Where the Woods End

by Charlotte Salter

  “I’m not afraid to use it again!” she shouted, waving the spoon maniacally.

  But the smell of the Marrow Orchard, all rotting meat and redness, made her so light-headed she could barely point the spoon. She held it out in front of her, but her hands were shaking.

  Weak, she thought miserably. What kind of hunter can’t kill an overgrown pigeon?

  The bonebird lunged, and Kestrel reacted too late. She tried to fight it off, but her spoon bounced off its feathered arm.

  The bonebird held her tight by the shoulders, and they stared at each other for a long moment, Kestrel completely in its grasp. Then it pulled Kestrel’s head toward its face as its mouth snapped open.

  In the second that she knew it was going to try and bite her ear off, she also knew that if she flipped her arm like this and brought her leg around like this—

  She threw the bonebird off balance, and it reeled to the side, its teeth snapping shut on the wolf-skin cloak. It tore away from her shoulders, and the bonebird cackled. Kestrel grabbed its arm and shoved it into the oozing trunk of the bloodberry tree.

  It squawked and flapped and Kestrel raised her weapon again, but there was no need for the spoon now. The bonebird’s back was stuck to the viscous goo coming from the tree. Its wings twitched uselessly, then it stopped and stared at Kestrel with its awful orange eyes. It was still clutching her cloak.

  Kestrel wiped the spoon on her skirt. The bloody trees shivered and the multicolored fruits pulsed on their branches. There was a new kind of quiet, the dangerous sort. The bonebird, now silent, knew it, too.

  Kestrel chewed her lip. She hadn’t stopped to consider the most obvious question: What would a carnivorous orchard do if something wandered into its stomach?

  “Ohhh no,” said Kestrel as she thought of the answer. “No, no, no.”

  The orchard was going to swallow her whole.

  The bonebird started struggling again, twisting its head from side to side.

  Kestrel ran. The ground sucked at her feet and rumbled as purple-and-red fruit juice pattered down from the trees.

  She hadn’t even thought to leave a trail, something her grandma would kill her for if she were here now. Kestrel stumbled on blindly, pushing through the plants. The ground convulsed and she nearly tripped, but she steadied herself and continued.

  Kestrel saw the gap in the thorns and sprinted toward it, praying she’d make it in time. The ground tilted backward, and the fruit on the floor rolled toward the middle of the orchard. It was as though a hole had opened in the middle, and everything was being pulled into it. Racing upward, Kestrel threw herself through the thorn gap and tumbled into the bright green grass and fresh sunlight.

  Kestrel turned and watched in disbelief as all the trees leaned toward the middle of the orchard, creaking and trembling. The huge gray stones crashed against one another as the ground shifted. There was a long, low gurgling sound.

  Then slowly, almost gracefully, the orchard began to unfold again. The trees uncurled toward the sky, stripped bare of their fruit. Kestrel could see that new, younger pieces were already beginning to bloom on its branches.

  The orchard had devoured the bonebird and the fruit and the wolf-skin cloak and everything else inside it.

  Everything was peaceful for a moment. Then the Marrow Orchard belched, and bones pattered down around Kestrel’s ears.

  She shielded her face until it had finished, then wiped her forehead on the back of her sleeve. She was covered in goo and sweat and pieces of half-chewed fruit. But she had the bloodberries in her pocket, and she was alive.

  “I did it,” she said, astonished. She’d kept her promise to her dad. She had the bloodberries. She was going to get out!

  Something hit the ground in front of her in a flurry of stiff feathers and snapping teeth. Kestrel backed away as the bonebird righted itself and clacked its teeth at her.

  “Hoot,” said Kestrel, trying to edge around it, but she didn’t have her disguise anymore. The bonebirds had all fled for the trees when the Marrow Orchard swallowed, but now they were pelting down from the sky, heavy and ungraceful. Some of them were already picking through the fresh bones the orchard had spat out, but as soon as they realized Kestrel was there, their eyes sharpened greedily. Kestrel shoved past the bonebird in front of her, but others formed a ring that blocked her from the trees.

