The Raven and the Reindeer (8 page)

The bushes were barely waist high, but it was enough. Gerta pulled her knife and hacked off a half-dozen branches from the bottom of the largest. They were some kind of low evergreen—junipers, she thought. The smell, even through the cold, was sharp and clean.
 

Mousebones flapped and bounced in the snow while she excavated a gap in the bushes. She laid the branches down on the ground to provide an inch of insulation between her and the snow, then crawled underneath the bush.

It was still cold, but being out of the wind made a startling difference. Snow still slid from the branches overhead every time Gerta moved, but presumably it would settle down eventually. She pulled her hood low over her face and tucked her knees up.
 

Mousebones hopped inside and climbed up on her shoulder. “Not the best night roost,” he grumbled. “I’ve seen better.”

“Sorry,” said Gerta. “It’s what we’ve got.”

“Aurk.”

She was very tired. She ate a few bites of food and drank a few swallows of water. When the village children were taught what to do if you were trapped out in the snow, their teachers had always been very clear that you had to keep eating and drinking or you would die much faster.

Gerta sighed. She did not know if she had done it right. They talked about snow caves and this was a little like a cave but she had never actually built one for real. She didn’t know if she’d wake up with dead toes or if she’d even wake up at all.

Junipers were supposed to be tough. Her grandmother said that the family was made of juniper, stubborn right down to the bone. She did not feel particularly tough or stubborn or anything else.
 

“Aurk!” said Mousebones. “Stop fidgeting.”

“Sorry,” said Gerta. She tucked her hands into her armpits.
Will they find my body in the spring thaw…?

It was her last thought before she fell asleep.

She dreamed the dreams of evergreens with snow on them. The air smelled sharply of resin. A woman rode by her, on a grey horse that stumbled. She was talking to herself, or to the horse, but the language was strange.
 

Gerta would have liked to follow the woman, to see if she knew where to take shelter from the snow, but she and the horse vanished into the trees, hidden by the snow. Gerta sighed.
 

The snow began to melt around her. It ran in rivulets over last year’s leaves. Pale green needles flushed out on the tips of the branches.

“Spring?” said Gerta. She turned.
 

A child was staring at her from beside a tree trunk, a child with pasty, swollen skin. It had blank black eyes, the pupils grotesquely dilated, a thin rim of iris around them. It stared at her with its mouth hanging open.

Gerta jerked back, revolted, and woke herself up.

“Aurk!” said Mousebones, flapping for purchase on her shoulder. One wing clipped her on the back of the head. “Aurk! What was that?”

“Nightmare,” said Gerta. Was that her own dream, or the junipers? She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
 

“I should say so. You squawked like a jay with her egg being stolen.”
 

Gerta scrubbed a hand over her face. It was still wet from her breath melting over it. “Sorry.”

Mousebones made a sound that would have been a chirp in a smaller bird. “Rrrrk. I suppose I will not get to eat your eyes today, at least.”

Before Gerta could comment (and what would she say?), Mousebones hopped off her shoulder. Branches had leaned down inside the bush, sagging with the weight of the snow. There was a raven-sized gap at the bottom and Mousebones ducked through it, leaving rune-shaped tracks behind him.

“Aurk!” Gerta heard. “Aurk! Come out, the snow’s stopped.”

Gerta slithered out from under the bush.
 

The snow had indeed stopped. Gerta turned, looked in every direction, and saw whiteness. Sun dazzled the edges of her vision. She had to squint, but she was glad of it, because without the sun, she would have had no idea which direction she had come from, and which way she should be going. Her footsteps had filled in overnight.
 

She could see the road, which was higher than the surrounding moor. The scruffy bushes she had slept in were one of a dozen small shapes dotting the landscape, all of them smoothed over by drifted snow.

“Mousebones?” she said.

The raven was rolling on his back in the snow, kicking his feet. He looked thoroughly undignified and thoroughly unconcerned about it. “Aurk?”

“Do you know how far it is to the next town?”

Mousebones stood up and sloughed snow off his feathers. “Not that far. I could fly it, even with my wing, and not be sore in the morning.”

