The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  Chloe sighed. She kicked a loose pebble, watched it skitter away. “Fair,” she said at last.

  “Good. Thank you. So are you coming?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. You go ahead.”

  Horace turned to go, wishing she’d come with but not sure there was anything left to say. After just a few steps, though, Chloe stopped him.

  “Hey, Horace? If Brian really can fix April’s Tan’ji, do you think maybe he actually could . . . you know?”

  “Help your mom?”

  Another shrug. Another kicked pebble. Horace’s heart went out to her, so stubborn and brave and unshakably Chloe.

  “We’re Keepers,” he told her. “Anything is possible.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In the Light of Tunraden

  HORACE CAUGHT UP TO MR. MEISTER, BRIAN, AND APRIL AT the top of the Perilous Stairs. They were watching Arthur the raven as he drifted in lazy circles out over the Maw, riding the currents that rose from below.

  “He’s having fun,” April said with a faint smile, but the smile disappeared when she saw Horace, alone. “I take it Chloe’s not coming,” she said.

  “I don’t think so,” Horace said.

  “She doesn’t like me.”

  At the same time, Horace and Brian both said, “She doesn’t like anyone.” They laughed and then Horace clarified: “She doesn’t like anyone at first.”

  Mr. Meister stirred. “Come. There is work to do.”

  They descended deeper into the Warren, down the steep and winding staircase. April remarked that this was the most lifeless place she’d ever been. Apparently, the only animal she could sense now was Arthur. “Usually there are bugs, at least,” she explained. “Even in the city. But there’s nothing living down here at all.”

  “No offense taken,” said Brian.

  They reached the oublimort, and Mr. Meister showed April how to use it. She made it through on her first try, Arthur riding on her shoulder. Silently—and somewhat shamefully—Horace thanked the stars that Chloe wasn’t here to witness it.

  Once in the workshop, April handed over her Tan’ji and the daktan to Brian again. He took them to a workbench cluttered with metalworking tools, large and small. “First the easy part,” he said. Horace watched, fascinated, as Brian took a narrow strip of silver, hammered it thin, and then clipped off tiny flakes with a pair of dingy shears. His long, pale hands moved surely, with the ease of long hours of practice. April, who was keeping a respectful distance, oozed a fierce, maternal worry. Brian noticed her concern. “Do you want me to explain what I’m doing?” he asked.

  “I know what soldering is,” she said curtly.

  Horace did too, vaguely—melting metal to metal—but he’d never seen it done before. Brian bent over the bench, focusing intently as he sanded the broken ends of both vine and flower. April grimaced. Brian then mixed a white, creamy substance in a dish and painted it onto the jagged ends of the broken stem. Then he casually lit a small blowtorch—making Arthur squawk in alarm—and delicately began melting the ends together with the tiny flakes of silver.

  Slowly he bonded the flower to the vine. After just four minutes, he was done. He sanded the newly repaired break until it was smooth and all but invisible. After one last inspection, he held the Tan’ji out to April.

  April made no move to take the vine. Mr. Meister bent in, clearly fascinated, his left eye staring hugely. Horace couldn’t help but wonder what the old man was seeing—the flower had been reattached physically, but its power had not yet been restored. To Horace, the Tan’ji looked lovelier than ever, and the little black flower no longer hideous, but even he could tell it wasn’t quite whole again.

  “You’re good at this,” April said to Brian, her hazel eyes bright and wet.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone,” Brian replied. “But don’t thank me yet. The hard part comes next.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Meister. “Are you prepared, April?”

  “Yes, definitely, it . . .” April scrunched up her face. “It hurts now. Like a foot that’s fallen asleep and is trying to wake up. Bad pins and needles.”

  This comment clearly interested the old man, who suddenly looked as though he had a thousand questions to ask. Horace could relate, but this was no time for experiment or examination. “We should hurry then,” said Horace pointedly, catching the old man’s eye.

  Mr. Meister bowed. “Of course. Let us proceed.”

  Brian led them back to the small round chamber that held Tunraden. Horace shivered again at the faint electric charge in the air, and at the daunting sight of Tunraden—so powerful and so obviously ancient. As April entered, Arthur croaked and leapt from her shoulder. He dropped heavily to the floor and strutted out of the chamber, chattering grumpily.

