Maggie ate her last boiled egg, and shared small chunks of cornbread with the crow, giving him the very last piece in her handkerchief. The crow tilted his head, picked up the cornbread, and dropped it back into her hand.
Maggie sighed, stroked his little head, and split the piece in half. She ate one chunk of it, and this time, he pecked away at the other.
“You’re not normal,” she said to him, as he ate. “I get that. But why stick with me?”
The crow did not stop tearing at the cornbread, though inside her head Maggie heard a soft voice whisper,
“I’m imagining this,” she told him, eyes drifting shut. “I’m indulging voices in my head because I’m lonely.”
“And some prey on them,” Maggie mumbled, half-asleep, not quite certain what was coming out of her mouth.
She hardly felt the crow touch her cheek, and was barely awake enough to appreciate the surprising softness of his beak as it rested near her lips.
Maggie heard voices in her dreams, a swift endless chatter from the shadows. Soothing voices, familiar, and she drifted upon words and sighs, eavesdropping in her sleep though she could not understand a thing that was said. She woke slowly, and the warm thrush of voices continued unabated, chirring and sweet. A faint breeze stirred against her face. She opened her eyes, just a little, and found the redbud blooms rising off wizened branches to flit like fireflies, but with flowers instead of light. Maggie watched them, thinking she must still be dreaming, and smiled at the wee symphony of movement.
Perhaps that was too much awareness. Flying flowers faltered. Maggie’s vision became blurred, and she rubbed her eyes. When she could see again, the dance had ended, and the world had resumed its natural order: still, quiet, and ordinary.
She lay unmoving for quite some time, staring at those branches and the redbud blooms—taking note, too, of the blue sky overhead and the glint of sunlight through the trees. She did not think she had slept long, perhaps only to mid-morning. Maggie rubbed her face. Her nose felt cold. She untangled herself from her blanket, stretching out the crick in her neck. Two nights now, sleeping under the sky in the cold spring air. Not ideal. She jumped in place, rubbing her arms, trying to get her blood moving. She searched the trees for the crow.
She did not see him.
Dismay set in, and then concern. Maggie struggled not to feel either; or worse, not to feel fear. The crow was just that—a bird—and if he chose to fly about, doing what came naturally, that was his business. It did not mean he had abandoned her. At least, she hoped not.
Maggie stumbled around the redbud trees, searching for a good spot to use as a latrine, and heard water splashing.
She froze, head tilted, and then heard the sound again, faintly. She followed, pretending she was a ghost, silent as she picked her way over dead leaves, ducking under redbud branches. Petals floated down upon her shoulders and head.
She found a creek nearby, flowing around the base of a small hill. Oaks and maples twisted their roots through the water, which rushed quietly over large glistening rocks. Downstream, where the current quieted, there crouched a naked man. He was ankle deep, bent low as he furtively spilled handfuls of water over his lean, muscled back. His dark hair, cut short and ragged, hung wet and rough around his face, which she could see little of except for the profile of a strong jaw. His skin was golden brown, his hands large and elegant, moving with particular grace.
Maggie stared, rooted to one spot. Suffering from a compulsion, not unlike the one she had experienced with Irdu, to draw near, to see more, to be close for no reason, other than that it seemed right. Only, this was her own particular desire, and not something forced into her mind, as she suspected Irdu and his men had done, to her and others. She remembered how docile those women had been, as they were carried away on the motorcycles. No woman in Olo was that meek, Amish or otherwise.
Maggie took a step, and the man flinched, looking over his shoulder at her. She glimpsed a raging, burning gaze, wild and dark, and she felt a physical jolt, like a good shake. The man burst from the water, snatching up a dark robe from the dead leaves on the shore.
He ran. Maggie stared, voice choking in her throat. She wanted to tell him to wait, but it was no good. He was too fast. The robe he clutched to his chest trailed around him, fluttering. It was made of black feathers, she realized—long, shining, and sleek.
She thought about that for a moment, breathless, and then turned slowly and walked back to her bicycle, staring at nothing in particular as she stumbled through the redbuds, replaying that scene over and over in her mind. She searched those eyes. Considering the possibilities.
By the time she started pedaling down the old road, the crow was high overhead, little more than a speck of shadow.
Maggie reached Dubois Enclave late that afternoon. The border was marked with a single government-posted sign, jammed into the side of the road. It still looked new: bright green, with neat white letters. Olo’s sign was only five years old, and every now and then one of the Amish families sent their children out to weed around the wood post, and in the summer, to tend the petunias planted at its base. Dubois did not seem to care as much. Dead leaves and tall grass were its only decoration; but then, it was hardly spring.
She followed the road as it curved and twisted upward, into the hills. Her thighs burned, as did her lungs. The shark teeth were cold against her flushed skin.
The crow swept low over her head, into the trees, their branches bursting with new buds of green leaves. The air was cool and smelled like rain, and the sunlight flowing through the clouds was silver. No vultures in the sky. It had been years since Maggie had traveled outside Olo, but she had never been this far north to Dubois. She passed dirt tracks that faded into the forest, and somewhere in the distance she heard dogs barking. Maggie saw no signs of people, though she felt watched—and startled a small herd of deer grazing at the side of the road.
