Page 4 of House of Furies
“So sure of that,” she whispered, giggling. “You like to be sure of things, don’t you? What else are you decided on, girl? That there is a God in the heavens and a Devil down below?”
I turned away from her, staring straight ahead as the road climbed, a steep hill carrying us higher and higher, as if wecould reach those last golden bands of daylight. “Of course.”
“For a teller of fortunes and fates, you are not a very convincing liar.”
“I was taught the Bible,” I said shortly. “That should be answer enough.”
“It’s not as simple as that. Nothing is. I thought you were cleverer than this, child. I only take clever children to Coldthistle House now.”
“Now?”
She giggled again, but it was not a mirthful laugh. “The dull ones never lasted all that long.”
“What does that have to do with God or any of it? No, forget I asked at all. You’ll only offer more riddles and half-speak.” That drew another gurgle of laughter from the crone.
“Lighter talk, then, to make the journey less bitter and damp,” she said. A sudden squawk from behind us drew my mind from the cold. It came again, louder, and then another bird chirped, and another, until an entire chorus of tweets and chirps and calls erupted from the covered wagon bed.
“Is this...” I swiveled, drawing up one of the tethered corners of the canvas, tugging until the hooks in the wood gave. Behind the sodden covering were a dozen cages or more, all roped together, a different bird in each home, perched and alert, filling the road with song. “Birds? What are you doing with them all?”
“Why, eating them. What else would they be for?”
Yet I spied a finch and a pleasantly rotund little wren, and exotic creatures with feather plumes that I couldn’t possibly name. “Monstrous. How could you eat such lovely things?”
“It’s all meat and gristle under the finest wrappings,” she replied. “We’re no different.”
“So you wish to eat me, too?”
Her nose wrinkled up at that and she shook her head, snorting. “They are pets, child. I am delivering them to their new master, who—I assure you—has no intention of doing them harm.”
Gullible. Foolish. I blushed and tucked the covering back down, listening as the birds gradually calmed and fell silent. The old woman returned to her singing, and perhaps it was what kept the creatures so still and quiet during the bumpy ride.
We crested the hill as night came on in earnest, the rain slowing and giving us momentary reprieve. The two hunched and plodding horses took the descent haltingly, hooves clattering unevenly as they tried to keep purchase on the slick ground. I could feel the tension in their bodies, the reins jerking in the crone’s hands as the beasts ignored whatever pulls and whistles she gave.
“Come now, steady, ye nags!” she shouted at them, snapping the reins.
It had the intended effect, but too much of one—the horses bolted, finding some last burst of energy to send us flying down the hill. The wagon bounced madly, the birds coming to lifeagain. That drove the horses faster, as if they could outrun the piercing cries of alarm from the birds. Rattling and rattling, the wheels making only occasional contact with the road, we thundered toward the dip at the bottom, where the foul weather had left an enormous ditch of standing water.
“Slow them!” I screamed, barely louder than the birds. “Slow down!”
The crone clucked and called and heaved backward on the reins, but the horses ignored her, carrying us at reckless, mortal speed toward the bottom of the hill. I felt the wagon list before I heard the spoke crack. Then the wheel spun off into the darkness, vanishing over the swell of the hill. I scrambled to hold on to the seat, both hands braced on the wooden lip near the crone’s knee.
The horses checked at the loss of the wheel, slowing, but it was too late; the momentum of the heavy wagon was already too great, carrying us at top speed toward the watery hole not ten yards away.
I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth together, holding every sinew in tightly as impact loomed. The crone gave a sudden yip, and then a rousing, trilling sound likeAlalu!and we were weightless, in the air, soaring over the ditch and to a rough but safe landing on the other side. The wagon stuttered to a stop, the horses snorting and stamping, refusing to pull us another inch. I stared at the ground below, ground that should have shattered the old wagon to pieces. Slowly, the horses nosedtoward the grass on the right side of the road, angling us away from the ditch and toward a valley clustered with wildflowers.
“How did you do that?” I breathed, shaking. The splintered remains of the wheel spoke dripped with mud and rainwater, and I could only tear my eyes away from them gradually and back to the crone. She shrugged and collected her dry bush of hair, smoothing it back from her ears.
“You drive this stretch of road long enough, you learn to master its miseries.”
The woman dropped the reins and vaulted with surprising vigor out of the seat to the ground. Her boots sank into the mud, and she high-stepped around to my side of the wagon, sighing and shaking her head as she inspected the damage.
“And no spares with me on this trip,” she said, more to herself than me. “Perhaps I have not masteredeverymisery.”
“So what do we do now?” I asked, still trembling from the shock of the landing. From the ancient wagon to the ancient woman to the ancient, weak horses, I could not imagine how we had jumped the ditch and come away from it in one piece. Judging from the quiet, lazy way the horses munched their grass, this was an everyday occasion for them.
“We cook one of the birds,” the crone replied at once.
Before I protested, she rolled her eye and beckoned me down. “I jest. We make a fire and eat a little porridge, and then, my girl, we hope for a miracle.”
