First Moon Rising

How To Cut A Curse

You do not cut a curse with a knife. You cut it with a story.

Nora told me that while Colten did not breathe for three minutes on the healer cot, black veins up to his throat, black blood crusting his nose, my half black hand pressed to his chest where his heart beat once, twice, then not.

The healer hut smelled like wet snow and old wolfsbane, even though we had burned the second shipment. Outside, the north ridge was grey in dawn light. My sign still stood. GREY ZONE NO PATROL WITHOUT YORKFANG ESCORT. Under it, three small stones that the seven year old pup had placed yesterday for Jonah, Micah, and Eli.

He cut his chest last winter with a hunting knife, Nora said, hands covered in my white ghost root paste, pressing it into his black veins, paste sizzling, black hissing. Her voice was low, not log voice, not healer voice, sister voice. He thought if he cut out the black, the curse would leave. Like cutting rot out of root. It did not. It bled more, spread faster, black shot from his chest to his throat in one night. He almost died. My sister his mother had to burn the wound closed with silver from her own bracelet. Melted silver. That is why the scars. Three lines, chest to ribs. He thinks cutting saves people. It does not. Stories do. Sarafina told him cutting saves. Sarafina lied.

I held my half black hand over his heart, silver lines fighting black. My hand was cold now, not burning. Cold like death. The black had stopped at third knuckle after he pressed his forehead to mine in the mud yesterday, but it still pulsed, like it wanted to go further.

What story, I whispered. My voice was raw from twenty four hours of not sleeping, from counting damp leaves for black spots, from touching wolfsbane bare handed because I thought pups would die if I missed one.

The story of how he got cursed, Nora said, not looking up, paste bubbling on his chest. He never told anyone, not even me fully. Ten years ago, winter twenty fourteen, Obsidian sent medicine for pup rot lung, but it was mixed with wolfsbane by mistake, they said mistake, we say tax trick. His father died that week. Same medicine. Same wolfsbane. His three nephews my sister pups died. Jonah was four. Micah was three. Eli was two. Buried on north ridge, no marker, because Obsidian said ridge was white, unclaimed, patrol allowed, so we could not mark graves, could not say names, could not protect. If we marked, Obsidian would count our dead and tax more. So we buried in secret, no stones, no names, white snow.

I stared at Colten bare feet, muddy, scarred, black veins thick on calves, thin on thighs now because of my paste yesterday, but thick at heart again because he pulled my poison into him.

Colten was eighteen, Nora went on, pressing paste harder, black hissing louder. He tried to carry medicine to pups himself, barefoot in snow, because he thought shoes were slow. Fell. Cut his legs on wolfsbane roots hidden under snow. Roots that Obsidian patrol planted to mark white border, they said border marker, we said poison fence. Roots went into blood, cut to blood. Curse started that night. Black veins from legs to heart in one week. He watched his nephews die while he could not walk because veins blocked his legs. He watched his father die while he could not stand because black hit his throat. He thinks bare feet keep him free. So he never wears shoes in mud now. He thinks if his feet feel ground, curse will not trap him again. Stupid boy logic.

I looked down at my own bare feet, muddy, silver lines faint on ankles, grey pants muddy, cream dress stained black twice, once by Rose throwing it, once by Colten black blood, now hanging on fence post to dry.

So how do we cut story, I whispered. How do we cut curse with story.

Tell him his ridge is not unclaimed, Nora said. You already did, with grey sign. But he did not hear it from you, he heard it from sign. Signs can be taken down. Obsidian can paint white over grey. But if you tell him from your mouth, while touching his chest with your half black hand, that his nephews are not unclaimed, that their graves are grey, protected, no patrol without escort, by order of Clause nine, Section two, which you wrote at one thirteen a m while your boss told you to keep quiet for your own good, then his heart will believe. Heart needs mouth, not sign.

Will that make black recede, I asked.

No, Nora said, honest, emerald honesty. Paste makes black recede. Story makes heart beat. His heart stopped because he thought he lost another ridge. Another graveyard. Another set of pups, because he gave you his blood to stop your black and his black went to heart. He thought you died. He thought ridge was white again. Tell him you are not dead, ridge is not lost, you are still grey. And mark him, so he knows.

Mark him how, I looked at my hand, half black, half silver.