  “What’s his deal?” asked Brian.

  “He’s agitated for some reason,” said April. “Not scared, but . . . I think maybe he doesn’t like the smell.” She came closer to Tunraden. “Wow. This is old, isn’t it?”

  “Ancient, actually,” Brian said. “Her name is Tunraden.”

  April sniffed deeply. “I think she smells kind of nice—like rain. Why does your Tan’ji smell like rain?”

  “It’s not the Tan’ji making that smell, exactly. It’s what I do with it.”

  “You fix things.”

  “Yes . . .” Brian glanced at Mr. Meister, clearly wanting to say more but unsure the old man would allow it.

  “Correct,” Mr. Meister said. “Brian is our repairman.”

  April peered at Tunraden, hands folded behind her back. “So you’ve done this before?”

  Brian shook his head. “Never. Not even close.” When April frowned, he quickly added, “I’ve imagined it, though. If that helps.” He spoke casually, but Horace could see the doubt in his eyes.

  “As I said before,” Mr. Meister intoned, “it can be done.”

  A voice from behind startled them all. “That is the worst pep talk ever,” said Chloe. They all turned as she continued, stalking into the room. “‘It can be done.’ What the heck is that? That’s like a surgeon saying ‘Survival is possible,’ right before he cuts you open.”

  Brian threw up his arms. “I know, right? I mean, come on. Maybe I could get a ‘You can do it, Brian,’ or a ‘Hey, Brian, we believe in you,’ or a ‘Gee, Brian, you sure are handsome and a good dancer.’”

  “Gee, Brian, you sure are a good dancer,” said Chloe.

  Brian smiled goofily. “Close enough.”

  Chloe sidled up beside Horace. She nudged her foot against his, her signature private gesture—a greeting, a repentance, an embrace. Horace pressed his foot back against hers, letting her know everything was okay.

  Chloe turned to April. She hesitated, seeming to consider her words carefully. “I saw your bird outside,” Chloe said at last. “I’m pretty sure he talked to me.”

  “He does talk sometimes. What did he say?”

  “He saw me and he went, Uh-oh.”

  “Ah,” said April neutrally.

  Chloe chewed her lip and then said, “I guess I don’t blame him.”

  Horace suppressed a smile. This was as near to an apology as Chloe would get. April, to her credit, seemed to understand. “Well,” she said. “He’s just a bird. A smart bird, yeah—but just a bird.”

  Chloe nodded, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. “Right,” she said. “So anyway . . . is this happening or what?”

  Brian took a deep breath and let it out slow. He laid April’s Tan’ji atop Tunraden and bent over it. Mr. Meister, who had been frowning faintly since Chloe’s arrival, reached out and—to Horace’s surprise—clasped Brian’s shoulder. “You have done more difficult things, Keeper,” he said warmly. “This is within your reach.”

  Brian tried to hide it, but he was clearly pleased. Then he shivered dramatically from head to toe, shaking out his limbs. He grew suddenly somber and laid his hands atop Tunraden. He looked up at April. “You sure you want to be here for t
his?”

  “Unless you know a reason I shouldn’t.”

  “I really don’t,” Brian said, and without warning he plunged his hands into the surface of Tunraden. At once, the room erupted painfully in a fountain of golden light.

  Horace’s skin prickled from head to toe as all his hairs stood on end. At his side, the Fel’Daera fumed with a wild and breathless untapped power. Chloe grasped Horace’s shirt, sliding behind him, one hand on the Alvalaithen. Across the way, Mr. Meister took a calm step back, his shadow looming across the ceiling above. Meanwhile April—her own hair lifting stringily, as if she were falling—stumbled back against the wall, her eyes locked on Tunraden.

  Above the blinding golden surface of the Loomdaughter, the vine hovered in the air, spinning slowly. Brian stared at it almost hungrily, his glasses shining in Tunraden’s light. He looked more like a grown man than a boy of only thirteen. The tight bands around his wrists glowed intensely as he grasped the vine, holding it still, and delicately pinched the repaired stem of the little black flower.

