Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

The trees were full of crows and the woods were full of madmen. The pit was full of bones and her hands were full of wires.

She picked up a bone, a long, thin one, from the legs, and wrapped the ends with wire. It fit alongside another long bone—not from the same animal, but close enough—and she bound them together and fit them into the framework she was creating.

The crows called to each other from the trees in solemn voices. She wondered about the harper in the song, and what he had thought when he was building the harp of a dead woman’s bones. He was probably the only person in the world who would understand what she was doing.

I could sit here for the rest of my life, with my hands full of wire, building dogs out of bone. And then the crows will eat me and I will fall into the pit and we shall all be bones together …

The crows called a warning. She looked up. The crows yammered in the trees to her left. Something was coming, blundering through the trees.

As a girl, she would not have understood that, but Marra was not the girl that she had been. She was thirty years old, and all that was left of that girl now were the bones.

“Shhhh…” whispered Marra into the skull’s openings. “Shhhhh…” Bone dog, stone dog … black dog, white dog …

Then again, few humans were truly worth the love of a living dog. Some gifts you could never deserve.

Her heart ached. Poor foolish dog. Its first death had not been enough to teach it that not all masters were worthy. Marra had learned that too late herself.

Three tasks, and then the dust-wife would give her the tools to kill a prince. “Typical,” she said into her hands. “Typical. Of course I’d manage the impossible thing, then not think that sometimes dogs run off.”

For all she knew, the bone dog had caught the wisp of a scent and now it would end up a hundred miles away, chasing bone rabbits or bone foxes or bone deer.

before her. Marra looked at it for nearly a minute, thinking. It was strange how clear the edge was. It looked like the shadow cast by a cloud. This bit here was dark and that bit was bright. It took a moment or two for wind blowing from one side to reach the other. She could hear the crows calling back and forth.

The ones on the outside sounded like normal crows—Awk! Awk! Awk! The ones over her head sounded like Gah-ha-hawk! Gah-ha-hawk! She wondered if the outside crows hated the crows of the blistered land the way that the villagers outside hated the people inside. They had warned her against going inside.

She had not realized that a nun had more power than a princess, that she could close a door.

She had been born a princess, which should have been lucky, but the price for never going hungry was to be caught in a struggle between people too powerful to call to justice.

She was used to being stubborn, but having people agree with her was off-putting and didn’t give her much to work with.

It was hard to be frightened of the unknown when the unknown kept chickens.

“He isn’t my prince,” said Marra acidly. “If you plan to kill him, he is. Your victim. Your prince. All the same. You sink a knife in someone’s guts, you’re bound to them in that moment. Watch a murderer go through the world and you’ll see all his victims trailing behind him on black cords, shades of ghosts waiting for their chance.”

“Lots of people deserve to die,” said the dust-wife finally. “Not everybody deserves to be a killer.”

“You’re bringing the hen?” “She’s got a demon in her,” said the dust-wife. “It’d be rude to leave her for the neighbors to deal with.”

Some things come into being once it’s inevitable that they will exist.”

And I am here with a dog skeleton at my heels and a woman with a chicken on her staff, so what must they think of me?

He swallowed. “Yes.” “One more thing we need,” said the dust-wife, patting Bonedog’s skull. “Then we’re done.” “Not another tooth,” croaked Marra. The dust-wife shrugged again.

“So you built yourself a dog and found yourself a wolf. If a fox shows up looking for you, we’ll have a proper fairy tale and I’ll start to worry.” “Why?” asked Marra. “If I’m in a fairy tale, I might actually have a chance.” “Fairy tales,” said the dust-wife heavily, “are very hard on bystanders. Particularly old women. I’d rather not dance myself to death in iron shoes, if it’s all the same to you.” “Perhaps you’re the fox,” said Marra. “Ha!” The dust-wife’s laugh really did have a bit of a fox’s bark to it. “I deserved that.”

“Oh! He’s all bones, poor thing!” “I don’t think it bothers him much,” said Marra. “Well, he’s a dog. They don’t have an idea how the world’s supposed to be, so it doesn’t bother them when it isn’t.” Agnes frowned. “Except herding dogs, I think. They have a pretty clear idea in their heads, so they’re always nipping and worrying and trying to get it to fit. Of course, there’s people like that, too.”

“Horrible puppet,” she said, “demon chicken, fairy godmother.” “And it’s a fool’s errand and we’re all going to die,” said Fenris. He patted her shoulder. “Still, I have to admit I didn’t see the chicken or the puppet coming.”

Nothing is fair, except that we try to make it so. That’s the point of humans, maybe, to fix things the gods haven’t managed.