Marrow Fen's Arc

Chapter 9 of 11

The swallow cut low over the ridge and did not slow. Marrow shifted the girl's weight against their side and started walking. The bird flew faster than the girl could step. If Marrow lost the swallow, the last drop in the flask would not be enough to hold her together long enough to find her name. The girl's bare feet dragged on the grass. Her nightdress hem had already gone see-through at the edge. Marrow watched the swallow bank left around a stand of birch and forced their pace to match. The cord between them pulled tight. The girl stumbled. Marrow caught her under the arm and kept moving. Ahead, the bird landed on a low branch, waited two breaths, and lifted again. The ground rose. The girl's breathing thinned. Marrow felt her weight go strange in their grip, lighter than a child should be. When Marrow looked down, her hand was going soft at the knuckles. The last drop in the flask sloshed against the glass. Not yet. Save it for the end. A raccoon crossed the path in front of them, dark russet, white mask sharp in the sun. It stopped and stared at the girl. It did not run. Then it turned and trotted the way the swallow had gone, tail bobbing along the trail. Marrow understood. The dead spoke to animals. Something wanted this girl found. Marrow followed the raccoon's path and kept the swallow in the corner of their eye. They came over the rise onto a hollow with a cherry tree in the middle of it, blossoms out of season, pink and heavy. The swallow circled the tree once and settled on a high branch. The raccoon sat down in the roots. A pink butterfly lifted off a low blossom and drifted toward the girl. It landed on the back of her hand. The girl's mouth opened. No sound came, but her eyes went wide and wet, and she reached with her other hand and touched the trunk. Her knees gave. Marrow caught her and lowered her into the grass at the base of the tree. She was fading fast now, chest going translucent, hair lifting. Marrow pulled the flask out and tipped the last drop onto her tongue. Then Marrow crushed a fistful of blossoms from a low branch and pressed them into her palm the way they had seen work on a dying thing once. The scent came up strong. The girl closed her fingers around the petals. Her outline held. She mouthed a word. Marrow leaned close and watched her lips. Two syllables. A name. Marrow said it back, out loud, and the girl nodded and cried without sound. Marrow had her name. The flask was empty. The way home was still ahead, and Marrow did not know yet how far the name alone would carry her.