  “Brace yourself,” Brian murmured, and he tugged. As he pulled, a complex golden webbing revealed itself, shimmering and liquid. It emerged from the vine’s interior like a fisherman’s net being pulled from the water. But this net, Horace knew, was made of the Medium. This was April’s power made visible—or a part of it, at least. As for April herself, she had her eyes closed now, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Horace couldn’t imagine what she was feeling.

  The golden mesh pulsed and shimmered and slid, looking almost alive. Brian examined it for several long seconds, concentrating deeply. Horace stared too, thinking he might detect some flaw or deformity in the shining web. But he had no talent for that. Only Brian, of course, could truly see what needed to be seen. His face alone was lit with knowledge rather than wonder. Eventually he released the vine, letting it hang in the air again, the Medium still billowing from the repaired break like a tiny sail.

  Brian sank his hands back into Tunraden and began to pull strands of the Medium up from its depths—great incoherent globs at first, dripping and messy, but then he brought his hands together and extracted smaller, neater threads. His fingers moved like a musician’s, slowly weaving the glowing substance into a complicated shape, like a tiny bowtie. Horace knew minutes were passing, though it felt like only seconds.

  Cautiously, Brian began attaching strands of this new structure to the webwork dangling from the vine. One strand, then two, then three. The old structure absorbed the new like one bead of water absorbing another. All at once April inhaled sharply, as if startled or stung. Her eyes flew open. Brian froze.

  “Is this right?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” April said through gritted teeth. “How would I know?”

  “You would know better than me. I’m guessing here, filling in the blanks.”

  “Okay, well . . . what you just did—that last one—it felt wrong.”

  Brian frowned down at his work and then plucked apart two strands of the Medium. April gasped in relief.

  “Better,” she said.

  Mr. Meister stepped forward. “I am not sure, Keepers, that this is the way. Perhaps it was a mistake to—”

  “You’re right,” Brian said, interrupting him. “This isn’t the way.” He straightened and gestured for April to come forward. Reluctantly she approached the table where Tunraden sat fuming like a bottomless furnace. She stepped into its rippling yellow light. “You’re here,” Brian said. “You’re here and you know best. Not me.” He took the vine in his hands and held it out to her.

  Eyes full of wonder, April took the vine. Tears began to pour silently down her face, like beads of molten gold. At a nod from Brian, she donned the vine, tucking it into place behind her ear. Her tears quickened, and abruptly strands of the Medium began to materialize in the air around her head. “The veins,” April sighed, as they formed a shape like a jagged golden crown around her hair.

  As Horace watched, the branching tendrils grew—not so much spreading but swelling into existence from apparent nothingness. They grew thicker and more complex, until at last Horace realized they seemed to be encircling him, and Chloe and Mr. Meister too. As they grew closer, he held his breath, resisting the urge to flee. Mr. Meister covered his mouth with his hands in dismay, perhaps the most un-Meisterlike gesture Horace could imagine.

  Brian stepped around the table, close by April’s side. “You tell me,” he said. “You guide me.”

  April swayed, looking sad and angry and noble all at once. She reached out toward Horace and Chloe, as if to yank the golden streams away from them. “I don’t want to know what they’re thinking.”

  Forbidden, Horace thought, watching the thin fingers of the Medium inching nearer, thickening. He felt Chloe’s grip on his shirt tighten. She inhaled between her clenched teeth, a long slow hiss. Horace laid his hand atop the Fel’Daera.

  “I can almost feel them,” April said dreamily. She looked at Chloe. “I can feel you.”

  “I know,” Brian said, reaching up into the incredible tangle of golden threads spreading from the vine. “And it would be easy to do it. . . .”

  Mr. Meister reached into a pocket of his red vest, his face as sharp as a hawk’s.

  “But I won’t,” Brian finished. He leaned in close to April. He plucked and wove and reconnected, his fingers grazing April’s hair. The golden tendrils filling the room began to dwindle and vanish, like melting fingers of ice. Horace breathed again. Chloe loosened her grip on his shirt. “Better,” Brian said. “Now reach out for Arthur instead. Tell me.”

