3. Forest
Forest
The sky brightens the closer the sun tips towards the horizon.
Burnt orange and streaks of red bring in the night and the scant breeze whips leaves of flame to a frenzy.
It’s perfect flying weather.
High above the crowd, over the reek of so many humans in one spot, freedom rides the currents, those highways of air streaming in every direction.
Instead of flying, I’m watching. Her. No hunting. Only this woman I can’t name but I know.
I clack my beak with a croak, and she flashes me a smile, braids swinging around ample bosoms with her movement.
She ran over me with the motorized contraption. Anger should’ve blistered at the insult, the injury, but nothing came. I am… Curious.
Intrigued.
I’m not the only one curious enough to creep closer from the underbelly of those woods. Earlier I caught snippets of a figure, a dark-haired man hidden by darker limbs who cast long and unbroken glances up to the sky.
And another—
Pain splits through my head, and I snap my beak again to shake it off.
They don’t matter. None of them matter. They might smile like they know me, know what the raven’s body truly hides, but I don’t know them. And if I did… their names are lost.
Consciousness swirling, I snatch up the last of the rye crust and devour it.
Knowledge, memory. They all disappear somewhere in the abyss of my mind, where everything else goes. The thoughts flicker like ash on a cruel wind before they’re gone, too.
“Helene, you’re daydreaming again,” the curly haired woman in the chair says with a laugh.
“Nah, Audra, I keep thinking I see someone in the woods. It’s freaking me out,” the blonde replies.
“Yeah, people drunk off those mead horns the Fester boys are selling.”
I hop closer, the foot the machine ran over still twinging, and snap for more to eat.
“It’s not a lot of people, though. It’s like one person. But they’re hiding in the shadows.” The blonde sounds pained.
Another croak, feathers ruffled, and she settles her attention on me. “I’m sorry, beautiful. I don’t have any more bread. Unless you want some mashed potatoes. Hey, can ravens eat mashed potatoes?”
Curls chuckles and exchanges a moth-eaten book for a pile of coin. No, not coin. Paper. “I’m not sure. Probably not. You’re not supposed to feed bread to ducks anymore, right?”
My injured foot tightens with weight, the injury that should have been an insult.
Somehow there is nothing left beyond curiosity for this creature. She’d stared at me unabashed and unafraid. Met my gaze where bystanders at this joke of a festival glanced then looked away. Cowards.
This one is different.
She radiates strangeness, an odd potency to her energy the others recognize and instinctively move away from.
Until those boys—
A growl vibrates through the raven's body. Did the two in the shadows notice the attention paid to the blonde? Did it bother them as it bothers me? The Germanic barbarian and the—
I stop and settle my wings to my sides.
I know them, I do, I’ve seen them throughout the scents on the wind, but why are they here? Who are they?
Is it for her? Somehow, I know her, too.
My feathers fluff, irritation bristling.
Why did I come here? To this sad little festival making a mockery of everything I know...
Knew.
I shake my head, the world brighter, and smaller and in some manner more expensive through the eyes of the raven. The woman laughs with her sister and ignores the eyes on her skin painting her with their curiosity.
They can’t understand her but the crowd watches her, mortal men in garish costumes, the stench of mead and sweat in the air around them.
The other two watch.
We’ll wipe the floor with any challengers.
I stifle a laugh. Mortals would have no idea what to do with the woman if they managed to catch her. Hell, half the time I can barely handle her.
Then pain, all-consuming, temporarily blinding. I hunch against the breeze and the richness of decay, the change of seasons in this small corner of the world.
Nothing is the way it used to be, and yet somehow it’s exactly the way it needs to be.
I came for her. I know I did, but not. The wind carried me here to this little shieldmaiden, and I’ll find out who, what, she is.
The more I watch, the clearer her form, the more muddled the inside of my head. Thoughts churn and crash together like waves on an angry sea.
