‘Do you remember the gull with Mother that day?’
I did. And I could not hide my smile from her.
‘You had to fall to the ground for it divin’ down…’
I saw it so clear. Us all upon a hill like the one we climbed now. Mother telling us what we should know about the land. She had brought a roll of food. And when we stopped to eat, a gull came, a plummet from the blue, stole the loaf from her hand, and laughed clean away.
‘She was fair angry, weren’t she, Evey?’ Dill held to me.
‘Come back, you thief!’ I cried, shaking Mother’s fist. ‘You sea monster!’
‘You sky rat!’ we said together.
Dill held her stomach for aching as we stumbled on, beneath those crying gulls who seemed to laugh with us. Till we fell to silence. Remembering.
Higher the sun climbed, as the hill swelled behind us and we were in the valley.
‘Was it a gull you saw that time?’
I knew straight as anything what she went for. That time.
‘No, Dill. It were not.’
‘Was it,’ she smiled for this game she loved to play, ‘a robin puffed and proud?’
I let her pull me. For it would make her come faster, would it not?
‘No, Dill.’
‘Was it… a brown sparrow searching for his dear love?’
‘No, Dill. It were not.’
‘Was it… a chough coughing in the trees?’
I breathed in the sky, where the clouds cosseted the sun.
‘No, Dill. It were not.’
‘Was it… a raven digging for your soul?’
‘No, Dill.’
‘A heron, that grey king of the river?’
‘No.’
‘A falcon, proud lord of the hunt?’
‘No,’ I said, and looked towards that furrow of trees coming closer. I turned to her, to say the words proper. ‘Now, only one more bird you may roost.’
Dill squinted. This game, we had played so many years. We played it in the dark, falling to sleep. We played it sitting in the high trees, watching the leaves turn in the light. It was the game she liked best of all.
‘Was it… an owl, that white lady of the night?’
I nodded. And Dill nodded.
‘Tell me of it, my sister.’
I looked to the listening clouds. And I shivered, for I knew something that she did not. But it was best, she would see that. In time she would.
It had been a few years since I walked this way with Mother. Then, hiding at the foot of the hill, I saw a nestle of trees I remembered, and I knew we were close.
‘If I tell you, Dill, will you walk quicker for me?’
‘Yes, Evey B—’ She caught my eye. ‘Yes, Evey, I do swear it, if you tell me.’
The wind breathed Mother’s words.
Swear you will look to her. Swear it, Evey.
And I had an idea. How I might keep my promise to look to Dill, and to do what I must do without her. I felt the hot quickness of it as it sprang from my tongue.
‘When we get to the coven, you will be good and do what you are told?’
‘Ouch! Little monster!’ Dill pulled Spring from her hair.
I walked faster, and so caught, she ran to catch me.
‘Evey, please! Finish the story!’
‘Swear it first, Dill. “I will be good and do what I am told.”’
Swear it, Evey.
I swallowed. I am keeping my oath, Mother.
‘We, Dill and Spring, do swear to you, Evey, that we will be good and do what we are told! Now, tell it, Evey! Tell it! I did swear!’ she cried, and Spring barked to join her.
I slowed, letting her tug to my side. My idea burned upon my cheeks.
Rising from the wood ahead, a rook took wing, a blade opening.
Dill took my hand. ‘Please tell me about the owl, Evey. Like Mother used to tell it.’
Her smile twitched. She did not know what she swore for, but it was best.
‘I was a little ’un. Much littler than you…’
‘Red of hair and rushing at the world, that’s what Mother said you were.’
‘So I was, Dill.’
‘It was sunset, Evey…’ I felt the eager pull of her hand.
‘It was sunset,’ I said. ‘And the sky was so gold and beautiful in that ploughed field, like it shone upon a great brown sea. And I was running ahead of Mother who laughed to watch me and told me, “Run on, run on, little Evey Red Braid.” And I did, glad to be free, yet knowing Mother was there, and I jumped on through the sun’s lowering light.’
I watched as another rook cut the air.
‘And as I danced to catch my shadow along those furrows, I heard something behind me, and I turned quick, and stopped my breath…’
Dill’s hand grew tighter.
‘It was a great white owl perched upon a broken tree, as if she sat upon a throne. And the setting sun shone through her eyes of amber, that she turned upon me. In her golden court, her beak was so black, her talons were so long, and her wings were…’
‘White as whispered snow,’ whispered Dill, as she put her head to my shoulder.
Another croak. Another rook. They knew we came closer.
‘That great owl opened her beak and it was like she was speaking only to me.’
‘What did she say, Evey?’
‘She called my name, Dill, soft and straight, over, and over, “Evey, Evey, Evey.” And I was so pleased that I bowed to her, and saw that she bowed too, bobbing her beautiful head, her round eyes fixed upon me.’
‘And what did Mother do, Evey?’
‘She kneeled down in the field, and so I did same. I pressed my knees to the mud, and I could not help my delight, as I pointed and cried, “Queen! Queen! Queen!”
‘And as my laugh flowed across the field, that queen lifted into the sun and she flew towards me, all wings and eyes, a rush of white across my head. But I wasn’t afeared, as I felt her feathers brush my cheeks, her talons stroke. I only turned to watch her go and saw that she had plucked a lock of my red hair, for it caught the sunlight like a flame. I watched her as she rose, black against the light, and with last a cry, “Evey,” she swooped beyond the field, and was gone.’
‘And what did Mother see, Evey?’
I felt my head, tracing the scar under my hair.
‘She saw where the owl had touched me. It was not deep. It did not hurt. Though I remember my heart beat fast to see my blood upon her finger.’
‘And what did Mother say?’
‘She said…’
Again I shivered. It was colder, and the woods were waiting. The rooks cawed. But only I could hear them.
‘Mother said it was my naming. For that queen had marked me so and taken my hair as a token. Now I would be one with her kind, could call on them, would know their words.’
‘I wish I had a naming, Evey.’
Spring was asleep in her arms. The rooks chuckled.
‘You will, Dill. You will soon.’
‘Finish the story, Evey. Tell me what Mother said last of all.’
I drew her on, towards those woods, taller, darker, full of laughter.
‘She said, “For you, my little chick, my only crow, my redbreast love, from now and ever always will be, Eveline of the Birds.”’
Dill yawned, happy for the end of the story, like she would sink to her bed. The rooks were laughing. But only I knew why.