by Jeff Wheeler
I nodded fiercely.
“I’ll try it for a week, not a day more. And no more tea.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed her fingers and hurried inside to make unicorn horn broth.
* * *
Ice lined the puddles the next morning when I went to haul water. The flocks of geese had dwindled to a few stragglers. Shaya had never returned so late before. I scanned the sky and tried not to imagine her in some unknown forest with a broken wing.
For five days, Bleu ate only enough broth to fill an acorn. I offered to season it differently, to ladle it over pumpernickel bread, to soak it with oats, if she would only eat a little more.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, and stroked my cheek and turned her gaze to the sky.
I chewed my lip and pulled my hair and searched the clouds for Shaya’s silhouette.
On the sixth morning, Bleu walked right past the stump by the cabin door. With the dragon-feather cloak around her, she strode to the base of an oak tree beside Shaya’s cave. She sat, her back against the ridged trunk and tipped her face to the sun.
I wanted to pump my fist and crow. Who cared about buying a castle when unicorn horn could bring Bleu a different view of the clouds?
“Are you cured?” I asked, trying not to split my cheeks grinning. “Is the lump gone?”
“No.” She rubbed her side and crinkled her nose. “But the pain’s gone.”
An excellent start. “Do you want more broth?”
“Later. Let me enjoy the view here.” She patted the base of the trunk. “Go, shoo. You have chores to catch up on.”
I’d neglected them, it’s true. By now I should have checked the entire length of the cattle’s meadow fence. So that morning I walked to the near corner of the meadow, where I had a clear view of Bleu, and squatted down to check the first boards.
Is there anything more glorious than whistling while you work under a crisp autumn sky? The mountainsides were bright with orange and red leaves. Late-season crickets chirped under logs, and a woodpecker tapped in time with my tune. All the valley seemed to celebrate the glory of the day.
Whistling still, I turned the corner of the fence and glanced back to Shaya’s cave. Bleu no longer sat under the oak tree. The feather cape slumped empty at its base.
My song died.
“Bleu?”
No answer.
Maybe she’d slipped away to the privy, or gotten tired and gone inside. Maybe she’d simply moved to a different tree. But my mouth was dry, and I had to wipe my hands on my trousers.
“Bleu?” I held my breath to listen.
No answer.
I strode back up to the cave. “Bleu!”
“Ryeland?”
Her voice floated down from above.
I froze. Reluctant to look, but knowing I must, I tipped my head toward the treehouse.
It was empty. Sunlight gilded the wooden rails and set the house in stark relief against the rich blue sky. Below that, about a quarter way up the tree, Bleu clung to one of the oak’s thick branches.
Cold sweat doused my spine. My knees felt as solid as snowmelt. “What were you thinking?” I yelled.
“I thought I was strong enough to get to the treehouse.” Her voice was thick. She’d been weeping, but I was too angry to care. “I can’t move. I’m too tired.”
I should have chopped down the tree before she’d ever had a chance to climb it. I should have burned it.
I stripped off my jacket and prepared to climb. “I’m coming!”
Metal rungs nailed into the trunk made an easy ladder up the lower part of the tree. My fingers tingled as I grabbed the first one. It was reassuringly solid. Still, my heart slammed against my ribs as I took the first step up. I climbed a second rung, a third. Then my head spun, and my throat closed. I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged a rung at chin height.
“Ryeland?”
“Coming.” My voice cracked like an apprentice’s.
“Ryeland, it’s all right. I’ll find a way down.”
“No, I can—” I gritted my teeth and forced myself up another rung. My knees buckled. My right foot slipped from its hold. For a moment, I hung, my foot flailing.
“Ryeland!”
I fumbled to jam my foot back. My breath was harsh in my throat.
“Hang on!” From above, there came a scrabbling sound.
My foot found its place. Breathing hard, I looked up, just as the scrabbling ended in a shriek.
Bleu plummeted to the ground in front of me.
I felt her landing like a blow to my chest. “Bleu!” I scrambled down.
