IGMS Issue 49 (9 page)

It perches on a petrified tree stump. The light from the campfire shimmers against its glossy feathers, blood etching razor-edged plumage. It should be indistinguishable in the night, banked in shadow. I only know it's a ghost from the hollows of its missing eyes, how its shape bends in unnatural directions at the corners of my sight.

"I've naught for you." I say it to the knives laid out on oiled canvas before me.

The raven's ghost makes no sound. Its unnatural muteness tightens the muscles in my neck. Ghosts are never silent. Death is neither gentle nor kind.

I must act quickly, before the ghost destroys me. I don't know why it's waited, since it must have come for a reason. There's no dawn in this land - a ghost can wait forever, and I can no longer endure its presence. I haven't slept in … well. I don't remember that, either.

The bandits who stole my name left me savaged but alive, my memory no better than moth-chewed rags, loose threads, the narrative of who I was scattered between holes. I remember cold plains that aren't home, a familiar-soft touch on my neck, planting grape vines in summer, pain (maybe mine, maybe not), and great pools of emptiness between.

The raven cocks its head.

I will find the men who wronged me and I will unmake them. But I can find no solace if the ghost interferes.

I pull the map from my satchel and spread it before me. The map is old: vellum lined with a substance neither blood nor ink, but darker, older; the viscera from the other side of heaven.

Shall I show you what happened to your name?
the map whispers. Its voice bends thoughts sideways, echoes of madness etched behind each word. It only shows you what you pay it to find.

I kneel on the edges of the map and lay a knife blade against my palm. Steel grounds me, the one thing I always remember. "Leave me, ghost, or I will let this map destroy you."

The map purrs in anticipation and hunger.

"You would be unwise to do that, Man," says a voice from the darkness.

A wolf prowls into my camp, the firelight pooling its eye sockets. A faint line of red circles its neck, but its silver-black pelt is thick, glossy as the raven's feathers.

I stiffen, sharp fear salted in my belly. I've never killed a wolf (cruel or not). I haven't earned a second ghost.

The wolf must have once hailed from the southern mountains: it's bigger than a pony, jagged white stripes splashed across its back, clay beads sewn into its ears and braided into the long fur along its chest and shoulders.

The wolf dips its chin to the raven, who nods its head in return.

At the corners of my eyes, the wolf's shape warps and stretches into the darkness. Its scent is heavy with old memory.

The mountain wolves served only their land and their people, refusing to pay homage to Sun or Moon. Instead, they sought the dark between the stars (they said First Wolf was born in those empty spaces, when heaven was not looking) - they were building great ships in the mountains' bellies, built of bone and shed fur, sealed with pitch. They would sail into the dark in search of First Wolf and leave the world for the Sun and the Moon to squabble over.

The Sun tolerated no other predators in heaven, and neither did the Moon.

That memory doesn't belong to me. I shake my head, startled and unsettled.

"Good evening, Man," the wolf says at last.

"Evening," I reply, humoring the ghost. "You have no purpose here, lord wolf."

"We may disagree on that point." The ghost's voice is charred where the wound across its throat digs deeper. "You hold one who is mine."

I glance toward the raven's ghost. "I never claimed it."

"You lie beautifully," the wolf says with an appreciative nod. "Did you have much practice?"

That, at least, I can answer fairly. "Yes."

I don't remember what rituals shaped me. There were more important pieces stolen: my past, my purpose, my name.

I sink the tip of the blade into the ground, away from flesh. The map will eagerly lap up even a drop of blood. To destroy one ghost, perhaps I might endure the price - but not two. The map drives a hard bargain.

It is nothing you cannot bear,
the map says.
You may not even remember what it is you will lose. Forgetting costs you nothing more.

I shift my weight on my heels. If it stays, I fear what else the wolf's scent will bring.

Ghosts are wrought from sorrow and carnage; they carry each as a weapon. The wolf can tear apart my flesh with fangs or crush my heart with grief not my own. So could the raven, but it hasn't bothered yet. I own no knives for killing ghosts.

"Leave this place, lord wolf."

"Not until you repay us for what you stole," it says.

And what is that? I took nothing. I know the words
trapped
and
helpless
, but they've been empty of context until now. There is nowhere to run in a forest as dead and cold as the ghosts before me.

"Man," the wolf says with the edge of a growl. "Will you pay your debt freely?"

"What debt?"

The raven spreads its wings and its body flickers as it glides through the campfire, blending with smoke. It circles once until the tip of its pinions grazes my cheek. Sudden and unbidden memory fills my mind -

The raven found the wolf, wounded and far from the mountains now cold and empty. The raven nursed the wolf to health, to strength, to vengeance.

There were no other ravens; they had flown swift and silent, slipping behind the Moon, gliding between the stars. On each star they passed, they hung a black feather on a silver string to guide whoever followed. The last raven stayed for the wolf.

The raven found the man, too, in the petrified stump forest where it was never dawn.

The raven said to the man, "If you would make amends and have the darkness embrace you, be no more."

And the man said, "I will, lord raven."

I jerk my head back, my heartbeat too fast - the sound will spill from my ribs and betray me. "What do you want?"

