Fawn had been a binder. There should have been greater honor for her — all the women of the pinch, gathered in quiet, walking in silence, as they had for Tamarack. But somewhere in the dark woods that hemmed the pinch, the White Hand that had touched Willow was still waiting. No one would pass the ward who did not need to pass it. So Fawn’s procession was just six: Otter and Willow, a drummer, and three rangers — two to bear the bier, and one to stand against the dead.
Flea, the storyteller, had turned her ankle on the day of Tamarack’s binding, so it was Cricket who drummed. Because it was Cricket who drummed, it was Kestrel who came to stand against the dead. The other two rangers were Mink and Apple — twins, three years older than Otter. She did not know them well, and couldn’t easily tell them apart. Their faces were painted in the bearers’ black — their eyes looked very white against that. The long birch poles came out over their shoulders like extra limbs. They hardly looked human.
Cricket bowed his head, took a breath, and bounced his hand against the heart of the big drum. Then softer, with a fist. Lum, dum: a low sound. The heartbeat of the world.
They went out.
It was the height of the day. A clear sunlight made a yellow ribbon out of the river. Everything else was shadow, and stirring: Tall pines tossed and the aspens shivered. Otter’s eye was snagged again and again by something in those shadows. When she looked, it was nothing: a blue jay, a boulder, a fallen branch. She could see it better when she didn’t look at it: something big and watching, something gray and waiting.
The White Hand. Somewhere, the White Hand. Otter stumbled on the ice, and her breath came faster. By the time they reached the granite slope up to the scaffolding grounds, she was shaking. It seemed to her that even the drum had sped up. Glancing back, she saw Cricket with his face stiff with fear. He played the drum without faltering.
They climbed the shadowy, rocky slope to the scaffolds. They saw nothing. Everywhere Otter looked was nothing. It seemed to fill up her eyes.
Finally they came to the scaffolds, inside the ward. A red ward: a ward of the dead.
Otter had cast a ward herself, since last she had stood here. She had felt the binding power carve through her, making new paths from heart to hand. Those paths stirred and tightened inside her, as if the cords of the red ward pulled on cords inside her body. Plucking her. Tightening in her, like leather drying.
Beside her, she heard her mother make a sound, an outgoing breath that vibrated like a drum, a huff of pain. She glanced.
Willow’s hair was floating as if the binder were underwater — as if the strands of her hair were cords boiling in a dye pot: restless, roiling. One of the young rangers bearing Fawn’s bier stepped back from her. Otter saw the whole frame lurch, the red bundle on it lurch and roll. It was a very living sort of movement, like a child hiding in a rug.
Cricket played the pat-pat-pat of a song ending. A heart stopping.
There was a sudden, thick silence. Otter was almost brought to her knees: the hunger of the ward, the strangeness of her mother’s hair. The two bearers staggered to find their balance. For a tight stretch of heartbeats, no one said anything. There was a gust of wind, wrapping Otter’s hair around her face. Overhead, the scaffolds rubbed against the stirring trees with high moans and a squealing scream.
“Fawn,” said Willow. A sound like a slap in the face. “Fawn!”
It sounded like a summons.
No, thought Otter, please no.
But no one moved to touch Willow. The binder’s hair was churning, and her face stark. The V at the neck of her red shirt framed the print of the White Hand. Otter could swear she saw those white-print fingers flutter and clench. No one was going to save Willow.
“Mother,” she said softly. She touched Willow’s elbow.
Willow’s head whipped around like a snake’s.
Otter jerked back — then swallowed her fear. “Mother,” she said, and tried to be gentle, “don’t call her.”
Willow looked at her for a moment, her eyes flat and hard and wide.
“Don’t call her,” said Otter. “We have to let her go.”
“You killed her,” said Willow. “You let her go.”
Otter flinched, swallowed, and said: “Show me how.”
Willow’s eyes, locked on hers, showed white all the way around. But Otter could see her mother in there somewhere. A softness, surfacing. “It’s the ward,” said Willow. “The knots are clawing at me.”
“Show me,” said Otter. “Show me how to bind her.”
“You didn’t want my shirt,” said Willow, her voice soft.