“All right,” said Gerta.
 

She had a brief breakfast, which she shared with her bird companion. The ham was gone. The cheese was going. She still had money, which did her no good at all out on the moors.
 

If I can get to the town, I can buy supplies at least.

It took until noon before she saw a blue blot on the horizon. Walking in the sun was warm, but the wind was cold. Gerta flipped her hood up every few minutes and pulled the cloak forward over her arms, but then she would overheat and flip it back again.
 

“Make up your mind,” grumbled Mousebones, who didn’t like moving whenever she rearranged her cloak.

“Sorry,” said Gerta. “It’s too hot inside and too cold outside.”

“Humans! Aurk! No pleasing you. Grow feathers, why don’t you?”

Gerta snorted. “And then what? I’d be a big feathery thing. I still couldn’t fly, could I?”

“No, but you’d be better looking.”
 

“I’ll pass, thanks.”
 

The blue blot grew, separated into smaller, squarer blots, and became a town. Gerta walked into it in the middle of the afternoon.
 

The houses were small, with thick walls and sharply sloped roofs to slide the snow off. A few clustered tight together in the center of town, but more straggled off in all directions. Garden plots were covered in a blanket of snow.
 

It was a much smaller town than Gerta’s home, but the little details—cut-outs on the shutters and the overhangs, elaborately carved benches—suggested prosperity.
 

Or at least very long winters. When you don’t have much else to do, you might as well carve things…

The town was bustling despite the recent snowfall.
Fresh sled tracks marked the street.
 

She had gone perhaps a dozen yards into the village proper when she realized that people were staring at her.

One man stood with his mouth hanging open, swiveling his head as she passed. Small children pointed and whispered to each other.
 

Gerta blushed hotly at first, checking her clothing—was her shirt gaping open? Was she so obviously out of place?
 

Then she remembered that she had a raven perched on her pack, and the heat faded from her cheeks.
Ah. Yes.
That.
 

If people wanted to stare because of Mousebones, she couldn’t blame them. She wouldn’t tell the raven to leave, though. If it hadn’t been for him, Gerta would have stumbled past the bushes without seeing them.

Assuming I didn’t just lie down in the snow to die when I saw the Snow Queen…
Gerta lowered her chin and went looking for the local inn.
 

The inn was quiet. The evening rush had not yet descended. There was a great deal of warm, polished wood, and a mellow quiet.

An old woman was sitting next to the fire. She was really truly old, older than Gerta’s grandmother. Her hair lay in thin, straggling wisps.
 

“Come in,” she said, when Gerta paused on the doorstep. “You’ll let the heat out.”

And when Gerta had come inside, with Mousebones on her shoulder—“Look at you!”

“Everyone else is,” said Gerta dryly.
 

The old woman cackled, a really
good
cackle, the sort that you can only get if you are over the age of eighty and know how to drink.

“Sit down,” she said. “You could use a bite to eat, I bet, or your black-winged friend could.”
 

“It’s true,” said Mousebones.
 

“Caw!” said the old woman, and cackled again.

Gerta had one very surreal moment when it seemed that Mousebones was speaking a human language and the old woman was speaking like a raven. Then the woman said, “Caw to you, too!” and Gerta realized that she was imitating Mousebones.

“Her accent is atrocious,” said the raven haughtily.

“I’m sure he’d like something,” said Gerta, sitting. “But I can pay…”

The old woman shook her head. “Nothing doing!” she said. “You’ve paid me already. They’ll all come in tonight, you know, to ask me for your story.”

Gerta rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”

“I’m the storyteller,” said the old woman. “Gran Aischa. My daughter runs this place.” She banged her mug on the little table beside her. “Ebba! Ebba, come here, and bring this girl and her bird some sausages!”

A tall, stoop-shouldered woman came from the back, looked at Gerta, looked at Mousebones, rolled her eyes, and went into the back.
 

A few minutes later, she re-emerged with a plate of sausages. “I hope your bird is housetrained,” she said.
 

“Nope!” said Mousebones happily.

