“I do not. But there’s no one else.”
“I did not want this for you,” said Willow. Her fingers tugged at the neckline of her shirt — there was something childish about it, like a child hanging on to the hem of her mother’s garment. “But I will show you. The binder’s secret. Sorrow’s knot.” She reached for Otter’s hands. “Do you have a cord? Here.”
Otter had a cord, of course: the yarn bracelets on her wrist, long sinew cords wrapped up her other arm. She unwound one of those, held it out in two hands.
Her mother’s hands closed over hers a moment, and then she took the cord. “This should be the last thing you learn. But … Watch.”
Otter watched. Willow folded a place in the cord double, making a bight in it, and then the intricate, quick one-two-three of a wrap, a tuck. Her white hand seemed to flash. There was a knot there for a moment, a three-fold thing like a strange kind of heart, and then Willow tugged on both ends of the cord and the loop slipped through the turnings, and the turnings unspun themselves, and the knot was gone.
“Did you see it?” said Willow.
Otter said: “Show me again.”
And Willow did, slowly. One of the rangers holding Fawn’s bier, three steps away, had her eyes closed. The others were turned away, guarding the forest, watching beyond the ward. It was clear that the knot was a deep secret. They would not look. Otter watched the knot, letting her world narrow until it was only the cords crossing. A bend, a wrap that went fast, a tuck …
When she looked up again, she met Cricket’s eyes. They were open and bright. Willow gave him a smile, as if slipping him a sweet.
“Once more,” said Otter.
And Willow did. “Three times,” she said. “That’s right, because there are three wrappings. But this is the real secret, Otter. Sorrow’s knot is not a knot at all. It is a noose. Use it to hold a dead wrist.” She held up hers, white as birch bark. “Or to fix the first cord of the ward to the tree. But, by itself …” She pulled the ends of the cords, and once more the loop ducked into itself, the wraps turned against themselves, the knot flashed and vanished. “A noose with nothing in it pulls open. It is meant to be a release. And yet we use it to bind. Now that I am going mad, I wonder about that.”
Otter looked up at her, startled. Her mother’s smile was sweet, her eyes wide and terrified.
“And now for little Fawn,” said Willow. “A chance to practice.” She turned so fast her coat spun out, whirling. Otter could see the ranger with the poles trying not to flinch away. Willow dropped her coat on the ground and stood there, red as a shroud. She lifted her hands and the red cords wound off her arms. She caught one of them as if catching a snake, holding it by its head and tail. “Come here, Otter.”
Otter’s heart made a little triple beat, like a song’s ending. She breathed in for courage, and went to her mother’s side. Willow started with an ankle. “You may have the wrist,” she murmured, as if offering a pheasant’s drumstick. Otter looked at the little bare foot. Its high arch. Blood pooled purple in the heel. Otter watched her mother make the wrap, the cords biting into the slack flesh. Her ward pressing into Fawn’s throat flashed before her. Willow did the wrap, the pull. The ankle moved, stiff against the one of the poles.
The other ankle. Otter was glad of the shroud, glad that she couldn’t see the form of the legs, which must have been spread. To tie a young woman so, a small woman, to tie her up … It was a terrible thing they were doing. Otter felt that terror run in the new cords inside her body; she felt that terror wrap around her heart.
Willow bared a wrist, pulled it out, held it fixed against the corner of the frame. Willow’s back was against the back of one of the rangers holding the frame. The woman was shaking. How can she do this? thought Otter. How can anyone do this? “Otter,” said Willow. She sounded impatient, as if calling Otter in for dinner.
I’m dead, thought Otter. I must be dead, because no one living could be this frightened. She looked up and saw her mother’s arm stretched out toward her, the hand white, the bracelets twisting and digging into the skin. She stepped forward and took her mother’s hand.
And then she bound Fawn’s wrist. A loop, three wraps, the twist …
“Yes,” said Willow.
Otter did not want to throw up on the body of her friend. So she walked around the little binder’s body and made the knot again. Then she leapt away, stumbling. Willow stepped back. “Now the words.”
“Fa —” Otter stammered, then made her voice ring. “Fawn. You are done with your name.”
Her mother’s hand was soft on her shoulder. “Your name is done …” she corrected, whispering.
“Fawn, your name is done with this world,” said Otter, looking down at the red bundle, so small. “Hold fast to your name. Follow it from here and do not return.”