Widdershins (82 page)

“I didn’t know that.”

Raven shrugs. “So you can see why I might be reluctant to attempt the global changes Mira insisted I make. I didn’t want her out of my life, but she gave me no choice. I thought we would reconcile, eventually. But then Odawa killed her, and I was left knowing that we never would.”

“You never went after him?”

“Oh, I did,” Raven says. “But he’s a wily one. I could never track him down, no matter how many of our kin I sent hunting him.”

“I gave up hunting him,” I say.

“Because of your guilt.”

I nod. Mira wouldn’t have died, no one else would have died, if I hadn’t blinded Odawa in the first place. Saying I thought he was dead at the time—truthful though that was—was still no excuse. I’d still done the deed that set everything else in motion.

I look at Raven and see something in his eyes. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, where I’ve seen it before. The crow girls had that same look when they calmly told Raven to kill them so that they could go bring Joe back from the dead. It’s the look of one living entirely in the Now. Not the Now of Zen philosophy, but a Now that precludes any memory of the past or consideration of the future.

There are people who consider the cousins to be spirits—guiding spirits. They say that we live outside of time, that the past, present, and future are all happening at once for us. Maybe that’s true for some, but it’s not for me. It might have taken humans to give time the forward motion it seems to have, but I’ve bought totally into it and the days pile up into years in my memory.

But Raven . . .

He’s more like the crow girls than maybe he’d admit. Chloë said the crow girls avoid any consideration of their true nature, but I think they truly don’t remember. Not unless someone, or some incident makes them. Then they can be fierce. Then they have power.

And Raven’s like that, too. He doesn’t avoid his past or the mantle of his history. Most of the time, he simply doesn’t remember it.

Why didn’t he continue to seek out Mira’s murderer?

Because he’d forget to.

Why doesn’t he mend the flaws in this world he’s made?

Because he forgets to.

I don’t doubt the truth of what he said. To truly mend everything, the world would have to go into the pot and be pulled out again so that everything could start over.

But unless he’s reminded of it, I doubt he even considers it.

It’s why he withdraws from the world. He doesn’t
remember.

When I think of how Chloë looks out for him, I realize that her solicitousness is born not simply of her affection for him, but also of necessity.

I turn to look ahead through the trees and sure enough, there she is, a large black raven perched on the low-slung bough of a spruce, preening her wing feathers while she waits for us to be done here.

I turn back to Raven. For a moment he doesn’t see me, then his gaze, dark and old, focuses in on me.

“What will you do now?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I really don’t know. I’d say go home, but I don’t really have a home. I haven’t had one since Mira died.”

“You’re always welcome at the Rookery.”

“Even after what I did today?”

“I don’t agree with what you did,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do.”

“You seemed so angry.”

“I was. In many ways I still am. But it’s done now. If I’ve learned anything over the years it’s when and how to let things go.”

Is it? I wonder. Or is that he forgets and it no longer looms large in his mind the way it would in another’s?

“I’ll see you again,” I tell him. “But for now, I need some time alone.”

“I understand,” he says.

He hesitates, as though he’s about to add something else, but then he simply nods and walks away, on through the forest. When he reaches the bough where Chloë waits for him, she drops down onto his shoulder.

I look back through the trees to what I can see of the meeting field. Odawa’s no longer there. There are only some gulls, riding a thermal across the headland.

“I hope I did right by you, Mira,” I say.

There’s no response, but I wasn’t expecting any.

Lizzie

The sun was just pinking the horizon
in the hills behind the Custom House Hotel in Sweetwater when Lizzie awoke. It took her a long moment to remember where she was. Her dreams had been filled with elves and dwarves and people that were part animal and part human. Not like werewolves or monsters, so much, but in a way that seemed natural and unthreatening.

She turned her head toward the nightstand and looked at the clock. 6:14. Reaching behind her, she tugged up her pillow, then sat up and leaned against the headboard. It was only then, when she was sitting up, that she realized she wasn’t alone in the hotel bed.

Oh boy, she thought, looking down at Con’s handsome, sleeping face. He was turned toward her on the bed’s other pillow, a half smile on his lips.

She’d thought that coming to her room with him had been part of the dream, too. Not to mention everything that had happened after they got to the room . . .

But obviously it wasn’t.

Blame it on running around in bizarre worlds and all the unbelievable things that happened to her. Blame it on the whiskey, if nothing else.

But she didn’t really need to blame it on anything. She’d been tipsy, not drunk, and Con had been lovely and sweet and very attentive—all the things she’d needed after the ordeal of the past few days.

It was so not a good idea to get involved with a band member, but the heck with it. Maybe they could make it work. Surely it had worked for other couples in the same situation, but she couldn’t think of a single one.

Siobhan would know. Siobhan’s head was filled with musical trivia that had no real use except for making introductions to songs when they were on stage, or at a moment like this, when you just needed to know some bit of arcane detail that your own poor brain couldn’t call up. But she wasn’t about to wake her cousin up to ask.

She sat there for a few moments longer, then slipped out of bed and stood at the window. There was a glow on the ridges of the hills across the river, pink and pale orange.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the dawn—certainly not waking up to see it. Whenever she did, she was usually bumping into it on the way to bed after a long night of music.

It would be nice to be down by the river to watch the sun come up, she decided.

