Fourteen

Interlude with a Raven

Her name had not always been Morrigan.

It had once been something wordless, a croon in her mother’s chest. An unsaid thing. But most humans did not understand the clicks and chatter of the ravens, so the one called Fin had given the raven a human name.

Morri.

The raven rather liked her name. It was soft, rounded in the humans’ mouths. It sounded like small children begging their parents for more, more and then leaving crumbs scattered across the sidewalk. It was a good name. And her human was a good sort too. Not quite as good as a raven, but Fin gave her treats and neck scratches.

Ravens saw everything. They watched from tree branches, from power lines, from atop cars and houses. They listened, cocking their heads as humans chattered and cars backfired and dogs barked. And ravens gossiped among themselves, sharing news in croaks and burbles. They knew which humans had paid their weekly tithes and which hadn’t. They knew when Mrs. Brackenbury took her dog for a walk and left crumbles of treats in her wake. They saw the young Carver girl trudging home with her hands shoved in her pockets and how a tourist bumped into her and didn’t apologize. They knew when Mrs. Madeira wasn’t having a good day, and sometimes the ravens would leave small trinkets at her windowsill. Mr. Madeira gave them scraps of bread from the inn.

Ravens knew the delicate balance of obligation.

And so Morri followed the film crew. Not because it had been asked of her, but because she could see how Fin worried. If her human did not trust these outsiders, Morri would ensure nothing they did went unnoticed.

She followed them to the inn, to the coffee shop, through the town.

They didn’t notice her, of course. All ravens looked alike to them. So when two of the outsiders tromped down a southern trail, they did not lower their voices. They took samples of fur they found clinging to blackberry brambles—which Morri knew belonged to a raccoon that lived nearby.

“Hopefully I’ll be able to upload these pictures when we get back.” The human with the shiny lenses fiddled with his camera. “I can’t believe it took a day to fix the Wi-Fi.”

“Welcome to the wilderness, Michael.” The woman threw out an arm, as if to encompass all the forest. “At least out here no one’s glaring at us.”

“You got that too?” said the young man with a small laugh. “Thought it was just me.”

“I don’t think this town is all that enthused about any of us,” said the woman. “Which is stupid. I heard that town with the chupacabra had a huge jump in visitors after episode twenty-four went live.”

“Yeah, but the mystery spot shut down,” said Michael drily. “So I can see it from their perspective.”

The woman snorted. “That’s not our fault.” She turned in a small circle, looking around at the trail. “All right, nature calls.”

“Classy, Ana.”

“Well, I’m not walking back to the hotel. Watch my stuff.” Ana threw a grin at Michael, set her backpack on the ground, and made her way deeper into the forest, leaving the trail behind. Morri looked from human to human, wondering who to follow. The man was wholly absorbed by his equipment, which made him boring. Morri’s gaze fell on Ana, decision made. The raven hopped from branch to branch as the woman tentatively pushed aside the undergrowth and angled herself between bushes.

Ana glanced back the way she’d come, as if to make sure Michael couldn’t see her. Which meant she was not paying attention to where her feet were. Morri cocked her head as Ana stepped backward around a tree and then stumbled, her heel caught on a ridge. She bit back a cry as she tripped, falling onto her hands. It looked more surprising than painful. Irritation flashed across the woman’s face, and she muttered a few insults to the forest. She pushed herself into a crouch, brushing the needles from her bare palms. She looked down to see what she had tripped over.

Morri heard her sharp intake of breath.

It had not been a stray stick or a root that had snagged the woman’s heel.

The evening light cast long shadows across the huge footprint. Far larger than the ones that crisscrossed town.

It was the width of a garbage-bin lid and pressed three inches into the damp earth.

Morri watched as the human considered the sight before her.

“They must’ve made a bigger footprint mold,” whispered Ana.

For a few moments Ana couldn’t move. She reached out with shaky fingers, touched the indentations that looked like toes. Her breath quickened. She stepped out of the footprint, turning in a half circle. And that was when she saw the rest of them.

There were dozens of footprints, hidden beneath the fern fronds and softened by the bed of redwood needles. Enormous footprints trailed through the area, as if giants had patrolled the forest.

Far too many footprints for a single person—or even a few of them—to create with a mold.

“It’s a prank, it’s a stupid—” Ana’s words snagged in her throat. She swallowed several times before she said, “Michael!” Her voice came out a little strangled as she turned toward the trail and hurried back.

Morri knew the creatures who made these tracks; they were the forestkind—those of the large feet and songs too soft for human ears. They wandered the old growth, avoiding the humankind as if their lives depended on it. Which it did.

Ravens were lucky, Morri knew. They could survive anywhere. But the forestkind were different. Their ability to blend into the forest, to avoid notice, was all that protected them. For a herd to come this close to the town was unheard of. But such was the love of parents looking for a lost young one.

Ana returned to the human called Michael, sputtering words like “footprints,” and “prank.” And while he went to investigate, Morri fluttered to the ground behind them. One of the human’s lenses sat forgotten by his camera. Morri picked up the glittering thing in her beak. Spreading her wings, she took to the air.

She knew someone who wanted to find these creatures too.