Raven Speak (9781442402492) (24 page)

The imaginary laughter faded as the murmuring waves reclaimed their beach. How long had it been since she'd heard that sort of laughter among her clan? This winter had been so harsh, first with the endless rains and then the unceasing cold and the sickness. They needed this whale; they needed the sustenance it could provide, and they needed the hope it would bring. She had to tell them.

Only she couldn't. Her crushed hand, anchored to the useless rope that was her arm, had her securely attached to this cliff.

She needed to cut that rope.

Stop.
Cut off her hand? Could she even manage such a feat? How much would it hurt? And how would she ever ride Rune? No, it would be too painful, and she'd be left a cripple, a charcoal-chewer sitting beside the hearth, unable to contribute to the clan's needs, and thus despised. She just had to wait a little longer. Someone could yet find her.

But how much longer would the whale remain? It had vanished once. The next tide could float it away. Or worse, it could die and rot on the shore, a horrendous waste. And she'd die in eyesight of it, a rotting waste herself. No, she'd not even be in sight of it, because these cursed birds would have her eyes pecked out before she took her last breath!

She gave the near one a good glare. Her breath was coming fast now, balanced as she was at the precipice of something very big, something frightening. If she spent any time at all thinking about it, the fear would overtake her and she'd never edge this close again.

She pulled out Wenda's knife and tentatively drew it across her arm, as close to the wrist as possible. Nothing but a pink line. She pressed harder and this time brought forth a sliver of bright red along with a gasp. The pain was too much! And with a blade so dull she'd barely get through flesh, never mind bone. Furious, she hammered the knife's butt against her forearm.

That reminded her of stabbing Jorgen. Her stomach twisted, as it did each time she reconjured the shock of plunging the knife point into him, of feeling the jolt as blade struck human bone.

She needed another tool. Quelling her stomach's distress, she cast around for a rock, a sharp one, within her limited reach. Spying a possibility, she snatched it up and brought it down hard on her wrist. Nifelhel, that hurt! Again and again she slammed it into her wrist, and the pain fired along her arm and ravaged her shoulder. She refused to acknowledge it. It wasn't her own arm she was attacking; it was a torturous binding, a stubborn rope that had her trapped on this cliff when she needed to be leading her clan to the whale.

While she labored she became aware that the other raven had returned. They were both watching her, though she didn't pause to look up. This wasn't their concern.

For some reason the muffled thuds lured Wenda's words from memory and sent them circling through her mind.
You want a whale? What would you trade for it?
The words faded in and out, grew strong, and solidified into a chant, urging her to greater effort.
What would you trade for it? What would you trade for it?
Methodically she pounded. Something cracked, a bone hopefully, and blood trickled down her elbow. She kept smashing, moving as if in a hypnotic dream, not thinking, not questioning.

It won't cost you an eye, but rescuing your clan may demand something equally dear.

Her wrist was a bloody mess, but far from broken. The rock
wasn't going to be enough. It wasn't big enough; she wasn't strong enough.
What would you trade? What would you trade?
The chant prodded her to a frenzy. She had to think of something; she couldn't stop. If she stopped now, she'd … No! She wasn't stopping until she was finished.

All right, she couldn't break her arm by pounding it; she needed to snap the bones, snap them the way she broke kindling over her knee. Only she didn't have that kind of leverage. Unless … weighing the rock in her hand, she pondered the possibility: If she could wedge the rock under her wrist just right, use it like her pointy knee, she could maybe twist her arm with enough pull to bring it down hard and sudden across the rock, and maybe her bones would snap. Instantly she set to work.

Shoving the rock underneath her mangled wrist bloodied her good hand. She didn't bother to wipe it, just grasped her forearm, sank as low as she could, then sprang up and, as she came down, threw all her weight against her arm.

The bone snapped. She felt it at once, a clean, searing pain. Sweat beaded her brow; she could feel that, too. And the chill breeze across her parched lips. Gingerly, she felt along her arm. There was a telltale bulge, but she was still tethered to the boulder. Gritting her teeth, she crouched, sprang, and yanked. Nothing happened except that more pain surged through her body. She leaped again, and this time another bone cracked. She felt her arm sag at an unnatural angle from her hand, attached now only by skin and sinew.