She moaned. Dry leaves scattered around her in golds and reds. I dropped to my knees beside her. “Where are you hurt?”
She moaned again. I ran my hands over her legs and feet. She jerked—good, it meant she had feeling and movement there. One arm was pinned beneath her. She screamed when I made to move it.
“I have to,” I said. “I think your arm’s broken.”
“Stupid arm,” she hissed through her teeth. “Stupid body. Everything hurts again.” Tears leaked from her eyes.
“It’s okay,” I murmured. I wondered how on earth to mend this. Where was Shaya when I needed her? I stroked Bleu’s hair; there were twigs in it. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Why? I’m no good for anything.”
“You’re good for me,” I said. She sniffled, and I stroked her hair some more.
I didn’t know how to heal a broken bone beyond rudimentary splinting. I didn’t know what it meant that her old pain was back. The only thing I knew to do was to take her into Shaya’s cave for its healing powers. But that meant leaving her inside, depriving her of the sky. And what if Shaya came back while she was in there? Would Shaya be too angry to heal her?
“Maybe this is a sign from the gods.” Bleu gripped my wrist with her good hand. “A sign to stop fighting.”
I stiffened. “No.”
“Ryeland, the plant I asked about—?”
“Not yet.” I fished for the key on my belt. “Hold on.”
I braced myself—please, gods, let me be doing the right thing—then gathered her in my arms. She sucked in her breath. I stood, cradling her against me, giving her time to breathe through the pain.
Then I let us both into the cave.
* * *
I mixed cave dust into a paste and smeared it on her arm before splinting it. Wrapped in my feather cloak, she curled up in a corner between two shelves. I’d given her poppy extract for the pain; she’d sleep for some time.
Then what?
I had nothing stronger to give her to help her hold on. If Shaya didn’t come back—no, better not think about that. When Shaya came back, she’d be angry. Still, she would heal Bleu. Of course she would. Because if she didn’t—
I busied myself hanging Shaya’s two small mirrors on the walls so Bleu could awaken to a view of the sky. Then I went to retrieve my dragon-down blanket so she might have something soft to lie on.
A shadow darkened my cabin window.
Heat flooded my face. I dropped the blanket. I turned.
Shaya peered into the window with one black eye, her pupil a yellow pinprick of anger. She clacked her beak. “Come out. Now.”
I hurried out. She’s back, she’s back, my heart sang. Below it, my gut churned. I didn’t seem to know what to do with my hands.
Shaya didn’t have that problem. She stood on four taloned feet. She was twice the height of the tallest horse and lithe as a snake, a sleek, sinewy bundle of red, yellow, and bronze feathers. Her tail lashed, and her wings flicked close to her body.
I wanted to hug her, and I wanted to scream at her. I said, “She’s ill. I had to—”
“My cave. My horn. How dare you?”
“She fell. I didn’t know—”
Shaya growled. “I smelled her. In my cave.”
I wasn’t explaining this right. “She’s Bleu! My Bleu. The one I told you about. She’s back.”
The feathers
of her ruff stiffened in surprise. “Your Bleu?”
“She’s sick. Please go look at her. We’ve been waiting for you to come home. I’m sorry I broke your trust, sorry I took the horn. I’ll do anything you ask, anything. Just please heal her.”
Shaya eyed me, her tail flicking. “Your Bleu?”
I nodded. My throat felt tight.
She clicked a talon. “I’ll see her. Wait here.”
Whisper soft, she vaulted into the air. In a moment, she was over the cabin, winging toward her cave.
I wanted to run after her, stand by her side while she examined Bleu, listen as she pronounced a cure. But I’d broken enough of her rules. All these long weeks we’d waited for her to return. Waiting a few more minutes to hear the good news wouldn’t matter.
I was worrying a thread on my shirt sleeve when she returned. She padded around the side of the house. Her ruff was down, her tail curled close to her body, an odd posture for one delivering good news.
I straightened and smoothed my shirt. “Well?”
“Do you love her?” Spoken softly, her words still sounded like an accusation.
“Of course!”
