The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  April passed the little pasture where Doc kept her two goats, Moo and Shwoo. She liked the goats fine, but thought of them as apathetic, unintelligent dogs—greedy for food and not much else. Just beyond was the little shelter where Arthur lived. She felt him before she saw him, brooding grouchily about his captivity. But as soon as the raven spotted her, he began to gurgle musically, cooing and clucking as he bobbed his sleek black head. Happiness blossomed in April’s mind, a friendly vibe of belonging. She also caught a bit of anticipation mingled with mild hunger. Arthur, of course, had learned to associate April’s visits with food. If there was one thing the vine had taught her, it was that animals—especially wild ones—thought about food almost all the time.

  “You probably think I brought you some treats, don’t you?” April said.

  “Dontchoo,” Arthur squawked loudly, trying to imitate her. “Dontchoo dontchooo.” He stuck his thick beak through the wire and snapped at her in a sociable way.

  She did have food for him, of course. A plastic bag full of dog food was stuffed into each of her front pockets. “Guilty as charged,” April said. She pulled out a chunk of kibble now and offered it to him. Arthur examined it for a moment, then snatched it deftly from her palm and swallowed it whole. A surge of eager pleasure roiled through April’s head.

  “I’m leaving soon,” she said. “I guess you are too.” She offered him more dog food. He took it, and a few more after that, but his enthusiasm quickly began to wane. Now that the excitement of April’s visit was wearing off, and his hunger fading, his earlier mood was returning to him. Frustration. No—anger. When she offered him a sixth chunk of dog food, he plucked it impatiently from her hand and tossed it on the ground. He didn’t want food. He wanted out—no, “want” wasn’t nearly strong enough a word. His imprisonment was maddening, bewildering, and if he’d at first felt a strange kind of safety in the cage because of his broken wing, all shreds of that were gone now. He was better. Ready.

  Watching him, reaching out for him as far as the broken vine would safely allow, April became aware of a deep yearning that flowered in the young bird’s mind, a yearning that seemed now to fill the muscles of her shoulders and chest with an unbearable itch, a primitive need.

  The need to fly.

  Arthur shuffled down the cage and took the heavy iron bolt of the cage door in his beak, shaking it hard. He wanted it open, now, and suddenly—inevitably—so did April. Freedom. Flight. Wildness. An urge so powerful and right that April couldn’t possibly have denied it. She glanced up at Doc’s house and crouched down in front of the cage.

  “Here,” she told the still-struggling bird. “Let me.” Arthur reared back, uncertain, and watched keenly as she slid back the heavy bolt. The cage door swung open wide. “It’s time now,” April said, stepping away. “You’re all better.”

  Arthur hopped up onto the sill, cocking his head at her. She could feel his curious mind at work, trying to make sense of this new development. Although the door was open just as he’d wanted, he struggled for a moment to fully embrace what that meant. But then other emotions began to grow like a new fire: caution, hope, excitement.

  Arthur chirruped softly and dropped heavily onto the ground. He took a couple of questing hops across the dirt and then stretched his startlingly large wings, beating at the air. His broken wing was weak, but working. Joy. Confidence. Or at least, again, those were the best names April had for what the bird was feeling. She wasn’t even sure they could be called emotions, but they were strong and pure and full of life.

  “That’s right,” said April. “You’re wild now.”

  Arthur strutted over to April’s feet. He cooed at her and plucked at her shoelaces, then looked up at her with his bright black eyes. A flood of gratitude, a warm pulse just an arm’s length away from affection—pure and simple and shockingly human—washed over her, sprouting goose bumps along her arms.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, water rising in her eyes.

  No sooner had she spoken the words than Arthur squawked loudly and launched himself upward, his wings beating the air so powerfully that the breeze lifted the ends of April’s hair. Although she couldn’t actually feel what it was like to fly, the thrill of the bird’s first flight in weeks hammered her, a surge of adrenaline that made her gasp. Arthur sailed over the yard, still calling, drifting out of sight over a line of dogwoods, headed into the woods. He flew out of range of the vine, and abruptly his presence in her mind winked out completely.

