From deep in his souls, his grandfather’s ancient voice rasped, You have seen thirteen winters, grandson. It’s time you learned the strange ways of the gods. You must stand your first Vigil. Watch the child. Protect it from hungry animals. Let no one touch the baby until it is dead. That is your duty as Vigil Keeper. Curious things may happen. Often they do. Each is a test. The gods will be watching you. You mustn’t let them turn you from your duty.
Blue Raven remembered running all the way to Lost Hill clutching that forsaken baby to his chest. A wan patchwork of sunlight had flashed through the naked hickory and oak limbs, and he had to squint to keep from colliding with trees. The child had gurgled and cried. Though the little boy had only beheld four mornings, the threads of his heart had been like iron. It had taken forty-two hands of time for that baby to die—and Blue Raven’s souls to wither to dust. But nothing strange had happened. Nothing he could recall, he—
Wren startled him, kneeling at his side. “Good evening, Uncle.”
Blue Raven sucked in a breath. “Wren. Hello.”
She carefully unslung her pack. “I brought you slices of roasted goose and a bowl of cornmeal mush.” She drew out two covered wooden bowls and placed them in front of him, along with a horn spoon. The mush still steamed. “Are you well?”
“Well enough, Wren. Thank you for coming. Now go home. Tell your grandmother that the child still lives.”
Her large dark eyes strayed down the hill, and agony lined her face. “Would you like me to collect wood for you first, Uncle? It won’t take me very long.”
Blue Raven reached out and squeezed her arm. She had made the same offer for the past six nights, and her bravery always swelled his heart. “If you wish to, it would be a great help. But it is not necessary, Wren. I can collect wood later.”
“I wish to, Uncle.”
Wren dashed up the hill toward the stunted grove of elms and oaks that whiskered the top. Against the deep blue of evening, the trees resembled skeletal arms. The Cloud Giant had traveled out over the lake, leaving the clean sky spotted with the Night Walker’s feathered lodges.
Wren’s white cape blended so completely with the snow that she looked ghostly as she moved among the dark trunks, cracking off dead limbs and placing them in the crook of her left arm.
Rumbler screamed suddenly, and Wren spun around so fast her load tumbled into the snow.
Blue Raven shuddered.
As Wren bent to pick up the wood, her ravaged expression tore his heart.
Where did she find the courage? For many moons she had been living with death. This must be harder on her than any of them imagined. He wished that Frost-in-the-Willows had chosen someone else to bring him food, but his mother probably considered this just punishment for the abandoned water bags.
Wren made her way down the hill as swiftly as she could, slipping on ice, and dumped her load onto his woodpile. She fed branches to the fire. Flames leaped and swayed, blinding him to the night.
“Thank you, Wren.” Blue Raven put a mitten on her cheek. Her lean angular face had flushed from the cold, and she was breathing hard. “These past few nights have been hard for you. You have made me very proud.”
“I don’t know how you do this, Uncle.”
He let his hand fall to his lap. “I do it because I must.”
In a sudden move, she threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him. Her voice came out strained. “I wish you could come home.”
“I will,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Perhaps tomorrow. Don’t worry about me.”
She nodded against his neck. “Try to rest, Uncle. You look so tired.”
Vigil Keepers could nap for brief periods, but never really sleep. With Rumbler’s cries, even his naps had been tortured. He must look as exhausted as he felt. He stroked Wren’s back. “Tell your grandmother I hope to see her soon.”
Wren picked up her pack and slung it over her shoulder. “Good night, Uncle. I love you.”
“Be attentive on your way home, Wren. You haven’t much light left.”
She nodded. “I will. I’ll see you at dawn.” She sprinted up the hill for the trail.
Blue Raven watched her disappear over the crest, then he picked up a piece of roasted goose and ate it, savoring the rich flavor. A soft orange gleam had begun to warm the sky to the south, rising from the freshly lit supper fires in Walksalong Village.
He concentrated on it, willing himself home.
Dusk fell in smoky veils across the lake, draining the colors from the water.
Wren hid behind a boulder, her back pressed against the cold stone, watching people climb the hill from the lake. At her feet lay the bulging pack, bow, and quiver of arrows she’d hidden earlier in the day. She didn’t expect to need them, not tonight, but … but she might … .