“Then why put her in my cave?”
“I said—”
“She wants the sky. You put her in my cave. This is love?”
“She’s dying! Your cave—”
“Has no sky.”
“You don’t understand—”
She stamped one great foot. “All my companions go. You stay some years, you go. My heart breaks. I do not lock you in my cave.”
I stiffened. “How dare you compare our comings and goings to Bleu? She’s dying! It’s not the same.”
“Sometimes it is.”
My jaw snapped shut. I sank down onto the stump where Bleu had spent many a day. How many of Shaya’s companions had sat there? I’d not thought much about them, other than to curse the man who’d built the treehouse. Had Shaya sat beside him as he died?
“How do you stand it?” I whispered.
She tilted her head. Her pupils widened, softened. “I told you.”
“You did? When?”
“I do not lock you in my cave.”
I stared at her. My brain clicked. “You gave them a choice. You let them choose their end.”
She huffed, a confirmation.
“I can’t! Bleu wants me to give her—”
“Her choice. You love her, you give her her end.”
I shot to my feet. My throat felt tight. “Cure her.”
“I can’t.”
“You must! Please. I’ll do anything.”
“I can’t.” Her voice was soft. “She past my aid. I’m sorry.”
“But—”
“You must have known. Bleu did. Why you not listen to her?”
I swallowed. My voice seemed lost in my throat.
“She not eating. Her lump so big. You not notice?”
I wrapped my arms around my waist. My throat felt raw. “I didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to admit she would really die.”
Shaya bowed her head. “Her time runs out. Will you help her?”
“I—” My voice trembled. I’d fought so hard to care for Bleu. I’d done everything I could to make her comfortable, to inspire hope. But maybe I’d cared for her the wrong way. Wasn’t that what Shaya was saying? Rather than caring for Bleu, I’d locked her in my own cave of hope.
Now Shaya was showing me a different way, a softer way. She stood patiently, waiting to learn my choice.
Choice. Bleu’s choice. She didn’t fear death, she’d said, rather the long decline. Though it pained me, I could save her from that.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I’ll help her. Give me a moment.”
Shaya bobbed her head. She slipped away, whisper soft, around the side of the cabin.
My knees gave out. I sat down hard on the stump. I hung my head between my legs. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to ground the herbs or make that final tea for Bleu.
It didn’t matter what I wanted. Shaya had made that clear. Bleu was dying. My job was to see to Bleu’s wishes, whatever they were.
A wren warbled in the afternoon sun, grating in its cheerfulness. The whole world seemed too bright, the leaves too red, the breeze too mild. My mouth tasted of ashes.
I could have sat on that stump forever, if it meant Bleu lived. But that was not the way of the world. I stood, creaking like a man three times my age.
The cave door stood open. I cleared my throat and knocked.
No answer.
Perhaps Bleu was asleep. I slipped inside. “Bleu? Shaya?”
The cave was empty. I wandered its length, as if Bleu or Shaya could have hidden behind a book or inside a vial. I felt dumbfounded. Shaya could easily have gone elsewhere, but surely not Bleu?
I shuffled outside. Laughter from above made me look up.
Bleu sat on the treehouse, her black hair a smudge against the blue sky. Wrapped in the feather cloak, she seemed a bird at home in the trees. On a limb beside her, Shaya clacked her beak in dragon laughter.
She arched her neck down at me. “Join us!”
“Don’t tease him,” Bleu said.
“I’m not.” Shaya cocked her head at me.
A challenge. I gulped. My stomach shifted uneasily. Bleu and Shaya looked impossibly high. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I ran to the cabin and retrieved a length of rope. One end I tied around my waist. The other I tied to the highest tree rung I could reach.
I took the first step. My knees shook. Sweat coated my palms. I climbed another rung, and another. My head spun. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the trunk.
“Keep going!” Shaya’s voice flowed down.
I breathed deep. I could do this. Darker challenges lay ahead, but this I could conquer.
I hoped.