Her eyes strike like hammer on anvil. Even if her costume leaves little to be desired. The tight lines of the fabric over her heaving chest, the short and loose threads keeping the inaccurate skirt connected to the rest of the ensemble, is a tragedy and reeks of some stale, forgotten closet.
Had speaking to her as a human been a mistake?
I crane my head, chittering.
Showing my face, my truth, means heartbreak. It leads to pain. Yes?
Well met, Forest.
The voice in my head might be mine. I stiffen, caw, but the howl of a group of children swallows the sound. Beyond them, the river stretches out and through the gaping wall of woodland.
With a shriek I leap off the ground and wing toward the banner over the tent. Curls spares me a glance before helping more of the customers waiting in line.
This isn’t a bad place. It’s different. Odd.
But the rich scent of the moss near the bank, the detritus of leaves and the press of flesh is universal. Another time, it would not be so ordered. Swords would flash and test their strength in worthy and unworthy hands. Blood would spill, feeding the metal, establishing hierarchy.
Those longboats would pack full of warriors eager to expand their horizons and territory.
Even if the time is long gone, and this charade only brings torment. I am here.
Time is pain. Time is endless.
The woman’s haunting eyes threaten to change the fabric of the world, the foundation it stands on, the roots of the great tree…
Mob thinning, people in the area churn together, restless. The heartbeat of the land changes and clangs and they hurry without knowing, turning their backs on this corner of the event.
Most of them gather near the shores of a river like melted silver and cheer on a mockery of men lifting fists in the air.
Why?
Do they sense power revolving beneath the surface, ready to erupt?
Do they know about the others?
Do they feel eyes on their skin and understand it’s something different than the rest of the festival-goers? A chill roots in the bird’s bloodstream, and the blonde-haired woman peers up, searching for me and meeting my gaze.
“Ah, good, you’re still here,” she tells me with a wink. “Do you wanna bring more friends? I’ll try to get more snacks for you.”
My feathers fluff, and I take off from the top of the tent, the brush of her attention tracking the movement.
Careful.
She needs more care, more observation. Wind rustles my throat, the elongated and delicate plumes on my front. I close my eyes and lift out the thermals, adjusting.
She is not alone.
Curls is related somehow. A mortal girl, young, and injured on the inside. What answers are they both hiding? What sort of secrets can I ferret out of them today, amid this backdrop of the festival?
Garish colors diminish the meaning of the symbols scrawled on banners. The symbolism is wrong.
The hand of Tyr should not be used to announce those wisps of cotton children stuff into their faces.
Tyr was a god of war, justice, self-sacrifice.
I turn against the breeze. Where is the wrongness coming from? Why does my blood light and warm in preparation? Turning, I head back to the woman and her sister.
Tyr lost his hand to the great wolf Fenrir in an act of bravery and renown. He prevented Ragnarok in binding the wolf. Because of this, the Hand of Tyr became a rune for warriors.
It symbolizes strength and honor, and the willingness to do what is right, no matter the cost.
What sort of honor comes from consuming brightly colored pink fuzz?
I drop to the ground in front of the table and the blonde woman, then hop up onto the stool.
Her eyes dazzle this close. Hazel, flecked with green and gold. They are moss catching sunlight. Long, sun-kissed braids fall to her chest with a few wild pieces left free.
“What did you see on your travels, beautiful?” she asks.
Diffuse light gilds the undertones of her skin as though she’s hoarded every bit of radiance in this gloomy place and uses it as armor. Freckles scatter across her nose and her shoulders.
They’re constellations.
Muscled and strong, soft in the hips. Callouses on her hand. She boasts the quietly capable kind of beauty bards used to sing about.
I croak. There are hungry men, famished for things food cannot touch, lurking closer to the both. She has to notice. She has to see—
But the boys who approach with bolstered courage are not the target.
They speak and lurk, reduce her to breasts and braids.
Sound hums in my throat but ravens are incapable of a beast’s growl.
The others who have their eyes on her, the ones who keep themselves apart from the crowd. They will recognize the flash of fury the way I do. A living wildfire burning away the last bits of sanity.