  “I don’t really reach out,” April said. “I open up. Like this.” Her gaze grew distant. Horace stepped back, bumping into Chloe, as a new and determined thread of the Medium sprang into existence beside them, coalescing through the wall of the chamber. “I feel him,” April said a moment later. She smiled. “He’s playing. He’s got some wire or string or something—something shiny.”

  “How do you know it’s shiny?” said Brian. “Can you see it?”

  “No,” April said quickly. “I just know how he is when he plays with shiny things.”

  “So you can’t see what he can see. Smell, hear, feel—any of those things?”

  April shook her head, her lips tight. “Sometimes I imagine I can, but when I try I get these headaches. These whiteouts. And I don’t even know if I—”

  “Try,” Brian said. “Try now.”

  April nodded. Her eyes met Horace’s briefly, scared and distant and full of need. And then they faded even further, focusing on nothing, green flecks in her irises fading to gray. Her brow furrowed and her jaw tightened, as if she was in pain. Suddenly the veins of the Medium around her head split, and split again, and again. The already intricate cloud became an impenetrable briar patch of flaxen threads, fine as hair. April squeezed her eyes shut, her fists trembling at her side.

  As if it were water, Brian slowly ran his fingers through the strand of the Medium streaming through the wall. He let it grow thick in his hands, liquid light, gathering it into the fantastic tangle hovering around April’s head. He worked with a fierce purpose now, stitching and weaving. April’s mouth became a trembling O. The Medium assumed shape after shape, jagged and soft and rigid and round. Brian bared his teeth with the effort. Then suddenly, after a full minute, April gasped and shoved him hard in the chest.

  Brian stumbled back, hands raised. April sank to her knees. Tunraden went dark, and the visible threads of the Medium winked out. For a moment Horace was blind in the new darkness, conscious only of the sharp electric sting in the air and the ragged sound of April’s breathing. Slowly his eyes adjusted. April still knelt on the floor, head bowed, arms limp.

  “What did you do?” Chloe insisted, glaring at Brian. “What did you do to her?”

  “You don’t understand,” April mumured, her voice heavy with wonder. She raised her head. Her eyes were like a doll’s, shining and new and utterly blank. “You couldn’t possibly unders
tand.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Beyond the Rainbow

  EVERYTHING.

  For the first time, April’s mind was wide open, letting every bit of Arthur’s consciousness into her own, a torrent that poured through the beautiful black flower and into her brain, bringing her . . .

  Everything.

  His senses, yes, flooding and keen and immediate. April was blind to her immediate surroundings, but she didn’t care. She could see what Arthur could see, and his sight was nothing short of astonishing. World altering. The colors! Shades her brain couldn’t name, new hues beyond the rainbow.

  Arthur stood atop a workbench in Brian’s workshop, and through his eyes April had an extraordinary view, both panoramic and telescopic at once—the smallest details were drawn with a clarity she could hardly process. Across the room, on a box of cheesy crackers, she could read the ingredients: whey protein, cheese cultures, salt. At her feet—Arthur’s feet—was a pair of pliers, and the textured grip on the handles was so vivid it looked like a geometrically precise mountain range.

  But it was far more than vision—those feet, just for starters. Now April knew what it truly meant to be passerine. As Arthur walked, she could feel his feet mirrored inside her own, the way they curled up when he took a step and pressed flat again when they hit the floor. Her thighs and neck pulsed with purpose as he walked. She felt his beak as if it were her own, smooth and strong and terribly toothless. So convincing was the illusion that she actually had to run a finger through her mouth, to assure herself that her teeth were still there.

  “It’s incredible,” she whispered.

  “I fixed it,” said Brian. “I did it.”

  April managed to stagger to her feet, remembering her own muscles. She fought to regain her sight, and discovered she could force Arthur’s vision to fade until it was like a faint reflection on glass. Brian stood before her, gangly and dumbfounded.

  “You did do it,” she told him. “You more than fixed it. I can . . . see. I can feel. I can . . . everything.” She laughed messily, snorting back her tears. “This is what I was missing. This is what was gone. All this time.”