Gerta winced and moved her chair so that Mousebones had his tail over the hearthstones instead of the wooden floor.

The sausages were small and spicy and delicious. Gerta handed every third one up to Mousebones, who took them from her fingertips as neatly as if he were plucking out someone’s eyeballs.

Gran Aischa watched her while she ate, her bright eyes moving from her face to Mousebones on her shoulder. It would have been uncomfortable, but the old woman kept up a string of chatter about the town—commentary about the snow coming down so early in the year (but not so early as the one winter, when it snowed all through the harvest) and some foolish farmer who hadn’t brought the cows in early and had to go out in the snow with a lantern to find them.
 

Gerta said nothing, and let the flow of words wash over her, until she was full of sausages and potatoes and cider.
 

“Good?” asked Gran Aischa. “All the corners filled in?”

“Very good,” said Gerta.

“I forgive her the accent,” said Mousebones, “if her daughter can cook such sausages.”

The storyteller smiled, and her eyes nearly vanished in the swirl of wrinkles.
 

“Good!” she said. “Very good. Now…about your story…”

“Do you want to know
my
story?” asked Gerta, somewhat amused. “So you can tell it?”
 

“Not particularly,” said the old woman. “No one wants true stories. They want stories with truth dusted over them, like sugar on a bun.” She cackled again. “But tell me a little bit of yours anyway.”

Gerta considered.

My friend was stolen away by the Snow Queen and I went after him and then I got caught by a witch and stayed for seven months and don’t remember much of anything and now I can understand ravens
—well, that was true, so far as it went, but it wouldn’t actually sound all that sane coming out of her mouth.

Then again, here I am with a raven…

“My friend is missing,” she said finally. “I think he was—ah—kidnapped. I’ve been searching for him, but I was—er—delayed. For a few months.
 
But now I’m looking again.”

“Your friend?” said Gran Aischa. “Or your true love?”

“Both,” said Gerta firmly.
 

“Better!” Gran Aischa grinned, revealing a surprisingly good set of teeth for her age. “Ah, let me see, how should the story go…You’re a princess, of course.”

“I am?”
 

“Naturally.” Gran Aischa swatted her on the knee. “You can hardly do anything worthwhile in a story unless you’re a princess, you know.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” said Gerta, taking a sip of the cider. Her mouth crooked up at the corners despite herself.
 

“It isn’t,” said the storyteller. “But you’re young. Old women can be wise, but young women have to be princesses.”
 

“I’m a bit short for a princess. And a bit…err…round….”

Gran Aischa waved away this objection. “Doesn’t matter. Once you’ve left town, all they’ll remember is what I tell them. You’ll be devastatingly beautiful within a week. They were mostly looking at the raven, anyway.”

Gerta laughed.
 

 
“Ye-e-e-s….yes, I see it now. You’re a very clever princess. Your advisor, the raven, has told you all the wisdom in the world.”

Mousebones preened. “I like this story.”

“That’s right, I’m talking about you, bird.” Gran Aischa took a sip of her own drink. Gerta suspected it was rather stronger than cider. “You’ve learned wisdom from the raven, and nowhere is there a prince worthy of you. Men are tongue-tied in your presence. They present themselves to you in your palace and they can’t remember a single word.”

Gerta dragged her hand over her face. “All right,” she said. “Where’s this palace of mine, anyhow?”

“Oh, very far away. A year and a day by horse.”
 

“How inconvenient for me.”

“It’s a magnificent palace,” the storyteller assured her. “Each hall more extraordinary than the last. The walls are hung with rose-colored satin and the ceilings hung with chips of cut glass. You rule from a throne inlaid with diamonds and drink from a cup inlaid with pearls.”

“Constantly,” said Gerta.
 

“But alas, it is lonely when you are unmarried, and none of the princes who come before you can speak a single word.”
 

Gerta put her chin on her hand and waited.
 

“You got tired of waiting around for a worthy husband to present himself,” continued Gran Aischa, “so you went out, with your trusted raven, to find the prince wise enough to speak to you without fear.” She brought her hands together. “And you are still looking, but one day, I’m sure, you’ll find him.”