  They came rushing toward her with their wings open, reaching for her hair and her face, her arms, her skirt. One of the bonebirds grabbed Kestrel’s shoulders and pulled her backward toward the thorns. Kestrel screamed in surprise, beating the creature with her spoon, but it made no difference.

  She desperately drove her elbow into the bonebird’s stomach and it fell aside, howling. As they snapped and pecked at her, trying to tear her clothes with their long nails, she realized that they were looking for something. They knew what she had stolen.

  Kestrel dug into her pockets and flung a handful of bloodberries away from her. The bonebirds grasped at them as they flew past, but then they came toward her again, scrabbling and pushing. They didn’t stop until Kestrel turned her pockets inside out and flung every single one of the berries away.

  They scattered like marbles in the emerald grass. For a split second the bonebirds were transfixed by the bright fruit, and taking her chance, Kestrel quickly dropped to her hands and knees. She scrambled through the forest of legs as the bonebirds kicked and fought to reach her, but there were too many of them, and their wings were in the way so they couldn’t bend down and grab her. One of the bonebirds snatched at her neck, but it caught its fingers on another creature’s wings and the two grappled with each other, screeching.

  As Kestrel fought her way through the chaos, she spotted two bright red berries out of the corner of her eye. Before the bonebirds could tell what she was doing, she grabbed them with her free hand and shoved them in her mouth.

  They were cold and sour, and she gagged, careful not to bite down. She desperately wanted to spit them out, but she pushed them to the side of her mouth and continued to wriggle through the bonebirds.

  As soon as she was able she scrambled to her feet, lashing out with her spoon at a bonebird’s hands. The bonebird grabbed it and flung it away, but there was no time to retrieve it. She was already up, racing away from the clearing.

  Kestrel ran straight across the waterlogged tree that stretched across the pond. Some of the bonebirds had followed her from the clearing, but they stopped at the edge of the water, frantically beating their wings. They were too slow and heavy to fly more than a few yards. She slowed down on the other side of the pond and looked back.

  The bonebirds jeered at her, but not for long. Losing patience, they turned and flung themselves against one another. Their cries rose through the trees and made the real birds scatter.

  Kestrel automatically reached for her spoon. Her fingers closed in her empty pocket. She’d had the spoon in her pocket for years, ever since her dad gave it to her. It was the last thing she had of his, and now it belonged to the Marrow Orchard.

  Kestrel felt a lump in her throat, but she forced it away. She turned to look at the gap in the trees again, wanting to run back, but she knew that as soon as she returned they would chew her to pieces.

  It’s just a piece of cutlery, she told herself unconvincingly.

  At least not everything had been lost.

  Kestrel wrinkled her nose, then spat the two last bloodberries into her hand, where they shone like new buttons.

  “Yuck,” she said, and slipped them into her pocket. Their taste still lingered in the back of her throat.

  She crept back toward the village. Mud squelched under her feet. She looked down and realized that there was a damp trail leading from the edge of the pond into the forest, as though something had been dragged out of the water.

  Kestrel ignored her feeling of unease and sped up. She imagined slipp
ing the bloodberries into her mother’s food. Soup would be best, she decided—something dark and murky.

  But the more she thought about it, the sicker she felt. She had no idea what the berries would actually do. They might weaken her mother’s magic and get rid of the dog, but they might do more. They might kill her.

  Within minutes she wanted to throw up. She must be mad. She was going to try to poison her mother. Her mother, who could throw her to the floor with a single twitch of her finger.

  Her mother, who had raised her and looked after her.

  Her mother, who had helped make her into the hunter she was today.

  Kestrel stopped walking. Her heart was in her throat and she was struggling to suck air into her lungs. She was scared of what would happen if she gave her mother the berries, but she was terrified of being stuck in the forest with her grabber, too. She had to do it.

  And she couldn’t.

  She saw something ahead of her, and froze.