Sweat ran down her cheek, traced her jaw, and trickled along her neck and chest. Her throat burned with her panting. She had no idea how much time had passed. The sun hung cold and motionless in the empty sky. The gray-green ocean surged and receded, uncaring. She squinted up the shoreline. Was the whale still there? It was.

Her legs trembled; she was
so
tired. But eager to be finished, eager to be free, she took up the knife again. It wasn't her arm, or any arm, really; this thing in front of her was nothing more than a useless, frayed rope that needed to be severed completely.

Eyeing the narrowest part of her wrist, she attacked. That, she discovered, was like trying to hack through seaweed with a spoon; though she pressed with all her might, the sinews were too tough. She couldn't do it. The cruel fact of the matter was that she'd gotten this far and yet she wasn't going to get free. The insects—and the ravens, too—would have their feast after all.

Blinded by anger, she lifted the knife in the air and slammed the point into her wrist. It plunged in with hardly any feeling whatsoever and she continued her work, sweat streaming from her face. Her breathing came in pinched gasps. Time and again the staggering pain swallowed her into blackness, and each time she awoke, the knife had clattered free of her hand.

Each instance was a struggle to remember where she was and what she had to do, but then she'd manage to retrieve the knife and return to her stabbing and tearing. When her arm—her good arm, anyway, and there was a strange thought, she'd always speak
of her good arm now—grew weak, she rested, slumping against the rock, savoring the cold against her sweaty cheek, gazing up the beach at the whale like it was a prize.
What would you trade? What would you trade?
The mystifying words urged her on, and though her stomach upended in protest, she clenched her jaw and returned to her labor.

When her arm finally fell free, the pain that had stopped at her shoulder sent probing hot fingers racing through her chest to squeeze the air from her lungs. Already light-headed, she fought for breath. At once she turned from the grotesque sight of her mangled remnant of a wrist disappearing beneath the boulder. Insects swarmed hungrily, and she cradled the remainder of her arm. A wave of dizziness rocked her, and she let herself fall back against the bluff to keep from pitching forward into air. With her lone hand she worked her way beneath her dress and wriggled out of her underskirt. Icy winds licked her bare skin, but she didn't shiver. As best as she could, she wound the linen garment around her stumpy arm, wadding it tight against the profuse bleeding. That took all her energy, and she leaned against the bluff for another respite. She still had so far to go. How was she going to manage the rest of her descent with only one arm?

The ocean gusts continued to assail her. Their chill was welcomed now. It kept her sharp and attuned to the precarious task of a difficult descent. She moved slowly, careful to press her body to the bluff as she slid across each rock. As much as she tried to protect her throbbing limb, she seemed to knock it at every
turn, and more than once she cried out before cradling it closer and continuing.

The ravens accompanied her; why, she didn't know. They swooped lazily through the air, their calls alternately joyous and then, when she moaned, alarmed. In a distant sort of way they provided comfort. When she neared the bottom, their chortles and trills got lost among the rushing surf and a persistent buzzing in her head. And an excited nicker.

A what?
A nauseating fog clouded her mind. She blinked, forcing herself to stay alert. The familiar sound came again, from somewhere below. Leaning tight against the cliff, double-checking her balance, she dared to peer downward.

There on the shore, ears pricked in her direction, waited Rune.

Oh, it felt good! The warm current at the base of his furry coat. The smell of him, sweet and clean, peppered with sand, his breath grassy. She crumpled against his shoulder, aching to close her eyes until the middle of summer, at least. Dimly she felt his lips nuzzling concern along her head and neck. But sleep's soothing blanket was already wrapping her. The ocean was filling her ears with its whispers. She could allow herself a rest … just a short one … until …

And melting into the syrupy blackness, she felt herself drift away, felt herself falling … falling …

Falling!

Just in time she flailed her arms, planted her foot, and caught herself. What had happened? Where was she? Blinking, scrambling to gather her wits, she realized that Rune had stepped out from under her. In his own way he was eyeing her with disapproval. He snorted and shook his head. He pawed the sand and, from beneath his heavy forelock, delivered his most penetrating stare.