The raven lands on the wolf's broad shoulder. Both ghosts wince, white-blue light crackling between talons and fur. The raven nuzzles its beak against the wolf's ear, and the wolf leans into the caress.

"When you killed him," the wolf murmurs, "you left your blood upon his eyes."

The sharp-edged accusation dances like an errant spark in my throat. With living blood blinding the dead, a ghost cannot find its way to rest. It will follow the one who blinded it, helpless and lost until the living cleans away the blood or consecrates the bones. I left the carcass nailed to a tree so the roots would not swallow it and trap its ghost in a cage beneath the forest forevermore.

"I've never blinded the dead."

"You don't remember your own name," the wolf says. "You don't remember what you
did
. Should I show you?"

I flinch backwards. "No. Forgive me, lord wolf." I owe them; the knowledge of that sits heavy in my bones, sudden and weighted with a grief I don't understand. "If I did, it was not by choice."

Muscles ripple under the wolf's pelt, its fur liquid silver and sky-dark by turn. The white on its back glows like the moon. "Unite our bones so we may be at rest."

I dare not move.

The ghost's hollow sockets burn with firelight. Its lips curl back, smile or snarl - one and the same. "Or you will never be named again. Your map will not help you. I know what they did with your name, Man. I will help you, but only if you redress the crime you have committed against us."

I let my breath out slowly, controlled. It's possible to take a new name. But it would have no history, no purpose; it would only mean defeat. I've resisted the map's seductive offers, but my strength will fail, in time. I cannot go on forever not knowing who I am.

I sheath the knives. "Agreed, lord wolf."

Both ghosts smile.

First, I must find their bones.

I light a cigarette in the campfire. The heat never burns my skin nor singes the graying stubble on my chin. I don't remember if my hair has been anything more than ash-colored, tied into thick ropes. (It's an odd detail to take irritation with: hair color. I've never thought myself vain.) I inhale smoke, the perfect balance of opium and tobacco, and brace myself to bargain with the map. Then I cut open the scar tissue on my elbow where there isn't any pain and feed a trickle of blood to the vellum.

You won't get what you seek from the dead,
the map says.

The ghosts scare me more than the map, and I've owned that map a long time. (I don't remember how long.) "Where are the bones of the wolf and the raven with me now?"

The map's surface is dark. Inversed, paler lines unravel like a detailed woodcut: the three of us in the forest of petrified tree stumps. A line snakes to the east and stops against a picture of the Woods, still living, thick with shadow and lost voices.

The map continues drawing. The line curls lazily through the Woods until it reaches a half-moon clearing. Six shapes, perhaps men, stand in the empty space, and then the map washes the depiction clear.

You can see where they have hidden your name, for a price,
the map says.

I grunt in dismissal and roll it up. If you stare too long at the darkness, you'll get a glimpse of the void trapped within vellum. Other men, more curious, have burst at the seams when they looked; some tear out their eyes and go mad; some are simply eaten.

The wolf tilts its head. "You wear pain as a cowl and regret as a shroud."

"Do I?" I haven't looked in a mirror in … well. I don't remember forever, so I'll settle for years.

I kick out the fire and sling my satchel over one shoulder. There's no moon tonight, but I've wandered in the darkness a long time. It settles like a worn, tattered jacket around my shoulders.

"Come," I tell the ghosts. "I'll put your bones to rest."

At the edge of the Woods, whippoorwills coo minor lullabies while owls sing dirges. Magpies whistle happily of coins in eye sockets and silver in broken teeth. Swallows warble on the taste of ghostly bones.

There are no raven voices.

I crouch, fingers splayed against the ground. The gouged, raw-peeled wood of the tree on which I impaled the raven's carcass stands visible in the night. (How long ago?) The Woods are dense with thick-bodied yews, ancient birch white as bone, buckthorn laden with overripe berries black as liver-blood.

The pungent smell of old, rotting bones under roots fills my nostrils. A shade of half-remembered detail flickers in broken memory: a hand, cool fingers twined with mine, a beautiful face leaning down for a kiss. I can't grasp the context, or find the missing pieces that would make it whole. I grind my teeth in frustration.

The wolf sits at my side and the raven settles on the other flank.

"We cannot enter," the wolf says.

"I can go alone."

"No." The wolf bends too fast and stands before me. "You will not leave us here."

As the ghost's teeth graze the skin of my throat, memory follows.

"Don't," he begged the Sun. "Just let them go. They are no challenge. They only wish to be left in peace."

"You would defy your God? I have created you. Obey."

He had no self or honor to claim as reason to defy the Sun.

That one was
mine
. It carries my scent, hot as smelted metal. I swallow, trembling as my vision clears. For a moment, I wish the wolf's ghost would clamp its jaws around my neck, shake its head until my bones snap and memory fills the holes to drive me mad. But the cold dread holds me still.

When I find my voice, it's coarse and raw. I keep my knives sheathed. "We're not going to waste the night in argument. If you can't enter, I will."

"Where you will be devoured by the dark?" The wolf's eye sockets burn in the dark. "Where you may slip away into the lands beyond and forsake us? You owe us peace, Man."

"And I will honor that debt. But not unless you let me pass."

"Give us your eyes," the wolf counters.

I don't blink, tempted as I am. "Why?"

The raven stretches its head back in silent laughter.