  The fat, greasy brown fish she’d seen in the pond was lying in front of her. The wet trail led right up to it. It had been torn open, and its bones were scattered on the ground. The air smelled sour, like a bucket of milk gone bad.

  Kestrel’s heart started beating at double-speed.

  It was just a big animal, she told herself. Don’t think about it. Even so, she found herself hurriedly stepping over the dead fish. She continued through the forest, following the path of squashed plants she’d carved on the way to the Marrow Orchard.

  Then she saw it and stopped dead.

  Someone was there, standing at the side of the path.

  Kestrel bent down and pretended to tie her shoelaces, but she was watching the person in the trees. She was lucky she’d seen them; they were half steeped in shadow, and as still as a rock.

  Now she could smell something. Mold and mildew. Decay. Vinegar.

  Her heart started beating so fast she thought it would fail.

  It wasn’t a person.

  It was a grabber.

  Her grabber.

  Run after it! she screamed at herself, but she couldn’t move an inch. She couldn’t shove her fear away. It was too big for her to ignore.

  She wanted to know what it was.

  No, she didn’t.

  She did.

  Something bright and sharp fell in front of Kestrel’s face and bounced on the ground, breaking the spell.

  It was her spoon.

  Kestrel snatched it so fast she almost lopped her own fingers off. Before she knew what she was doing, she strode forward, fizzing with a horrible mixture of bravado and terror.

  “Show your face!” she screamed, as though she were holding a saber-toothed sword.

  The grabber drew in a deep breath and inclined its face toward her, just for a second. It was too dark for Kestrel to make out its features, but she saw a blob of drool fall from its lips as though it had just been offered a plate of food. Then it turned and plunged into the forest. It didn’t seem scared. If anything, it seemed to be enjoying itself.

  Kestrel ran after it and glimpsed her slingshot, which seemed to be propping up its head. The grabber turned between two trees. As the light caught the side of its body, she saw that it had covered itself in a tapestry of stitched-together rags, all different colors, like a bright coat. Pieces of silver caught the sunlight and gleamed. It was almost dressed like—

  Don’t think about it!

  Kestrel stumbled into the trees, but it disappeared in an instant, leaving behind nothing but its necrotic smell. She kicked her way through the undergrowth, lashing out with her spoon, but there was nothing more dangerous than a toadstool.

  Kestrel shouted in frustration and struggled back to the path. A small part of her knew that she could have gone farther, or run faster, but she stamped on the thought furiously.

  “I would’ve gotten you,” she said loudly, but she knew the grabber was gone. Her stomach was churning, and her palms were sweating. Her legs collapsed and she sat down, her fingers still curled around her spoon.

  Her spoon. Weapons didn’t just fall from the sky. She looked at the trees sharply.

  And there was Pippit.

  He was stuck to a tree, covered in the weird fruit juice of the Marrow Orchard, his fur matted and sticky, one of his eyes gummed closed.

  Kestrel moved without thinking. She climbed the tree faster than she ever had before, and pried him free with both hands. Pippit was disgusting and he smelled, but he was here, he was really here, and he was hers.

  She regretted every stupid thing she’d ever done to him and all the times she’d ever been careless.

  Like the time she dropped him in a pot of soup.

  Or the time she ran away from an angry swarm of bees and managed to leave him behind.

  Or when she sat on him and didn’t notice.

  But he’d come back for her. He’d followed her all this way, and he’d rescued her spoon for her. She felt a rush of love so fierce she almost fell over.

  “You stupid weasel!” Kestrel said, nearly sobbing with relief as they slid back to the ground. “You could’ve been eaten!”

  Pippit glared at her with his one unstuck eye and that look told her everything she needed to know.

  “I didn’t mean to shout earlier,” she wept, hugging him until he was as wet as a used handkerchief. “It wasn’t your fault about your tail. You were trying to help.”

  “Gone! Tail! Gone!” Pippit wailed, straining to see his own behind.

  “I’ll get you another one,” she said, not caring that it might be impossible. “I’ll fix it.”

