Nina Redfeather's Arc

Chapter 4 of 12

Nina got the bird home before dawn. She hid it in the shed behind her house. The creature perched on a sawhorse, wings folded, flames licking the cold air. Frost melted off the walls. Then the bird made a sound Nina had never heard—a low, hungry cry. It nipped at a stack of dry firewood. Sparks jumped. Nina yanked the wood away fast. "No," she said. "Not that." She needed to feed it something safe. But she had no idea what a bird of fire could eat. She ran inside for answers. Her father's old books filled a shelf in the back room. He had loved myths and monsters. Nina pulled down a heavy one and flipped the pages by flashlight. She found a drawing of a burning bird just like hers. The words beneath said it fed on golden apples. Nothing else would fill it. Nothing else would keep its fire calm. Nina's stomach sank. She had never seen a golden apple in her life. Back in the shed, the bird cried again, louder. It stretched toward the firewood. Nina had to find fruit that maybe didn't even exist. Only one person might know where. She hated the answer, but she knew it. The old woman lived in the hut on chicken legs. Nina had cheated her out of payment. Still, Nina pulled on her boots and crossed the dark forest. The hut waited in the clearing, tilted on its scaly legs. The old woman sat in her wooden bucket by the door, oak staff across her lap. Her red-rimmed eyes found Nina at once. "The clever child returns," the old woman said. She did not smile. "The bird hungers already. I warned you." "It needs golden apples," Nina said. "Where do they grow?" The old woman tapped her staff on the bucket's rim. "One tree grows them. It stands past the frozen stream, in a hollow the frost never touches." She leaned forward. "But the tree is mine. And you still owe me, girl. Take an apple, and your debt grows heavier." Nina thought of the firewood and the sparks. She thought of her house, her mother sleeping inside. "Then it grows heavier," she said. "I'll take one." The old woman laughed, dry as bark. "Go. But every apple you pick, I will count." Nina found the frozen stream and crossed it. The hollow opened before her, warm and green in the snow. A single tree stood there. Its leaves were bright, and gold fruit glowed among them. Nina reached up and pulled one loose. It was heavy and warm in her hand. She ran home. In the shed, she held the apple out. The bird snatched it whole. Its flames turned from red to a calm blue-gold. The hunger cry stopped. Nina let out a breath. One apple. The bird was calm for now. But she had picked from the old woman's tree, and the old woman was counting.