The Raven and the Reindeer

by T. Kingfisher

“Are you a he-raven or a she-raven?” “I am a raven,” said Mousebones, “and the rest is none of your business, as we’ll not be having eggs together.”

“And when she did, you didn’t…you didn’t feel…” She paused, trying to find the words. “Dirty,” she said finally, feeling even more wretched for not being able to describe it. “Mortal. Awful, compared to her.” “Aur-k,” said Mousebones. “Compared to her, I’m a raven. And ravens do not bow to gods or men or giants.”

The old woman cackled, a really good cackle, the sort that you can only get if you are over the age of eighty and know how to drink.

You’ve got your own gods to deal with. But reindeer belong to our gods, and our gods belong to them.” “I thought you were Lutheran,” said Janna. “I am. Doesn’t mean I’m stupid, girl. Luther lived a long ways away. Jábmiidáhkká lives under my feet. And I’ve never heard that Luther had much to do with reindeer, which was clearly a failing in an otherwise upright man.”

“How am I ever going to go back?” she said out loud. “Even if we find Kay—when we find him—I’ll go home and say, ‘Hi, sorry, I was gone for a year but I was enchanted for part of it and then I was a reindeer but not any more and by the way, I can talk to ravens now. But I brought Kay back.’” She closed her teeth with a click but her thoughts ran on, unimpeded: And also I don’t actually think I want to marry him any more and I think I may be in love with a bandit girl who’s killed at least one person that I know of, and why did none of you tell me that I could fall in love with a girl, anyway?

“Words are like fish and you catch them and you get to keep them forever.”