The barricade took her by surprise. She came upon it while pedaling up the curving road. A ravine was on her left, and a steep hill of jutting limestone on her right. She had to brake fast, front wheels wobbling, and she slammed her boots into the pavement to keep from tipping.
Fallen trees blocked the road, a very deliberate wall of logs and branches, so freshly cut she could smell the sap and sweetness of new wood. Two men and one woman sat on the logs, holding axes, old hunting bows, and rifles that Maggie thought were probably not loaded (though she was unwilling to bet her life on that). All three were dressed in old pants and thick jackets, glimpses of synthetic cloth still visible between hand-stitched patches of fur, leather, and government-issued cotton.
No one spoke as she drew near, no warnings, not one greeting—nothing but cold scrutiny and silence. Approaching them, Maggie felt a bit like a robber herself: dangerous, an outlaw. She watched their hands tighten around the weapons, and the shadows deepening in their eyes.
“I’m looking for someone,” Maggie called out, dismounting slowly from her bicycle. “Trace, the Junk Woman. I know she comes through here sometimes. I’m worried she might have been hurt. By men on the road.”
“Men on the road,” echoed the woman, who was as brown and wrinkled as stiff leather, though her fingers were supple enough to hold the ax handle. “Motorcycle men, though God only knows how those machines still run. Yes. We’ve had dealings with them.”
“And Trace,” added another fellow, who had a different look about him, with his coarse black hair and eyes—Asian, maybe, or Native Indian. “She was here little over a week ago, stayed for a bit, and left. She was fine then.”
“Up to Martins. Said there was a detour she had to make, but that she would take some letters for us.”
Martins was another three days’ journey from here—never mind any detours. Maggie had a bad feeling that Trace had not arrived at her destination. She tapped her thigh, thinking about the message written on the handle of her sledgehammer, the necklace hanging heavy beneath her shirt, and felt those people scrutinizing her with an intensity that made her uneasy. Best not to linger, she thought. Strangers were unwelcome now.
“I don’t suppose I could trade for food?” asked Maggie. “I won’t bother you for more than that.”
The woman gave her a skeptical look. “Trade? You’ve got nothing I can see, except maybe your tools and the rig you’re riding.”
Maggie took off her backpack and crouched. Carefully, a little afraid they would be bent or broken, she removed the small puppets and whirly-gig fans that she had intended to trade in Olo. Much to her relief, all the small toys were intact, and she dangled the puppets and made them dance; and blew on the whirly-gig until its fans spun and whistled like ghosts. The men and woman were not easy to make smile, but they did finally, nudging each other with grim amusement.
The Asian fellow relaxed his hold on the compound bow, leaning it against his leg. “Just food, you want?”
“That’s all I need. And I can only afford to part with one of these.” In case there were other Enclaves she needed to trade with, Maggie thought.
The woman tore her gaze from the puppet to Maggie. “I know you now. You’re the Fixer from Olo.”
She might as well have called Maggie a bad name. The men gave their companion a startled look, and then turned their sharp focus on Maggie. The little progress she had made in relaxing them disappeared. Distrust settled again in their eyes, and anger.
“Is there a problem with that?” Maggie asked slowly.
“One of the robber men mentioned you,” said the woman, eyes narrowed, but with thoughtfulness, and not the same suspicion as the men. “You, specifically. He made a point of telling us that you might pass through here. He said … you were good at fixing things.”
“Like motorcycles,” added the other man; a freckled, tousled redhead who had been silent until now, and who had not stopped staring at Maggie since her arrival. “Is that what you did for them? Did you
“No,” Maggie replied sharply, giving him a hard look. “But one of them … knocked me out. Took what he needed.”
“But not you,” said the woman. “He didn’t take
“He took enough.” Maggie stared dead into the woman’s eyes, daring her to interpret that as she wished. “Am I going to have trouble here?”
“No,” began the Asian man, but he stopped as the woman’s frown deepened, and she chewed the inside of her hollow cheek.
“I knew your grandfather,” she said finally. “I came to Olo once so he could fix my plow. I remember you. Little spit of a thing, not more than five or six. You told me my future that day.”
“I doubt that,” Maggie replied, though a chill rolled over her arms. She bent to pack up her toys, and the woman crouched, touching her wrist.
“You said,” she whispered, “that I would have no children of my own, but that I would take in new blood. You said to watch for the green man, because he would try to hurt my family.”
Maggie went very still, memories rushing—memories that she had not known she possessed. She recalled a hot dusty day sitting in the shade of the barn, playing with a little wooden horse her granddaddy had carved for her. A long shadow had joined her, a woman in jeans and boots, with a long knife strapped to her waist. The woman had asked her a question about the toy, and her voice had melted into the shadows, sparking images; dreams, waking in Maggie’s head.
She remembered that, and more, and it made her breathless, and ill. “Hello, Ellen.”
The older woman rocked gently on her heels, rubbing her jaw. “Not long after I met you, some kids came in on the last of the refugee buses. I was forced to take them, even though I had no interest. But we got along. I loved them. And then a man came to town, one of those traveling types—a teacher, he said—and oh, what a fine green coat he had! But I remembered what you said. I kept an eye on him. And when I found him one morning with my little Eddie …”
The woman stopped, and looked down at the puppets. “You saved the boy. Other children, too.” She fingered one of the toys, tweaking a small metal arm. “I’ll trade you for this one.”
