The Poison Season(3)

“Now, where would I get...” Leelo’s voice trailed off as she saw the cygnet floundering in the shallows. She glanced around, making sure they were alone, before picking up a muddy stick and hurrying toward the water.

“Careful!” Tate called, shrinking back. They were taught from the time they could walk to never go near the water, but the poison was always weaker at this time of year. Leelo suspected it had something to do with the ice melting, diluting the poison somehow, but she didn’t know for sure. All she knew was that the swan would die if she didn’t help it.

“Foolish fellow,” she said, trying to reach it with the stick. It had stopped struggling, its heart and lungs probably already damaged beyond repair. Finally, she managed to nudge the swan close enough that she could reach it.

Wrapping her hand in her cloak, she took a hold of the swan’s long, graceful neck. It was so weak it didn’t even struggle.

“Is it dead?” Tate asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Not yet, but I’m afraid it’s too late to save it.” Leelo’s fingers itched to stroke the gray down giving way to snowy white feathers. The creature was so beautiful she felt her eyes fill with tears. “The poor thing. It didn’t deserve to die this way.”

Every year, young birds made the mistake of landing on what appeared to be a pristine mountain lake, not realizing no fish lived in its waters, no plants grew in its shallows. Within a day, the birds were reduced to nothing but their hollow bones. Given long enough, even those would eventually dissolve. Leelo had never encountered a bird that was still alive before.

Feeling the creature’s life slip away in her hands was somehow worse than hunting, because this death was senseless. They couldn’t eat the meat, as it was already tainted by the poison.

After a few minutes, Tate placed his hand gently on his sister’s shoulder. “It’s not suffering anymore, Lo.”

She sniffed and dried her cheek on her shoulder. “I know.”

“Maybe you can wash the feathers and use them for your crown. Then a small piece of it will live on, in a way.”

Leelo turned to look into her brother’s brown eyes, her heart swelling at his gentle earnestness. She rose and pulled him into an embrace. “That’s a lovely idea,” she whispered against his soft hair. “Will you help me?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Together, they rinsed the lifeless cygnet with fresh water from Leelo’s waterskin, then wrapped it in Leelo’s cloak before heading back toward the house. On the way, Tate gathered a few thin branches from the Forest floor, supple enough to bend into a crown. Leelo pointed out some brilliant blue berries that would make the perfect adornment. Tate plucked half a dozen, whispered a prayer, and placed them in his pocket for safekeeping.

When they were nearly at the house, Tate stopped to tie his bootlace and motioned for Leelo to kneel down next to him.

“What is it?” she asked.

He kept his voice low, though they were still alone. “Aunt Ketty is watching from the window.” Leelo knew well enough not to look up. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Leelo assured him. “She’s just Ketty.”

He frowned. “She’s going to wonder what we were doing.”

“I’ll tell her I asked for your help. Don’t worry, little brother.”

“I’m scared.”

Leelo knew he wasn’t talking about their aunt anymore. She reached out and cupped the dwindling roundness of his cheek for just a moment. “If it’s any consolation, so am I.”

They shared a small, sad smile before straightening. “I’ll wash and pluck the swan,” Tate said. “You should go and finish your chores.”

“Be careful. Wear gloves.”

He raised his chin as he took the bundled creature from her hands. “We look out for each other, don’t we?”

Her chest ached with love, and with guilt for the lie she was about to tell. “Always.”

Late that night, when everyone else in her house was asleep, Leelo sneaked out, taking a knife from the kitchen on her way. Guided by nothing but moonlight and her own sense of purpose, she made her way to the center of the island, to the heart of the Wandering Forest.

The trees here were special. Each belonged to one of Endla’s families, serving as a kind of patron saint to which the family prayed and left offerings. But winter was the one season that the islanders kept away from the grove. Offerings required a song, and Endlans didn’t sing in the winter. It was the only way to ensure outsiders didn’t come across the ice inadvertently. After all, it was one thing for a Watcher to stop an outsider intent on attacking the Forest or its inhabitants; accidentally luring an innocent with song, however, was against their code.

But tonight, Leelo was prepared to violate the code. Prayers hadn’t worked, which could only mean the Forest wanted a sacrifice. And while she wouldn’t kill an animal—the killing song, which lulled prey into a trancelike state, was too powerful to perform on her own, and there was too much of a risk someone would hear—a small blood sacrifice might be enough to wake Tate’s dormant magic.

She hunched down below her family’s tree, a tall, stately pine that was hundreds of years old, as ancient as the Wandering Forest itself, according to Aunt Ketty. Even before she dragged the knife across her palm, Leelo could feel the music pressing at her throat, so eager to be released after months of silence.