v3 · 4,246 wordsMayling had expected the dead to look frightened. The first one didn’t. He lay facedown beneath a broad-leafed plant, one arm crooked beneath his chest and the other stretched into the deep grass as though he’d died reaching for something. His pack was still strapped to his back. Nothing had eaten him. Nothing had dragged him away. That made it worse. Mayling stood three paces from him and listened. The forest breathed everywhere. Water ticked from leaf to leaf though it had not rained since she entered. Something tiny clicked inside a tree. High above, an unseen creature gave one piercing call and received an answer from farther away. Nothing moved around the body. Mayling tightened both hands around her sharpstick. The reed was longer than she was tall and thin enough to bend when she gripped it too hard. Its shaved point looked ridiculous against everything she had been told lived in the forest. She loosened her hands. The point straightened. She didn’t know the dead Goer’s name. That bothered her. It shouldn’t have. There were hundreds of them scattered through the forest, entering from different villages and different directions. She hadn’t known most of their names while they were alive. Still, it seemed wrong that someone could live eighteen rotations, walk into the forest, die beneath a plant, and become only him. She took one step closer. The grass beside his hand moved. Mayling jumped backward so hard that the bottom of her pack struck her hips. Her sharpstick came up. Nothing emerged. She waited. The grass moved again. A dark insect climbed one blade, opened narrow wings, and disappeared. “Stupid,” Mayling whispered. She immediately regretted speaking. Mayling listened again. Nothing answered. She looked at the body. There was blood underneath him. Dark now. Almost dry. A kitsong could still be close. That was what everyone said. Sometimes they killed quickly. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they cut a Goer and let them run. Then followed. Mayling hated that story most. She had hated a great many stories about kitsing before the Going. She hated them more now that every tree seemed capable of containing one. She stepped closer. Two paces. One. She lowered the sharpstick until its point hovered over the dead Goer’s outstretched hand. She nudged his fingers. Nothing. Again. His hand rolled limply into the grass. Dead. Mayling let out the breath trapped in her chest. Relief came first. Then shame. His death didn’t make her safer. It only meant that whatever had killed him might be finished with him. She crouched. “Sorry.” The word slipped out before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. Touching him. Being alive. Thinking about opening his pack. Marling had told her to take anything useful from the dead. Mayling had shouted at her for saying it. Marling had shouted back. Then Marling had cried when she thought Mayling wasn’t looking. Mayling pushed the memory away. She reached toward the dead Goer’s pack. A sound came from somewhere ahead. She froze. Not a growl. Not the scrape of an animal moving through brush. A breath. Wet. Then another. Mayling stood so fast that her vision darkened. She held the sharpstick toward the trees. “Hello?” Too loud. She bit her lip. Silence. Then, weakly: “Here.” Humling. Mayling abandoned the body. She pushed through the grass toward the voice. Broad leaves slapped her shoulders. A vine curled around her ankle and nearly took her down. She kicked free, followed another choking breath, and found a Goer sitting against the exposed roots of a tree. Alive. Barely. He looked about her age, which was foolish because of course he was. No one came here years before they were supposed to. Blood covered his leg. Mayling stopped. Four long cuts crossed the upper thigh. Three looked awful. The fourth looked impossible. Blood pushed from it in little surges. “Oh.” The Goer looked at her. “That bad?” “No.” Mayling dropped her pack. He almost smiled. “You said ‘oh.’” “I didn’t mean it,” Mayling said. “I heard you.” She dug through her pack. Cloth. Food. Water. Cord. A polished stone that someone once swore would keep a kitsong from approaching if it had been left in moonlight. Dried leaves Marling had thrown out twice before Mayling secretly put them back. None of it looked useful. She grabbed the cloth. Everyone knew what to do with blood. Stop it. That was nearly the whole of Mayling’s medical knowledge. She pressed the cloth against his leg. He screamed. Mayling tore her hands away. “Sorry.” The blood immediately welled through the cuts. “No. No, that’s worse.” She put the cloth back. He screamed again. Mayling kept her hands there this time. “You’re making a lot of noise.” His eyes opened wider. “I noticed.” “That means—” “What?” he asked. She had no idea what it meant. “Nothing.” He leaned his head against the tree. Mayling pressed harder. Blood soaked between her fingers. “Can you stand?” “No.” “We need to move.” “No.” Mayling looked around. “We can’t stay here.” “You shouldn’t stay here.” The trees