Nora looked at my half black hand. First Moon pups are marked at birth, you know that. Old law, older than Clause nine. With scent. So curses can not find them. Alpha puts nose on pup chest, breathes, marks. Protects. Like invisible fence. Only Alpha who loves pup can do it. Colten did it for his nephews before they died, but he was too late, they already had rot lung, already had white medicine with wolfsbane. Mark did not save because medicine killed faster than mark could protect. He has not marked anyone since. He thinks his scent is poison now. That his nose brings curse. But his scent is what pulled your black back in the mud yesterday. His black pulled your black. Poison pulled poison. Try it. Tell story and mark.

I leaned down, forehead to his again, like he did to me in mud, skin to skin, black to silver, cold to warm. The healer cot creaked. Outside, pups peeped through hole in fence.

Colten, I whispered, my half black hand on his chest where heart should beat, silver lines dim, black lines pulsing. North ridge is grey. Not white. I hammered sign. I logged it. Clause nine, Section two, by order of Izel Stone. No patrol without Yorkfang escort. Your nephews, three mounds, winter twenty fourteen, Jonah, Micah, Eli, they are grey zone. Protected. No one patrols there without you. Not Obsidian. Not tax. Not white. Not Sarafina. Grey. Do you hear. Grey. Like my work pants. Like the mud on your feet.

One beat. Nothing. The paste sizzled.

Second beat. Faint. Like pup bell far.

Third beat, stronger, black veins at throat receding a millimeter, from throat to collarbone.

His eyes fluttered, amber returning, black rings thinner, not gone, but thinner.

Grey, he croaked, voice like rust, like he had not used it in three minutes.

Grey, I said, tears now, black and silver mixing on my cheeks, dripping onto his chest, onto paste, sizzling. Like my work pants. Like your mother eyes. Not white. Not unclaimed. Grey. Protected. And like my future son name, if I ever have one.

He blinked, slow, amber focusing on me, on my half black hand, on my silver lines, on my grey pants.

Son, he whispered.

If I have a son one day, I said, voice shaking, but clear, because story needs clear, I will name him Kiran. It means sun ray. Because he will be born after ten years of black. After your ten years black. After my eleven years sealed. After Jonah, Micah, Eli in snow. Sun ray after black. And you will mark him at birth with your scent, so no curse can ever find him. No Sarafina, no white ribbon, no wolfsbane, no Great Evil in abandoned house past Forbidden Lands. You will put your nose on his chest and keep sharp nose on him forever. You will know where he is even if someone steals him. You will track him to abandoned house if you have to. Promise. Sharp nose.

He stared at me, amber returning more, black receding to shoulders.

Kiran, he whispered, like testing name, sun ray. Sun ray. I will mark him. Sharp nose. At birth. Chest. No one takes him. Ever. Same promise I could not keep for Jonah, Micah, Eli. I marked them too late. I will mark Kiran on first breath. I will keep sharp nose on him even when he is grown. Even if Sarafina comes. Even if she makes pact with Great Evil in abandoned house to get power. I will find him.

Same grey, I finished for him, crying now openly.

Same grey, he whispered back, and tried to smile, black blood on teeth, but smile real.

Nora, watching, muttering, wiping paste, said, You two are both idiots. Perfect for each other. i***t grey. Perfect for making Kiran, sun ray, who will be stolen by Sarafina in Chapter one ninety five because you just foreshadowed it so hard I could log it as prophecy.

We both laughed, weak, twenty four hour soak, half healed.

We soaked, hand in hand, in the healer hut, all day, all night, border pups peeking, whispering, Alpha veins are less black when he holds her black hand. Her black is less black when he holds. And they keep saying Kiran, sun ray, what is Kiran. Is that pup.

At hour twelve, black in my hand receded to second knuckle.

At hour eighteen, to first knuckle.

At hour twenty four, to fingertips, faint, greyish, not black.

At hour twenty four, his black veins receded to shoulders, not throat, because story, because grey, because Kiran promise.

We both lived. Grey.

At dawn, border bell rang again. Not van. Person. On foot. Muddy loafers.

Louis. Again. But not alone.

With him, holding his arm, in Obsidian healer white, hair down, crying, my mother Janet, carrying basket of white ghost root that smelled clean this time, no sweet, no wolfsbane, just snow.

She saw me through window, hand in Colten, both half healed, both grey, and she screamed, not words, just scream, like seal breaking, like sister drowning in river ten years ago.

And far beyond north ridge, beyond Forbidden Lands, beyond where grey turns to black forest, the abandoned house with no weeds stood empty, waiting, because Sarafina had not yet been banished there, had not yet made pact, had not yet stolen Kiran. But it would. In Chapter one ninety five.

For now, dawn, muddy loafers, mother screaming.