  April clutched the front of her dress, feeling empty and breathless, alone with her thoughts. Moo and Shwoo were watching her blandly, vaguely hoping she had food for them too. They felt like rocks. She glanced up at the house again, but apparently no one had seen what she’d done. Not that it mattered. Arthur was gone. Wild now. She stood there for a moment, her eyes locked on the spot in the trees where Arthur had disappeared, hoping he might return, knowing he wouldn’t. “Wild now,” April murmured to herself. “And I guess I’m next.”

  WHEN DEREK AND Uncle Harrison got home from work, April started getting dinner ready. Derek came down to help her after showering and changing, but she didn’t get up the nerve to ask about staying at Maggie’s house until they were all seated at the table. The truth was, she and Maggie hadn’t been hanging out much lately, and not at all since the vine. She hoped Derek hadn’t noticed.

  “So,” she said, trying not to sound like she’d rehearsed the lie a thousand times, “Maggie invited me to stay at her house for a few nights. Her mom can pick me up after dinner, if that’s okay.”

  Uncle Harrison grunted and waved a fork to indicate it didn’t matter to him, an unnecessary gesture. He had never shown much interest in April, seeming to regard her as a strange flower best left untended. He left all the parenting decisions to Derek, which was fine with April. If she was a strange flower, Uncle Harrison was like a lonely, cud-chewing beast—too self-absorbed to be either unusually cruel or especially kind.

  “A few nights?” Derek asked. “So when would you be back?”

  “Friday evening.” That would give her three full days to find the missing piece.

  Uncle Harrison looked at her through his squinty little eyes, an entire breast of chicken dangling from his fork. “Need some girl talk?” he said. “Too manly in this house, I guess.”

  “Um . . . sure. Yes. Way too manly,” April said. “Girl talk is what I need.”

  Uncle Harrison chuckled and tore off a great bite of chicken, then turned his attention back to his plate. Conversations with Uncle Harrison never lasted much longer than that.

  Derek gave April a doubtful look. “I thought Maggie talked too much,” he said. “Last time you stayed there, you came home and demanded a day of silence.”

  “Well,” April said, keeping her voice steady, “maybe I’m maturing. Maybe I’m becoming more community minded.”

  “Uh-huh,” Derek said skeptically. “You know, sometimes I think if you mature any more, you’ll be ninety.”

  “Thank you,” April said.

  Derek seemed unsure whether to laugh or frown. “Okay,” he said. “Just . . . call me from Maggie’s when you get a chance. Let me know you’re still alive.”

  April dropped her eyes and nodded. For some reason those words—still alive—made her stomach sway.

  “Promise me, Pill,” Derek said softly.

  She looked up at him. He made an O with his left hand and held it up to his eye, peering at her keenly through the ring. April swallowed. This was a private sign she and her brother had invented long ago, when things were bad. The orphans’ oath. This was their vow to each other—a promise to shed every secret, abandon every lie, put each other first forever. The orphans’ oath was their reminder that whatever else failed or fell apart, the two of them never would. And here Derek was, invoking it now.

  April couldn’t even remember the last time either of them had asked for the oath. She lifted a heavy hand and copied the gesture now, somehow managing to meet Derek eye to
eye. “Promise,” she said.

  After a beat, Derek flashed her a brilliant smile and winked through the O. He dropped his hand and went back to his food.

  “That’s what I like to see,” Uncle Harrison said loudly, as if he had any idea what had just occurred. “Families being families.”

  “Well,” Derek said, fussing with his mashed potatoes. But he never finished the sentence. They spent the rest of the meal in silence, and the only way April could keep herself from crying was to latch all her thoughts onto that missing piece, so far away and so desperately lost, and to remind herself that the only thing worse than leaving would be to never go at all.