pressed close in every direction. “Why?” He didn’t answer. Mayling grabbed his arm. “Come on.” The moment she tried to pull him away from the roots, he screamed louder than before. Mayling stopped instantly. That, too, everyone knew. If someone screamed badly when you moved them, don’t move them. She lowered him back. “Fine.” He breathed through clenched teeth. “Fine?” “You stay there.” “Excellent.” “I’ll figure something out.” “Leave,” he said. “No.” “It’ll come back.” Mayling’s hands stopped. The Goer looked past her into the forest. “It didn’t miss.” Mayling followed his eyes. There was nothing there. “What didn’t?” He looked at her as though the question offended him. She knew anyway. A kitsong. Mayling glanced down at the wounds again. “It did this?” “Yes.” “And left?” “Yes.” “Why?” He gave a small laugh and immediately winced. “Ask it.” Mayling looked back at the trees. Her heart had begun beating hard enough that she could feel it under her jaw. “How long ago?” “I don’t know.” “A mark?” “I don’t know.” “Less?” “I was busy.” “Doing what?” He looked down at the blood covering his leg. “Bleeding.” Mayling stared at him. He gave her the smallest smile. She almost smiled back. Then she remembered what he had said. It’ll come back. Mayling tightened the cloth around his leg. He sucked air through his teeth. “Sorry.” “You keep saying that.” “I keep hurting you.” “You’re very observant.” Mayling glanced toward the trees again. “I could leave.” “Yes.” “I’m not going to.” His smile vanished. “I know.” Something about the way he said it bothered her. Mayling tied the cloth as tightly as she could. Blood still came through. She added another piece. “What else do I do?” He didn’t answer. “Do you have anything in your pack?” “No.” “You didn’t even look.” “I know what’s in it.” “What?” “Food. Water. Useless things.” Mayling pulled open the edge of his pack anyway. “Maybe one of your useless things is different from mine.” “I have a red string.” She looked at him. “What does that do?” “My aunt said kitsing hate red.” Mayling stared at him. He stared back. “Apparently,” he said, “she was wrong.” Mayling laughed. Just once. She slapped a hand over her mouth. His eyes closed. “Don’t make me laugh.” “Sorry.” “There it is again.” Mayling looked down at the soaked cloth. “What’s your name?” His eyes opened. “Why?” “Because I asked.” “That isn’t a reason.” “It’s enough of one.” He studied her for a moment. “Tem.” “I’m Mayling.” “I didn’t ask.” She stared at him. Tem smiled faintly. Mayling laughed again. This time she didn’t cover her mouth. “There,” she said. “You’re fine.” “That seems medically sound.” “My mother knows about injuries.” Tem glanced at the cloth around his leg. “You don’t.” “No.” “I noticed.” Mayling checked the cloth again. The blood had darkened it completely. She pressed harder. Tem hissed. “My mother would know what to do.” “Where is she?” “Home.” “Useful.” “She’s very useful when I’m not in the forest.” “Then you should have brought her.” Mayling’s smile disappeared before she could stop it. Tem noticed. “Sorry.” “Don’t.” He studied her face. “Was that your word?” “What?” “Sorry.” “No.” “It seems like your word.” “It isn’t.” Mayling concentrated on his leg. Marling would have hated this. Marling hated suffering that could be seen, touched, named. She would have pressed her hands against Tem until her arms failed and then told someone else to take over. She would not have understood walking away. Mayling understood it perfectly. That was why she was still there. She had spent the entire walk toward the Going thinking about dying. Not dramatically. Not nobly. Simply as the most likely thing that would happen. Bilda had gone into the forest five rotations earlier. Bilda had not come out. People liked to tell Mayling she wasn’t Bilda. They said it as though that improved anything. She had never imagined returning marked. She had never imagined a kitsong choosing her. She had never imagined returning at all. She had imagined Marling standing without her. Sometimes that frightened her more than the kitsing. Tem shifted. Mayling looked up. His face had gone pale beneath the dirt. “Hey.” “Still here,” he murmured. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Look like that.” “What should I look like?” “Better.” “I’ll try.” Mayling reached for her water. Tem shook his head. “You need it.” “So do you.” “You’re staying.