"This is the story of two sisters."
The earth whispers to me--
"This is the story of two sisters dreamed up of salt water and magic and love. The howl of the wolf called to the ancient wonder in their bones. With the whisper of the forest it brought them up the rocky mountain-- but-- they were too late. they-- you-- you're too late you're too late
you're too late"
I'm too late. It is the only story the stones tell me now and they say it over and over like I don't already know. I imagine the words sinking into my skin in dark, leathery letters, not unlike papa's scars. My failure, marked for all the world to see and wonder and cringe at the sight of: toolatetoolatetoolate.
Too slow, too weak, too stupid. I'm staring at the soft white shapes on the ground, I'm breathing deep the still air of death. It's heartbreaking. And it's... and I'm angry. I’m molten. I’m magic and rage and a dark spiral of bone twisting around itself like a sword that can’t make up its mind what to pierce.
“Wake up.” Sister says it like– like not a question. And I feel. I feel like a book being opened and leafed through by the wind. Like my heart is standing at attention, listening, quivering with intention.
(Still the earth whispers, but slower now, “you’re… too…”)
“Wake up!” She screams and my heart is squeezed by the fist of the mountain. At the edge of my vision pebbles float lazily like dust-motes in a band of forest-sliced sunlight. Sister grabs reality, twists it like a scrap of silk, folds it into something beautiful, something better.
I’m there when she falls down. I don’t know how, I guess I scrambled forward to lean my pale shoulder against her. All that matters is we’re together now, in the heart of the scent of blood and death, and from this close I can see the pups in excruciating detail. Their fur is thick and baby-soft (the closest thing I know to compare it to is the softness of the ducklings we found at the lake one day) but beneath its plushness I can see a staircase of ribs. More skeleton than flesh.
And that’s when I notice a little heartbeat. Hesitant at first. Shy, like I’ve been told I am. But growing stronger. “’Vesta, it's… he's alive!” I lean forward, gently wrap my neck around one of the tiny bodies. It’s so cold to the touch, like it didn’t have the energy to shiver. Only then I look at my sister and see a trail of blood running down her nose.
She only just told me that we never have to be afraid when we’re together, but when I see her like that I’m terrified, and there’s no way I would ever not be. She is everything to me. Without her I would be… well I don’t know. Lost to the wind, I guess. Nothing more than a handful of leaves. “Are you okay?” I frown, but don’t move my head from where it is. Suddenly I wish mama and fable and papa were here, but I don’t say this out loud. They would know what to do. They would know what to say.
The mountain has stopped speaking to me, but a pleased sort of silence fills my bones. Like we did something right. Like Avesta did something right. There is another flutter of movement. A second pup. “You saved them.” My voice quivers with awe– I hate how weak it sounds– and breaks into soft laughter. “You did it, Avesta. That was amazing.” The cub curls into my neck as the gravity of the situation begins to fall down around me. “They need food.” It goes unspoken, as I glance to the mouth of the cave, we need Fable.
But I'm not quite ready to leave yet, not with Avesta bleeding and the infant cold as a river rock against my cheek and the heaviness in my bones that fills the spaces magic usually does.
@Avesta
