Elora Wilde's Arc

Chapter 7 of 9

The bear was gone into the trees, and the door was shut, but the scratching did not stop. It came again an hour later, then again before noon. A magpie with a broken wing. A hare with a crushed foot. A stag with moss on its horns and silver light behind its eyes, breathing hard on her step. Elora carried each one inside. Rowan came back from the path and did not leave again. They worked at the counter, then at the table, then on the floor. Rowan ground more pulp in the bowl while Elora stitched. She showed him how to hold the magpie's wing straight while she splinted it. He held it the way she asked and did not speak. When the stag came, they eased it down together onto the rug by the hearth. Elora cleaned the gash along its flank. Rowan pressed the pulp in. The stag's silver eyes watched the ceiling. More came. A fox kit with a torn ear. Two sparrows. A badger that would not let Rowan near until Elora put her hand on his shoulder and the badger lay down. By late afternoon the cottage was full. Animals slept on every blanket, every chair, the counter, the hearth rug, under the table. The air smelled of crushed leaves and wet fur. The pulp bowl was almost empty. Elora's hands shook when she tied the last knot. She sat down at the runed table across from Rowan. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Rowan's sleeves were dark to the elbow. His scar stood out white against the flush of his face. Elora looked at her palms and could not feel them. The bird of light flew down from the beam and landed on the table between them. It chirped once, low, and she understood it the way she understood her own thought. Rest now. She nodded at it. "I hear you." "There is no floor left," Rowan said. He looked around the room at the sleeping bodies. "You cannot rest here. You will step on something." He set his hands flat on the table. "I have a place. I built it in a living oak, not far. It is finished enough for a bed. Come sleep there tonight. I will keep watch." Elora looked at the fox on the counter, the stag by the hearth, the mother prowler curled with her kit. All of them breathing. All of them alive because she had not been alone today. She stood, and her legs held. She took her cloak from the hook. "Lead," she said. Rowan opened the door. The evening was cool and the trees were quiet. She stepped out after him, and for the first time in a long day, nothing was scratching at the wood behind her.