They will want to crush these men and their skulls to dust.
A squawk leaks out.
Then the breeze changes. It drives needle teeth between my feathers and twists my insides. The world sharpens and comes into greater focus, an ache spreading over my chest. Twilight casts shades of color over the earth, but they’re wrong and crooked.
Air carries with it a stench of rot, and the crowd reacts. They grow loud, obnoxiously loud, clustering together like frightened pack animals.
The woman blanches and rests her hand to her stomach.
Wrongness. She finally sees.
“Look, I had my time. Why don’t you take a walk and clear your head? I’ll man the booth for a few minutes.”
Curls no sooner makes the offer than the blond pushes off the table, rounding the edge, and I snap up the last bit of bread, jumping to avoid being trampled but not ready to leave.
“Thanks, kid. I appreciate it.”
Where is she going?
I launch into the air to track her progress.
Erratic movements take her through the tents.
The world is splintering apart. Energy snaps and crackles, splinters pulling free and others shifting and rising to take their place. The festival is nothing but callus, a cancer, metastasizing and spreading. But the problem goes deeper.
Before the pieces land and make sense, the woman stops in front of a booth held together by dust and age. The old woman crouches on a stool with shoulders hunched and hidden by layers of rags.
A Seeress?
A poor, miserable volva. Has my woman gone to have her fortune told?
The breeze batters me away from the tent but a glance solidifies the scene. A seeress had recognized Odin, once, ages ago.
He'd offered the volva his necklace and ring as payment for telling him about the future. The woman spoke of the creation of the cosmos and the first gods and people.
Then she remarked about the end, Ragnarok, and the great battles to come. She remarked of the destruction of Ragnarok and how the world would rise again.
How evil would return.
Through staff and song and seat, volva are able to send a soul out of its body and on a mission.
Perhaps that’s why the blonde is there.
I settle at the top of the tent and dig my claws into the fabric to root.
“Honey, if you need a break, you’re welcome to sit here with me. It’s a safe space.” The old woman’s voice tremors like a tightened string plucked. “You look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have, Miss Blake.”
“People overload. Thanks for the offer.” Silence, then, “You’re selling it.”
“Sorry, Blake. Times are tough for everyone. And those are solid bone and crystal. You know their caliber. I've priced them fair.”
I can’t see anything from here. Indignant, I take off, landing on the ground opposite the old woman, hidden by the folds of her tablecloth and felt gourds.
The blonde spills the bag onto her palm, and although its belly is swollen and full, only a single crystal falls. Magic punches out from the rune.
My eyes widen.
They’re the only authentic piece in the place, the only thing that is not cheap plastic or replica. The woman keeps the symbol in her hand with her fingers rubbing the polished crystal, stealing the last of the light and glinting ever so softly.
I hop forward, catching myself by the leg of the table.
I want it.
I want to take the piece of crystal, covet it...
I want to take her...covet her. Keep her. She’s mine.
She’s always been mine.
Her adrenaline rush is my own, as well. Her emotional reaction is mine to share, but I have no idea why. What is it about the stone that captures her? Is it the magic? Does this human recognize what she holds in her hand for what it is and what it represents?
The gold lettering of the rune blurs from this angle. A flap of my wings takes me level with the glyph, and I stop.
Thurisaz.
I shake my head.
No, Thurisaz has no place here.
The sigil carved into the crystal glows once and my understanding of the meaning solidifies. Doom is upon us. The change of the wind, the compulsion to circle this woman, somehow they’re tied together.
I land on a wooden beam and cling. My head aches and spins. Then the ground trembles.
The girder shakes, a bellowing roar landing over the festival like the aftermath of an explosion.
Troll.
I blast out a response, but the sound disappears in the sound. Rather than fear, excitement strikes, urging me to life.
A troll hasn’t been seen in over a century in this realm, and never on this continent. The lightning in my blood settles.
It’s here now. And it’s coming for her.
...She is mine.
Which means the creature has to die.