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” Mayling stopped. There it was again. She held the water toward him. “Drink.” Tem took a small swallow. Most ran down his chin. Mayling wiped it away with the edge of her sleeve. Tem watched her. “You really should leave.” “Stop saying that.” “It’s following me.” “You already said that.” “You don’t understand.” Mayling sat back on her heels. “I understand.” “No.” “What don’t I understand?” Tem’s eyes moved toward the trees. “It could have killed me.” Mayling looked at his leg. “Maybe it tried.” “No.” “How do you know?” “Because it didn’t.” “That isn’t an answer.” “It was close enough.” Mayling said nothing. Tem swallowed. “It cut me. Then it watched me run.” The forest seemed to contract around them. Mayling gripped her sharpstick. “Did you see it?” “Yes.” “What did it look like?” Tem thought for a moment. “Brown.” “That narrows it down.” “Gold, maybe.” Mayling glanced behind her. “Big,” Tem added. “All of them are big when they’re trying to kill you.” “It wasn’t trying.” Mayling looked back at him. Tem’s voice had become quieter. “That was worse.” Mayling wanted to tell him he was wrong. She couldn’t. Something dropped from the canopy twenty paces away. Mayling spun. A cluster of wet leaves struck the forest floor. Nothing else. Tem flinched. Mayling waited with the sharpstick raised. One breath. Two. The tiny clicking inside the trees continued. She lowered the point slightly. “Probably nothing.” Tem gave a humorless laugh. “You should put that on your grave.” Mayling looked at him. “Probably nothing?” “Exactly.” She smiled. Tem didn’t. “Mayling.” It was the first time he’d used her name. “Go.” She frowned. “Why?” “Because you’re making it harder.” “For who?” “For me.” Mayling stared at him. He looked exhausted now. Not merely injured. Finished. She hated the thought before she’d even completed it. “No.” “I didn’t ask you anything.” “Yes, you did.” “I told you to leave.” “That’s asking.” “No, it’s—” “You aren’t dying.” Tem looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked down at his leg. Blood had begun to drip from beneath the cloth. “Yes,” he said. “I am.” Mayling pressed both hands against the wound. “No.” He gasped. “Mayling.” “No.” “Stop.” “No.” “You can’t—” “Shut up.” Tem gave her a weak, almost amused look. “You’re very—” “Shut up.” His breath shuddered. Mayling leaned harder. She could stop blood. Everyone knew that. Press hard enough. Keep pressing. Don’t let go. Something warm ran across her wrists. Tem’s blood. “What’s your favorite food?” Mayling asked. He blinked at her. “What?” “Answer.” “Why?” “Because.” “No.” “Tem.” He sighed weakly. “Fish.” “What kind?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know your favorite kind?” “I like all fish.” “That’s stupid.” “Why?” “Different fish taste different.” “You asked my favorite food. Fish.” “What if one tastes terrible?” “Then not that one.” Mayling laughed despite herself. Tem smiled weakly. “Your turn.” “My turn what?” “Favorite food.” Mayling opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Tem frowned. “You started this.” “I don’t know.” “And mine was stupid?” “I like fruit.” “What kind?” “All fruit.” Tem actually laughed. The sound ended in a cough. Mayling smiled down at him. Then Tem’s expression changed. Not pain. Attention. His gaze passed over her shoulder. Mayling felt the change before she heard it. The forest had gone quiet. The clicking stopped. The distant calls vanished. Even the insects seemed to have folded themselves away. Mayling’s smile disappeared. Tem whispered, “Go.” She reached for her sharpstick. “Mayling.” Something moved through the grass. Not toward them. Across. Perhaps twenty paces away. The grass parted in a narrow line, then stood again. Mayling rose slowly. Her hands were slick with blood. She wiped one against her leg and wrapped both around the sharpstick. The reed flexed. The grass moved again. Farther left. Stopped. Mayling stared. Nothing emerged. Behind her, Tem breathed quickly. “Don’t run,” Mayling whispered. Tem made a tiny sound that might have been laughter. “I’ll work on that.” The grass moved. Closer. Mayling turned the point toward it. “Come out.” Tem inhaled sharply. “What are you doing?” “Come out!” Mayling shouted. Nothing happened. Her heart struck against her ribs. Mayling took one step forward. “Mayling.” She ignored him. “If you’re going to do it, do it!” “Mayling.” “I know you’re there!” The grass remained still. For a moment Mayling wondered whether she had imagined everything. Then something exhaled. Low. Close enough that she couldn’t tell from which direction it had come. Mayling’s skin tightened. She raised the sharpstick higher. “Don’t,” Tem said. “Don’t what?” “Make it notice you.” Mayling almost laughed. “I think it noticed.” She waited. The silence stretched. Then, one by one, the forest sounds returned. A click. A rustle. A distant shriek. Mayling didn’t move. Five breaths. Ten. Finally she lowered the sharpstick. “See?” Tem didn’t answer. Mayling turned. His eyes were open. His head rested crookedly against the root. “Tem?” No answer. Mayling dropped the sharpstick. She fell beside him. “Tem.” She touched his face. Nothing. “Hey.” She shook his shoulder. His head moved loosely. “No.” Mayling pressed her fingers against his neck. She didn’t know what she was looking for. She pressed harder. Nothing. “Tem.” She put both hands on his chest and pushed. His body shifted. Nothing else happened. Again. “Come on.” Again. “Tem.” Again. She didn’t know whether pushing a chest could bring someone back. She had seen someone do it once after a river accident. The person had lived. So she pushed. “Come on.” Again. Her arms shook. “Stop.” No one