of the hummingbirds, lashing out with its hooked forelimbs whenever one of the tiny birds hovered too close. She’d reached up and flicked the bug away in a spurt of panic. It briefly took flight and then dropped heavily into the weeds. Even as it fell, she perceived nothing from it but an unwavering desire to kill and devour. The memory made her shudder.

  But of course the vine could do more. Right now April could pick up only certain kinds of thoughts from the animals she listened to—moods, intentions, emotions. Things like hunger, fear, contentment. But she knew in her bones that the vine was meant to dig deeper. Brains were more complicated than that. April had told Isabel about her whiteouts, how when she tried to open herself wider to the vine—to access an animal’s mind more fully—the searing pain and blinding whiteness came. Isabel had peered closely at the broken nub of the vine, and made April promise never to push so hard, but she wouldn’t say any more than that.