  She sniffled and wiped him on her sweater, trying to get the stickiness off.

  “Gruh,” said Pippit. “Got a gruh.”

  “It’s nearly ready,” she said, hiccupping. “Not yet, or it would have attacked me. But it’s getting bigger. It’s going to eat me soon.”

  She closed her eyes and saw her grabber take a deep breath, just like her dad’s had before it ate him. She saw its tongue flick from its mouth as it licked its lips. It was almost as if her fear made it hungrier.

  Kestrel started to wonder whose form it would take, and cut herself off immediately.

  What keeps you awake at night and gives you nightmares? Granmos had asked. What makes your guts shrivel?

  Kestrel shook her head. It didn’t matter. She was going to outrun it. She would never see the grabber’s face, because she would escape the forest before it caught up with her.

  Say it! her grandma screamed.

  “Got gruh!” Pippit said, shattering her thoughts. He jumped up and fought an imaginary grabber, weaving between its legs and biting the air. He fought so hard he threw himself over.

  Despite herself, Kestrel snorted with laughter. Pippit, looking pleased with himself, jumped onto her foot.

  “Go,” he said. “Feed the nasty. Get ridda the dog. No more gruh!”

  He was right. She was going to get rid of the dog. Then she was going to run and run, and never stop, until she came to the end of the woods.

  POISONOUS PORRIDGE

  The black dog was on the rampage. It tore through the houses, scattering everyone’s belongings, leaving spoons and clothes and trinkets outside in its wake. Ike was on his hands and knees, scrabbling around after the things he hadn’t already burned.

  The dog was making a huge show of looking for Kestrel, overturning beds and tables. Every now and then it hurtled toward a villager and barked so sharply they all jumped in unison.

  The dog knew Kestrel wasn’t there. Neither it nor her mother were that stupid. But Kestrel knew as soon as the villagers saw her, they’d riot against her.

  Kestrel crashed to a halt at the edge of the village, dread pooling in her stomach. She knew she had to show herself, and that every minute she wasted hiding in the trees, her grabber was a few steps c
loser. But somehow, her legs were frozen.

  Pippit trembled and nudged her with his nose. “Brave,” he said.

  Kestrel touched the bloodberries in her pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped out from the trees.

  Mardy Banbury looked up and screamed as though she’d just seen a wolf.

  Kestrel realized that she must look monstrous. She was dressed in black rags, covered in cuts and bruises, and stained with a mixture of fruit juice and blood. Her hair was sticking out like she’d been hit by lightning. She was still missing part of an eyebrow. And she was so full of tension and pent-up fear that the side of her mouth was twitching.

  Walt was the first to speak. “There’s your girl,” he rumbled to the black dog, his voice as dark as oil. “Now leave us.”

  The dog huffed through its nose. Mardy let out another small scream, but the black dog, instead of biting Walt’s hand off, grinned.

  Kestrel started walking, trying to force her legs not to shake, crossing by the well and wolf fire. It was a very long walk. Hannah was leaning against the wall of a tumbledown house, her arms folded. Only Kestrel could hear her as she passed.

  “Good luck,” Hannah said. Her smile was as cold as milk.

  The door to her mother’s house was open, the inside as dark as a grabber’s belly. Kestrel paused on the doorstep, the villagers’ stares scraping down her back. Without taking her eyes off the door she bent down and picked up a cold bowl of porridge that was still on the ground.

  The black dog trotted up behind her, radiating excitement. Before it could push her inside, Kestrel twisted her hand and dropped one of the bloodberries into the bowl.

  To Kestrel her treachery was as loud as a siren, and she waited for the dog’s teeth to rip into her back, almost hoping to get it over with. But the dog did nothing except nudge her sharply with its muzzle.

  The bloodberry sank beneath the spoon without a trace.

  * * *

  Kestrel’s mother was crouched in the middle of the floor, the weave crisscrossing around her like a cage. Kestrel dropped to her knees and put the bowl down, pushing it through the tunnel in the weave.