  AFTER DINNER, APRIL left home.

  And it was home, she thought, as she stood on the porch with her backpack, watching the sun sink into the treetops. Even if this house had never fully felt like it was hers, it was the only home she had. But now she was leaving it behind, and First Baron, and even dull Uncle Harrison, who hardly said ten words a week to her. All because of the vine. Two weeks with the vine, and then the sudden arrival of a stranger, and here she was ready to head out alone, not knowing when she’d come back. It was madness, really. The only thing that kept her nerves together was the constant presence of the vine, and the belief that it belonged to her far more than she belonged to this house.

  Derek, of course, was another story.

  She’d not been able to give Derek the good-bye he deserved, for fear of drawing too much attention to herself—possibly by collapsing. “See ya,” she’d said casually, and Derek had replied, “Yup. Have fun.” Uncle Harrison had only grunted, which in all honesty was probably what he would’ve done even if he’d known the truth.

  April bent and peeled a crisp flake of gray paint from the dilapidated porch floor. She rubbed it between her fingertips until it crumbled into dust, and then she started down the long gravel driveway, keeping her spine straight and not looking back. But she’d barely gone around the first bend in the drive before her spine went weak. Baron. He was following far behind, curious and eager. A moment after she felt him, she heard his collar jangling. She stopped and turned.

  “No following,” she told him, but the dog didn’t slow. She held out her hand before he could get close. “Stop. Sit.”

  Baron sat, confused and concerned and slightly hurt, but happy as always to please. April didn’t go back to him. There had been too many hard good-byes already, and while April wasn’t opposed to being sentimental, she felt in danger of overflowing. She reached up and rubbed the broken stem of the vine, letting the jagged edge prick her thumb softly. “You stay here,” she told Baron, her voice wavering. “You stay good.” And then she turned and walked away from him.

  Baron stayed, but his confusion lingered, tugging at her. He let out a little bark of worry. April kept moving, trying not to notice that she was crying openly now, until at last she was beyond the vine’s range. Baron’s worry winked out like a candle. Knowing him, she felt sure that he hadn’t yet moved, still listening to her leave, still wondering where she was going and when she would be back.

  She wondered much the same.

  She walked on, letting the tears flow freely and silently, probing at her sadness and deciding that it was warranted . . . of course it was warranted. But beneath the sadness, there was that same bedrock of sureness, an absence of doubt. She was doing the right thing. She was doing the only thing. She was Tan’ji now, Isabel had said. She might not yet know everything that meant, but she felt it was the truth. She felt her missing piece out there, waiting for her up ahead as surely as Baron was still waiting behind.

  At last she reached the trail she was looking for. It led past Moraine Lake and on to the abandoned barn where Isabel would be waiting. It was a walk she knew well. But the trail through the trees would get dark long before the road, and after what she’d seen last night . . . well, it only made sense to hurry. She slipped between the shrubby buckthorns along the driveway and into the woods beyond.

  She kept walking. All around her, forest life was either going to sleep or just waking up. She tried not to think about Derek, or Baron, or Arthur, or Doc. She kept her focus on the missing piece, somewhere far ahead. It grew darker, the sinking sun tangled in the trees. Her tears finally began to dwindle.

  Suddenly she stopped dead. Something was wrong. A still and trembling fear had wormed its way into her mind. She focused on the source. Two small mammals—chipmunks?—low against the ground off to the right. A young raccoon up above, just ahead. All three were as tense and motionless as she was, frozen and hoping not to be seen. But not by her . . . by something else.

  And then a footstep. Just one, off to her left, crisp and unmistakable—the crunch of last year’s leaves beneath a cautiously placed foot. She stared out into the trees. A frantic crowd of sparrows flickered past her, fleeing. She couldn’t feel any new presence through the vine. Even the trees seemed to still themselves. April’s heart began to hammer.

