knees. She glanced up, and nearly yelled out.
Soaring as gracefully as the wind itself was a heron. He tucked his wings to his sides and dropped silently toward Crest’s runoff. The bird followed the stream as he descended, until he looked no larger than a pale leaf fluttering to a standstill.
Bree cursed herself, wishing she were down there as well, but she hadn’t really believed Mad Mia. The bird stayed near the tributary, wading silently in the shadows. It plucked something from the water—a frog, maybe—then moved upstream and out of Bree’s sight.
Still cursing, she gathered her gear and started her descent.
The light was slipping from the sky, and Bree knew the bird would be gone as soon as dusk was. Still, there was only so fast this pass could be traveled. Her body moved on its own—the memory of where to grip, what holds to press her fingers and toes into seared in her mind. She scrambled down rock, raced through switchbacks, squeezed between shelves.
When she reached the lake, she was sweating again, and the blue-purple tinge of twilight hung before her. She crept as silently as the heron itself. There was a stone in her slingshot and a flame of confidence in her chest. But at the edge of the water, Bree found herself alone. She circled the lake, checked the tall grasses, walked up Crest’s runoff. Nothing. The bird was gone.
“Dammit.” Bree launched her stone into the water. It splat, and rings rippled outward. A bullfrog laughed at her.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
She kicked at a clump of reeds and felt the blister on her heel split open. The sting was both distant and unbearable.
When her pulse calmed, Bree searched the tributary for a rock to replace the one she’d loosened. She found a handful of nice stones—the size of her palm, smoothed by the moving water—and pocketed them before heading home.
Tomorrow , she told herself, you can stay at the lake all day. Set up in a tree. Wait where you’re in range. Maybe he’ll come again—at dusk. Dawn, if you’re lucky .
Back in the village, dinner was under way. The bonfire blazed. Mad Mia was plucking through the discarded crab and clamshells, pocketing a treasure here and there while everyone else ate.
Keeva grabbed Bree at the elbow and hauled her aside.
“Explain,” the woman demanded.
“Explain what?”
Keeva folded her arms over her chest and eyed Bree from head to toe, as if she was something she might like to defeather and then roast over the fire.
“You’re on food detail, Bree. Have been since you were ten. I’ve never specified if that means fish or oysters or clams or crab or rabbit or frog or fowl. I don’t specify because up until now, you’ve always gone where you thought the catch was, and you’ve always brought plenty in. But I will monitor you if I have to.”
The only thing Keeva had monitored lately was water. Freshwater. It was all she seemed to think about.
“I skip one day of duties and you’re threatening to monitor me? Monitor Mad Mia. She’s the one not yielding results.”
Stupid rain dances.
Keeva lifted her arm and the sting of a backhand laced Bree’s cheek.
“A boy is dying because of your trap,” Keeva growled. “And my patience is waning. Act like you are more important than the good of the village again, and you swim for the horizon.”
Bree choked down the retort on her tongue. No one survived a swim for the horizon. No one ventured farther than the crab traps, not ever. To do so meant death, even for those who took one of the fishing boats. There was no other land. There was just water and waves and extremely strong currents, because the bodies always came back: washing up on the beach, crashing against the ragged coastline. Bloated. Blue.
“There has to be more land somewhere,” Lock always argued. “Where else are those birds always flying?”
“Fine, there’s land,” Bree would say. “But it’s nowhere close. Nowhere we can get to without wings of our
Soaring as gracefully as the wind itself was a heron. He tucked his wings to his sides and dropped silently toward Crest’s runoff. The bird followed the stream as he descended, until he looked no larger than a pale leaf fluttering to a standstill.
Bree cursed herself, wishing she were down there as well, but she hadn’t really believed Mad Mia. The bird stayed near the tributary, wading silently in the shadows. It plucked something from the water—a frog, maybe—then moved upstream and out of Bree’s sight.
Still cursing, she gathered her gear and started her descent.
The light was slipping from the sky, and Bree knew the bird would be gone as soon as dusk was. Still, there was only so fast this pass could be traveled. Her body moved on its own—the memory of where to grip, what holds to press her fingers and toes into seared in her mind. She scrambled down rock, raced through switchbacks, squeezed between shelves.
When she reached the lake, she was sweating again, and the blue-purple tinge of twilight hung before her. She crept as silently as the heron itself. There was a stone in her slingshot and a flame of confidence in her chest. But at the edge of the water, Bree found herself alone. She circled the lake, checked the tall grasses, walked up Crest’s runoff. Nothing. The bird was gone.
“Dammit.” Bree launched her stone into the water. It splat, and rings rippled outward. A bullfrog laughed at her.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
She kicked at a clump of reeds and felt the blister on her heel split open. The sting was both distant and unbearable.
When her pulse calmed, Bree searched the tributary for a rock to replace the one she’d loosened. She found a handful of nice stones—the size of her palm, smoothed by the moving water—and pocketed them before heading home.
Tomorrow , she told herself, you can stay at the lake all day. Set up in a tree. Wait where you’re in range. Maybe he’ll come again—at dusk. Dawn, if you’re lucky .
Back in the village, dinner was under way. The bonfire blazed. Mad Mia was plucking through the discarded crab and clamshells, pocketing a treasure here and there while everyone else ate.
Keeva grabbed Bree at the elbow and hauled her aside.
“Explain,” the woman demanded.
“Explain what?”
Keeva folded her arms over her chest and eyed Bree from head to toe, as if she was something she might like to defeather and then roast over the fire.
“You’re on food detail, Bree. Have been since you were ten. I’ve never specified if that means fish or oysters or clams or crab or rabbit or frog or fowl. I don’t specify because up until now, you’ve always gone where you thought the catch was, and you’ve always brought plenty in. But I will monitor you if I have to.”
The only thing Keeva had monitored lately was water. Freshwater. It was all she seemed to think about.
“I skip one day of duties and you’re threatening to monitor me? Monitor Mad Mia. She’s the one not yielding results.”
Stupid rain dances.
Keeva lifted her arm and the sting of a backhand laced Bree’s cheek.
“A boy is dying because of your trap,” Keeva growled. “And my patience is waning. Act like you are more important than the good of the village again, and you swim for the horizon.”
Bree choked down the retort on her tongue. No one survived a swim for the horizon. No one ventured farther than the crab traps, not ever. To do so meant death, even for those who took one of the fishing boats. There was no other land. There was just water and waves and extremely strong currents, because the bodies always came back: washing up on the beach, crashing against the ragged coastline. Bloated. Blue.
“There has to be more land somewhere,” Lock always argued. “Where else are those birds always flying?”
“Fine, there’s land,” Bree would say. “But it’s nowhere close. Nowhere we can get to without wings of our
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