answered. Mayling pushed again. “You don’t get to tell me your favorite food and then die.” Again. “That’s not how it works.” Again. “Tem.” Again. Something wet struck his cheek. Mayling looked upward. No rain. Another drop landed near his eye. She touched her own face. Her fingers came away wet. Mayling sat back. “Oh.” She wiped at her eyes angrily. More came. “Damn you.” Tem didn’t react. “Damn you.” She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. She stayed there until she became aware of how much sound she was making. Then Mayling covered her mouth. The forest was dangerous. That fact had not changed because Tem was dead. She forced herself to breathe more quietly. When she could see clearly again, she took Tem’s hand. It was still warm. She held it between hers. “I’ll tell them.” She didn’t know who them was. His family. His village. An Observer, if one had seen. Maybe no one. She didn’t know how anyone would learn what happened to him. “I’ll tell somebody.” Mayling laid his hand across his chest. She picked up her sharpstick. And somewhere above her, hidden among the branches, Derda watched her try to keep a promise she had no way to make. ⸻ Derda had seen twelve Goers die since first light. Tem made thirteen. He knew each one. Not their names. Not always. But their deaths. A Goer in blue cloth who ran after a kitsong cut open his forearm and disappeared among the trees. A girl who drove one away with three furious thrusts of her sharpstick, only to sit beneath a tree afterward and bleed until she stopped moving. Two Goers who left a screaming third behind because his voice was bringing something through the brush. A boy who poisoned himself drinking from a pool he’d been warned not to drink from. He held them all. Later, he would speak them back. A Skinpager would sit with him and put the facts onto prepared animal flesh, preserving what had been seen as cleanly as Derda could give it. No guesses. No embellishment. No changing the dead into better people simply because they were dead. Observer memory became fact only after it passed through another humling’s hand. Derda had always disliked that part. Memory wasn’t clean. He knew that better than most. Below, Mayling wiped Tem’s blood from her hands against the grass. Derda watched her because it was safer than watching the grass around her. She had done almost everything badly. She had approached a dead body without knowing what killed him. She had announced herself when she heard Tem. She had stayed with an injured Goer who repeatedly told her a kitsong was following him. She had made noise. She had cried. She had shouted into the forest. She had tried to move Tem until his scream stopped her. Then she’d pressed cloth against an injury she could not possibly repair and argued with him while he died. She was either very brave or had no idea how frightened she ought to be. Derda suspected the second. Perhaps both. He shifted slightly against the trunk. The tree was one of the better Observer positions in this part of the forest. Broad limbs. Dense leaf cover. Enough height to keep a Goer’s eyes on the dangers below rather than the quiet shape above. Goers were not supposed to seek Observers. Observers were not supposed to reveal themselves. An Observer did not warn. Did not rescue. Did not attack. Did not comfort. He watched. He remembered. Afterward, he spoke. Derda had understood the rule long before he volunteered for the duty. Understanding it did not make Tem easier. There had been a moment when Mayling tried to move him. Derda had almost spoken. Only a breath had reached his throat before training—or fear, perhaps—stopped it. If he interfered, he ceased being an Observer. A kitsong could treat him accordingly. More importantly, he would change the Going itself. That was the part everyone said. Derda sometimes wondered which reason actually kept Observers quiet. Duty or teeth. A branch bent across the clearing. Derda went still. Not wind. Weight. For a moment he saw nothing. Then gold-brown moved behind a curtain of leaves. His fingers tightened around the bark beneath him. Five rotations vanished. His body knew the animal before his mind did. Wet earth against his palms. A slash of pain across his side. Breath he couldn’t get enough of. The horrible certainty that something had been following him for most of a return. And then stillness. A face. Eyes. Waiting. Derda had been eighteen then. He had spent the years since telling himself that memory enlarged predators. The kitsong across the clearing looked larger than he remembered. Or perhaps Derda had been lying to himself. It moved without disturbing more than a leaf or two. Then vanished. Derda kept looking at the place where it had been. Below, Mayling crouched beside Tem’s body. She said something too softly for Derda to hear. He knew the coat. He was nearly certain. Five rotations ago, that animal had opened his skin and followed him until Derda had finally collapsed beneath a fallen trunk. He remembered waiting for teeth. Instead, the kitsong had approached. Slowly. Almost