The Raven and the Reindeer

by T. Kingfisher

“In all the old stories, the only thing that ever won was love. And occasionally a good sharp knife.”

In stories, the heroines were resourceful and cheerful and determined. Gerta had hoped to be all these things, but the sun was sinking behind the trees and she was feeling less and less resourceful. Cheerful was right out.

The raven fluffed its beard. “I am the Sound of Mouse Bones Crunching Under the Hooves of God.” Gerta blinked a few times. “That’s…quite a name.” “I made it myself,” said the raven, preening. “I stole the very shiniest words and hoarded them all up until they made something worth having.

“It is a certainty that you are going to die,” said Mousebones. “All living things die. Then we eat their eyes.” “How nice,” said Gerta. “Are you going to eat my eyes?” “Well, obviously. You’d want a friend to do it, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” said the bird. “And we ravens don’t apologize often, so please make a note of it. She helped my wing so I thought she’d help you. I didn’t think that a human could be kind to a raven and cruel to another human.”

Parts of her that were born lonely, as all humans are born lonely, were suddenly gathered up and loved and made one with the herd.

“Naked and bloody we come into the world, and sometimes we go out of it the same way.” Livli draped a blanket over Gerta’s shoulders. “But it’s not a good way to spend the parts in between.