The lower branches of the oak hung around me, a red curtain to block the outside view. It was easier to focus on the trunk, on the bark, on the cool touch of the rungs under my fingers. To listen to the rustle of the leaves, breathe in the smoky scent of the wood. To remember that Bleu waited high overhead.
I untied the tree end of my rope and retied it higher. Then I climbed. Rung after rung, rope tie after rope tie. I reached a branch, swung the rope high and tied it off. Pulled myself up to the branch and hugged it tight until my arms stopped trembling and the breath returned to my lungs. Then pushed myself up and started over.
The sun crept across the sky. Leaves fluttered over my scratched wrists and against my sweat-cooled neck. The branches grew smaller. My arms trembled. Still I climbed, and I climbed, and I felt like my entire life had been climbing and Bleu would forever stay out of reach.
Then I looked up, and the next tie of my rope would snag around the railing of the treehouse. I lifted my aching arm to swing—and Shaya plucked me from the branch to set me down in the middle of the treehouse.
I lay gasping. My arms and legs quivered. I squeezed my eyes shut, reveling in being alive.
When I opened them, Shaya curled her front paw in a dragon wave. “You two talk,” she said. “I come back at sunset.” She slipped off her branch like a leaf on the wind.
Bleu watched her go, wonder in her gaze. I would have climbed a thousand trees to see that look on her face.
I dragged myself to a sitting position in the center of the platform. The view was breathtaking, blue sky over autumnal mountains, but I felt better looking at Bleu’s face. She slid over until our shoulders touched.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said. She cradled her splinted arm in her lap.
“Yes, I did.” I leaned my head against hers. “I’m sorry I put you in the cave, that I didn’t listen to what you wanted.”
“Forgiven, but I won’t go in any more caves.”
I nodded. “I’ll give you the herbs, since that’s what you want.”
“It’s not.”
I blinked. A green shoot of hope unfurled in my mind. “It’s not?”
<
br /> She took my hand, traced my knuckles. The wind whistled in our ears, and far away a raven croaked.
She took a deep breath.
The green shoot withered. I braced for what she was going to say.
“When Shaya flew me up here, it was marvelous! She carried me as if I weighed nothing. And the wind in my face, the world so small—” She squeezed my hand. “That’s what I want in my final moments.”
I stared at her. Her face was alive, as it had been when she first spied the treehouse. “You’re going to”—I swallowed—“jump?”
“Not quite.” Her thumb stroked my knuckles, soothing, entreating. “Shaya’s willing to take me for another ride. A final flight.”
My mouth was dry. “You’re going to fall.”
“Shaya will give me an herb. I won’t be awake at the end.” How serene her face looked. “It’s what I want.”
I bent my head over her hand. Already I felt the chasm of her passing opening inside of me. I could see the desolate days ahead, every one as bad as when she was first taken. Yet, this time I knew it would not break me. It would not send me scurrying to deeper isolation. I had climbed this tree and survived. I could survive the grief ahead of me.
I kissed the back of her hand. “Go, with my love.”
“Thank you.” She touched my cheek. “I didn’t believe in miracles before, but finding you again, and now Shaya, this is a miracle.”
“Let me stay with you,” I said, “until sunset.”
“I’d like that.”
She shifted to draw the feather cloak around both of us. I held her close, my Bleu, until I had to let her go.
About Kathryn Yelinek
Kathryn lives in Pennsylvania, where she works as a librarian. She is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. Her fiction has appeared previously in Daily Science Fiction, NewMyths.com, and Metaphorosis, among others.
MONGREL
By Maria V. Snyder | 4,800 words
THEY CALL ME Mongrel. I don’t mind. It’s true. My blood is mixed like vegetables in a soup. I’ve lived in so many different places and I never belonged to any of them. But the other homeless don’t know that when they tease me. Say I waste food on my mutts. That I reek of dog.
So what? I like the smell of dog. Better than people. Better than the others I hang with. Not that I enjoy their company, but they’re useful at times. Warned me about the police raid a few months back, let me know when the soup kitchen opened and the women’s shelter—not that I would live there without my pups, but a hot shower is a hot shower.