lazily. It had stood close enough for Derda to smell damp fur. Then it had looked at him. And left. For years Derda had interpreted that look. He was a Tender. Interpretation came too easily. Sometimes he remembered curiosity. Sometimes contempt. Sometimes mercy, though that one embarrassed him. Once, when he had been very tired, he had convinced himself the animal had seen everything inside him and found him too soft to bother killing. That was a ridiculous humling thought to put inside a wild kitsong. Derda knew it. He believed versions of it anyway. A golden eye appeared between leaves. Derda’s breath stopped. The kitsong was looking directly at him. Not Mayling. Him. Every muscle in Derda’s body tightened. He did not move. The kitsing knew where Observers were. Everyone who took the duty knew that. The animals generally ignored them as long as they remained what they were supposed to be. Generally. Derda disliked that word. The eye remained. Derda had the absurd sensation of being recognized. Then the leaves closed. The branch rose. Nothing remained. Derda exhaled through his nose. Below, Mayling stood. She wiped her eyes with her wrist and left a smear of Tem’s blood across her cheek. Derda looked for the kitsong. Nothing. Mayling found her sharpstick. She tested the reed between her hands, perhaps checking that she hadn’t damaged it. Then she put her pack back on. Good. Leave. She looked down at Tem. Not good. Mayling crouched again. She adjusted his hand where she’d placed it over his chest. Derda closed his eyes for half a breath. Leave. She stood. Something moved behind her. Derda saw it immediately. Mayling heard it a heartbeat later. She spun. The sharpstick swept around and stopped with its point directed into the clearing. The kitsong sat several paces away. Derda’s mouth went dry. Gold-brown. Longer through the body than most. Its front paws rested neatly together. Its tail curled once against the forest floor. It did not crouch. Did not flatten its ears. Did not show its teeth. It simply watched Mayling. Mayling’s breathing was loud enough for Derda to hear from the tree. Her sharpstick trembled. The kitsong’s eyes lowered. To the weapon. Then rose again to her face. Mayling did not thrust. Derda felt something cold move through him. He had watched Goers react to kitsing all day. Some ran. Some attacked immediately. Some froze so completely they seemed dead before the animal touched them. One had screamed until his voice broke. Mayling stood in front of this one with tears still on her face and another Goer’s blood on her hands. She didn’t attack. She didn’t run. For several breaths neither of them moved. Then Mayling said, very quietly, “Are you the one who did this?” The kitsong looked past her. At Tem. Derda’s pulse beat harder. The animal looked back at Mayling. That meant nothing. Derda knew it meant nothing. A turn of the head was a turn of the head. An animal looking toward a body after a sound was not an answer. He knew how easily humlings placed themselves inside things that had never invited them there. He had spent five rotations doing exactly that. Mayling tightened her grip on the sharpstick. “You followed him.” The kitsong remained still. Mayling’s face changed. Not much. Something between terror and anger. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it.” Derda almost shut his eyes. The kitsong blinked. Slowly. Its tail moved once. Mayling waited. Nothing. “You like this?” Still nothing. “Watching?” The kitsong stood. Mayling’s sharpstick came higher. Derda leaned forward before he realized he had moved. The kitsong took one step. Mayling did not back away. Another. Her arms shook harder. Derda could see the thought happening in her body. Run. Strike. Do something. Mayling did neither. The kitsong stopped close enough that one lunge would reach her. It looked at her face. Then at the blood smeared across her cheek. Mayling swallowed. The kitsong stepped sideways. Past her. Mayling turned with it. It approached Tem. She raised the sharpstick. “No.” The word came out hard. The kitsong stopped. Derda stared. Mayling stepped between it and the body. “No.” The animal looked at her. Derda felt the old scar beneath his clothing as clearly as though it had been freshly opened. Mayling’s entire body was trembling now. But she stayed where she was. The kitsong tilted its head. A tiny movement. Derda hated himself for the thought that came immediately. Interested. No. He didn’t know that. He couldn’t know that. The kitsong took another step. Mayling lifted the sharpstick until the point hovered in front of its face. She was crying again. Silently this time. “Leave him alone.” The kitsong looked at the point. Then at Mayling. Derda waited for it to strike. Instead, the animal sat. Mayling stared at it. The kitsong stared back. Nothing in the forest moved between them. And from his branch, five rotations after surviving those same golden eyes, Derda had the terrible impression that the kitsong had stopped hunting Tem. It was watching Mayling now.