Of course. She couldn't sleep. Not right now, anyway, and not here. She had to get home—fast. Inhaling the cold, salty air—and
gagging on its soggy weight—she tried to focus her thoughts. To get home, she had to find a way to mount.

The very idea of that held her in place, stupefied. Climbing onto Rune's back appeared at that moment as daunting as reclimbing the mountain she'd just descended. It just wasn't possible. Her arm hurt too much. Her legs had no strength. She couldn't.

But here was Rune, when she'd not even asked, folding his knees and dropping onto the sand with a sigh. It was the trick she'd taught him as a child—a lifetime ago.

Such selflessness! It squeezed her tight, made her eyes sting.

New resolve ignited within her. “All right,” she croaked, sore-throated. (Was that
her
voice?) “If you can manage it with your bad leg, I can manage it with one arm.” And ever so gingerly she maneuvered her right leg over him and settled onto his warm back, gripping his sides with her knees. How odd it felt, after having not sat in days. To protect her throbbing stump of a limb, she clamped it close to her chest, then grabbed a hank of mane. Could he, as old as he was, battle-weary and injured, manage to rise to his feet?

What if they both fell? Imagining the excruciating pain of slamming onto the hard sand stiffened her spine. Maybe she shouldn't—
No, no, no,
she scolded, forcing herself to relax. She could trust him. He was Rune.

Anxious, wondering, she nevertheless sat fixed. The ocean rushed and retreated, rushed and retreated. Rune remained kneeling. At long last he sucked in a deep breath, and with an
explosive grunt extended his front legs. That raised his withers, and she leaned into the motion to keep her balance. He teetered there, legs splayed, then grunted again and heaved his hindquarters up to a shaky stance.

For a while she swayed atop a floundering ship. Rune struggled to walk a line, but each hobbling step sent him lurching first one way and then the other. He faded to a halt, trembling. His skin twitched with irritation. His ears flicked forward and back. He seemed to be thinking, to be mustering his own resolve, and it must have been so, for soon enough he struck out again, one hesitant step at a time, and they began making their way along the shore.

The blueish light of the fading day smudged her sight; it played tricks on her eyes and fogged her thinking. Everything sounded so loud inside her head: the surf, her breathing, the crunching sand. Without looking up she became aware of the two ravens accompanying them. Their jolting yelps pierced her skull until the buzzing already inside drowned them. Her arm's throbbing measured their progress—if you could call it that—for each hoof-heavy step was labored. Clearly Rune suffered as much pain as she, and she rubbed her gratitude into his withers.

The blackness continued to tug at her with such sweet promises that she frequently had to shake her head, twist her neck, and stretch her jaw just to stay awake. Luckily chilling gusts whipped the hair about her face and pushed her onward.

Dusk deepened to night, and the ravens' calls escalated from
placid
quorks
to excited
kr-r-ucks!
They were calling to her now, calling her name.
Asa, Asa,
they encouraged, almost human.

“Asa! Asa!” So very human.

“Asa!”
Through the deafening throb imprisoning her body she heard her name. And she recognized a voice: Wenda. Blinking, she lifted her head and tried to shake it clear. A yellow flame bobbed in the darkness. The splashing waves liquefied its brilliance and scattered its light across the shimmering water. Holding the flame high was a cloaked figure who waved a welcome and guided her home with shouts of joy: “You did it! You did it!”

“The whale,” she mumbled thickly. “I found the whale.”

“I'll send them for it,” came the reply. “Your part is finished.”

And then the hands again, lifting her down—Where was she? What was happening?—and the floor became the ceiling and the rafters ensnared her and the world spun top for bottom. More fire appeared, orange and snapping. She stared, entranced, unable to move. The many hands pressed upon her and pulled at her, and at one point the fire seemed to leap over to her and burn through her arm with its ferocious bite. She cried out, that much she knew, and her gaping mouth clamped down on a mug of steaming liquid that burned her lips. The taste on her tongue was oh-so-bitter and she tried to push it away but … but—Why wouldn't her hands obey?—the delicious blackness came flooding in, and this time she gave in and did let herself go falling … falling … falling.