She tugged on a pair of black jeans, pulled a T-shirt over her head, and found her shoes. One was by the door, the other under the window beside her fiddle case. She sat on the chair and laced them up, one after the other, first the right, then the left, the way she always did. Standing up, she put on her jacket. She hesitated for a moment, then took a towel from the bathroom and slipped out the door, walking quietly downstairs to the lobby.

When she stepped out the front door, the air outside felt fresh and new—like it had in the otherworld, except the only enchantment here was the simple, ordinary magic of the sun bringing light to the darkness at the end of the night. It was magic that only happened once a day, but it happened every day.

A steadily growing chorus of birdsong followed her as she crossed the road and went down the steps to the pier. Its planks were damp from the dew, so she folded up the towel and used it to sit on as she watched the sun coming up. After awhile she lifted her hand to her mouth and traced the contours of her lips. She worked her jaw, opening and closing her mouth.

Such a simple thing . . . until you couldn’t do it.

She let her hand fall to her lap.

She remembered Geordie telling them last night, before he went up to his room with Jilly, how they might forget all of what had happened to them. How it could seem like a dream that would slowly fade away as the days went by.

She didn’t know how that could be possible.

If anything, right now
this
world felt like the dream. An early morning in the spring. Sitting here by the river, serenaded by the early morning birdsong. The soft lapping of the river under the dock. The sky lightening, bit by bit, until what had only been a dark smudge was now the silhouettes of trees backlit by the morning light.

A lot of terrible things had happened since her car broke down at the crossroads on Friday night and she’d been pulled into a reality she had never even suspected could exist. Oh, there had been Pappy’s stories, but they were always just stories. They weren’t real like the music. Like sparring with Johnny at the gym. Like making love to Con last night.

But beyond the terrible things, something had opened up inside her, as well. Some great . . . potential for understanding . . . she wasn’t sure what. Just that there was
more
, but she was still a part of it. Everybody was a part of it, even if they remained blind to its existence.

She didn’t want to lose that.

She didn’t want to forget.

She wanted to build on it.

It wasn’t that she wanted to live in those otherworlds, or become one of the magical beings herself.

She just wanted to retain this open feeling in her head, the realization that anything could happen. That there were possibilities upon possibilities lying just at everybody’s fingertips. People didn’t
have
to experience them, but there was something at once comforting and worrisome that they might.

And for all the terrible things she’d had to undergo and do, they didn’t hold a candle to the wonder she’d been allowed to experience as well.

To forget that . . .

“Timony,” she said. “Timony Twotot. Can you hear me?”

“Always,” a familiar voice replied from behind her.

She turned around and there he was, sitting on the stairs, the riser he was on bone dry while all the others were still wet.

She smiled. “I don’t know if I’m happy or a little creeped out to know that you’re always just a half step out of my sight.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said. “Did you think I’ve been watching you, waiting for your call?”

She blushed thinking of what he would have seen in her room last night.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you?”

He laughed. “Not hardly. I’ve been back in the Aisling’s Wood, setting things a-right. But I’ve had an ear cocked to hear you if you should call my name. Was there something you needed?”

“No. I just . . . I’m afraid I might forget everything, and I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to forget you.”

“What makes you think you will?”

“Geordie. He was telling us last night how people forget even the most amazing experiences like we had because it doesn’t fit in with their worldview. That our brains think it’s easier to forget, than to try to make sense of all this new knowledge and experience.”

Timony nodded. “I’ve seen it happen. But only to those who
wanted
to forget. If you’re determined to remember, you will.”

“Do you think I’ll ever go back over . . . into the otherworld, I mean.” “I can take you right now.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think I’m ready just yet.”

“It doesn’t all have to be all monstrous conjurers and evil bogans, you know. I can show you simple marvels that offer no danger except for how they will make your heart swell to look upon them. Bodach markets and the winged dogs of New Forthfallow and fairy dances with music that will make you dance whether you want to or not.”

She nodded. “I’d like that. In time.”

“Then why did you call me?”

“Just to make sure that you’re real. To know that I could. I’m sorry that I took you away from what you were doing for no more than that.”

“You gave my life back to me,” Timony said. “You have only to ask me anything, and I will try to do it for you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want there to be an obligation between us. I just want to be friends.”

“We are friends,” he assured her. “But the obligation remains whether you want it or not. It’s the doonie way, and I can’t change it any more than you can turn into a pony.”

“How do you know I can’t?”

He cocked his head and pretended to study her.

“You have me there,” he said. “I don’t. Shall we go for a gallop?”

“No. I should get back to the hotel. God, I slept with Con last night—can you believe it?”

He smiled. “I don’t know. If you tell me you did, then I do. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It’s just confusing. But why am I telling you this? You don’t know him or anything about my life before we met in the wood.”

“But I’d like to know more,” he said. “And we’ll have time for that, don’t you think? And I really want to hear you play again, especially with your band.”

“I’ll remember to call you to me when we have our next gig.”

“Is it long from now?” he asked.

“No, it’s on the weekend.”

She stood up and shook out her towel before rolling it up under her arm. “I really should get back,” she said.

He stood up as well.

“Just tell me,” she added. “What’s the best time to call you if I want to just . . . you know, talk.”

“Any time is the best time. Now that I’ve been woken up again, I have days and hours stacked up all around me, just waiting to be used.”