  “Hello?” she started to say, but as she took a breath to speak, a stinging stench filled her mouth, her nose, her mind. She recognized it at once—the smell from the night before. A single word came to her, emerging from her memory of Isabel’s fierce face.

  Riven.

  April ran. Instantly a pursuit broke out, as something large began to crash through the woods after her. And now it was joined by another—or was it two others?—off to her right, shadowing her, keeping pace with her easily. She peeked over and saw a towering shape far back among the trees, striding swiftly on two long legs.

  She ran as fast as she could. Not for herself, but for the vine. If that’s what they wanted, they couldn’t have it. Her footsteps pounded desperately against the dirt. Before long, though, she realized she could not escape. Her pursuers were keeping up with ease—barely strolling!—and the barn where Isabel waited was still far off. So April did the only thing she could think of.

  She stopped.

  She stood there breathing heavily for a moment. She had no idea if the Riven spoke English, but she couldn’t flee and she couldn’t fight, which only left talking. She found her breath—and her nerve—and called out into the woods, “Come on, then! Let’s talk!”

  Silence, six heartbeats long. And then off to her left, a shadow detached itself from a tree and stood there staring at her. It was a man—but no, not a man—a thin, looming figure twice as tall as a human being and as skinny as a poplar. He was dressed in black and had a dense mop of black hair atop his pale, skeletal head. His eyes, tiny and dark, bored into her like needles.

  April wrestled with her fear, determined not to let it show. “What do you want?” she called out.

  The figure shrugged silently and spread his long arms. His ghostly white hands were as big as April’s torso.

  April stood strong. “I know you can understand me.”

  The tall figure smiled then, his mouth wide and cruel and full of tiny teeth—so many teeth. His massive hand was wrapped around a full-grown maple as if it were a sapling. She could swear he had an extra knuckle on each hideously long finger. When he spoke, his voice was somehow both musical and sinister at the same time. “Yes, you’re quite right, my dear Tinker,” he sang. “I can.”

  No sooner had he spoken than a sudden clamor broke out far behind her—the throaty shriek of a large bird. April turned—a crow, or a raven? The bird was too far away for the vine, but the calls echoed brazenly through the woods, a raucous challenge. She listened hard and stared even harder down the trail. Another series of calls tore through the evening air, and when April looked back at the tall man in the woods, he had vanished. From the other side of the trail, she glimpsed two other tall figures retreating swiftly through the trees. Soon there was no trace of the Riven but that terrible lingering smell.

  A large black bird dropped out of a tree and glided toward her. A raven. When it was twenty yards away, April felt the bird’s consciousness explode inside her own—a fading aggression, a blooming excitement, a steady trickle of familiarit
y.

  Arthur.

  The bird vanished into the gloom of an oak tree, croaked twice, and then swooped closer. He dropped to the ground just a few feet away. Turning to face the spot where the tall man had been standing, Arthur puffed out his throat feathers and belted out three more emphatic warning calls. He burned momentarily with an anger April had never felt from him before. When he was done, he strutted over to her, feeling pleased with himself. He gurgled at her amiably and then bent and tugged at her shoelace.

  It seemed the bird had chased off the Riven, those impossible creatures. But how? And why? April heaved the bird’s thoughts into her own, opening the gates wide, needing to understand. From the bird flowed fading strings of anger. No, not just anger. Hatred, deep and instinctual.

  Suddenly, a shout. Isabel herself was striding fiercely down the trail, barking out orders. “Stop that!”

  Arthur, startled, briefly took wing but didn’t go far.

  Isabel marched right up. Miradel was swollen and swinging. “Quit it with the vine already,” Isabel said. “I know you’re broken, but you’ve got to learn control.” She brushed past April and peered out into the trees. “Blood in the water, remember?”

  April fumbled to obey. She hauled her thoughts away from Arthur, from the other signals of nearby animal life. She even tried to quell the quiet hum of the trees, focusing instead on her own thoughts, her own emotions, her own senses. Gradually the awareness flowing through the vine subsided into the background.