“Otter …” Willow’s voice was not quite her own. It slipped into Otter’s ear like a drop of water.
“I said no,” Otter snapped. At her back she could feel something cold — radiating, bone-deep cold. A hand put itself on her arm — a white and twiggy hand. Otter whipped around and caught her mother in her arms. “Come back, Mother. Please come back.” She felt the hands on her back, one warm and one cold.
“Otter. I …” Willow leaned her forehead into Otter’s forehead. “I only wanted to protect you. Do not follow me. Do not be a binder.”
Thistle said: “She does not have a choice.”
“Of course she has a choice,” said Cricket. Otter had almost forgotten about him — his quiet manner and face that looked foolish whether in delight or surprise. But he was still there, of course, his voice hoarse and his eyes tired, standing with a storyteller’s rattle in his hand. “We are the free people of the forest. We do not take slaves. She has a choice.”
Thistle ignored him. “We must have a binder.”
Willow glared. “When I wanted to take up the cords you would not have it. You said you would never again call me daughter.” She stepped forward — and there was something alien in the movement, something snake-like and fluid. “And now you would give Otter to the knots.”
“I was wrong then,” said Thistle. “It is so dangerous, to be a binder. I loved you, and you were all I had left.”
“You should kill me,” said Willow, her voice fierce. “You should kill me while I am willing.” On her shoulder, the sinew that stitched closed her shirt was coming out of the holes, one by one, making a small slithering noise. “You’re going to kill me, so kill me.”
Thistle paused. A long moment.
Then the ranger knelt down and laid her spear at Willow’s feet. “Not yet,” she said.
Willow closed her eyes, her face for a moment sane and aged with fear. “Mother,” she whispered. “Don’t make Otter do it. Promise me. Promise me it will be you.”
Thistle stood, paused. Then she leaned forward, tangling her hands in Willow’s hair and kissed the closed eyes. “Daughter. I promise.”
From that day Thistle stayed with them, with the spear in her hand.
Down and down went Willow.
Her tongue thickened and sometimes she could not speak, or spoke nonsense. Her hand turned white all over. It changed from moment to moment — sometimes withered and woody, sometimes pure human in its shape, fat as a baby’s hand, with clear fingernails.
“Otter,” she said, “you will need a red shirt.”
“I don’t want your shirt,” said Otter.
And Willow answered: “I’m cold. I’m so cold. Tell me a story.”
On the other sleeping platform, Cricket drew breath and coughed. He’d been telling tales every waking hour for four days. His voice was rough, the power stripped from it. “I can’t,” he said.
“Mad Spider,” said Willow. She was curling her fingernails down her neck as if trying to get them under a noose. Long red scratches joined the white streaks. “Mad Spider — what happened to her? What’s happening?”
Slowly, Thistle stood up. Slowly she walked to her daughter. Knelt at her feet, the spear in her hand.
“What’s happening?” said Willow, again. A child’s voice, a child’s question.
Thistle reached out with her free hand and took Willow’s wrist — the one that still looked human. “Daughter. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Mad Spider,” said Willow. “Mad Spider. What happened to her?”
Otter saw Thistle shift, her hand tightening on the spear. The lodge grew breathlessly still.
But Thistle did not strike. She knelt with Willow’s wrist jerking in her grip. “Long she lived,” said the ranger captain. “Mad Spider: She lived a long time, and she kept her people safe. She unmade many of the White Hands. She was a great binder, and we will always remember her.”
Willow lifted her chin. Her face was all white now. Her eyes were a strange white-blue, like blindness, like frozen water.
There was nothing in that face that Otter knew.
“We remember her,” said Thistle, again. “We — I — I hope she was happy.”
“But the story.” The words came out of Willow’s mouth, but not in her voice. The words were as hollow as if Willow were nothing more than a hole the wind moved across. “Tell the story.”
“Daughter,” said Thistle.
But Willow was gone. She had become a door through which something was entering.
“Tell it,” said the thing.
“It helps her,” said Otter. It was a whisper — almost she was begging. Not yet. More time. Her eyes were on the spear-point. It was obsidian, glossy as hair. It caught a flash of Willow’s white reflection. “It brings her back. She listens.”