can see the exasperation in
his eyes. He’s so serious that it’s fun to get him going. But I
also like meeting with him one-on-one. The best thing is, he never
asks me where Zia is. He treats us as individuals.
“Lucius,” I said the next morning. “Can a
person die from a bee sting?”
I’d come into his library in the Rookery to
find him crouched on his knees, peering at the titles of books on a
lower shelf. He looked up at my voice, then stood, moving with a
dancer’s grace that always surprises people who’ve made assumptions
based on his enormous bulk. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight
streaming in through the window behind him.
“What sort of a person?” he asked. “Cousin
or human?”
“What’s the difference?”
He shrugged. “Humans can die of pretty much
anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take tobacco. The smoke builds up tar
in their lungs and the next thing you know, they’re dead.”
“Cousins smoke. Just look at Joe, or Whiskey
Jack.”
“It’s not the same for us.”
“Well, what about the Kickaha? They
smoke.”
He nodded. “But so long as they keep to
ceremonial use, it doesn’t kill them. It only hurts them when they
smoke for no reason at all, rather than to respect the sacred
directions.”
“And bee stings?”
“If you’re allergic—and humans can be
allergic to pretty much anything—then, yes. It can kill them. Why
do you ask?”
I shrugged. “I met a boy who died of a bee
sting.”
“A dead boy,” Lucius said slowly, as though
waiting for a punch line.
“I meant to say a ghost.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“He’s not very happy.”
Lucius nodded. “Ghosts rarely are.” He
paused a moment, then added, “You didn’t offer to help him, did
you?”
He didn’t wait for my reply. I suppose he
could already see it in my face.
“Oh, Maida,” he said. “Humans can be hard
enough to satisfy, but ghosts are almost impossible.”
“I thought they just needed closure,” I
said.
“Closure for the living and the dead can be
two very different things. Does he want revenge on the bee? Because
unless it was a cousin, it would be long dead.”
“No, he just wants to be remembered.”
Lucius gave a slow shake of his head. “You
could be bound to this promise forever.”
“I know,” I said.
But it was too late now.
* * *
After leaving the Rookery, I flew up into a
tree—not one of the old oaks on the property, but one farther down
the street where I could get a little privacy as I tried to figure
out what to do next. Like most corbae, I think better on a roost or
in the air. I knew just trying to talk to Donald’s mother wouldn’t
be enough. At some point, I’d have to, but first I thought I’d try
to find out more about what exactly had happened to her
children.
That made me cheer up a little because I
realized it would be like having a case and looking into the
background of it, the way a detective would. I’d be like a private
eye in one of those old movies the Aunts liked to watch late at
night when everybody else was asleep except for Zia and me. And
probably Lucius.
I decided to start with the deaths and work
my way back from them.
There was no point in trying to find the
bee. As Lucius had said, unless it was a cousin, it would be long
dead by now, and it didn’t make sense that it would be a cousin. I
could look into it, I supposed, but first I’d try to find the
driver of the car that had struck Madeline. A bee wouldn’t even be
alive after thirty years, anyway. But a human might.
* * *
Most people know there are two worlds: the
one Raven made and the otherworld, where dreams and spirits live.
But there’s another world that separates the two: the between. Thin
as a veil in some places, wide as the widest sea in others. When
you know the way, it’s easy to slip from one to another, and that’s
what I do when I find myself standing in front of the locked door
of Michael Clark’s house. It’s how
his eyes. He’s so serious that it’s fun to get him going. But I
also like meeting with him one-on-one. The best thing is, he never
asks me where Zia is. He treats us as individuals.
“Lucius,” I said the next morning. “Can a
person die from a bee sting?”
I’d come into his library in the Rookery to
find him crouched on his knees, peering at the titles of books on a
lower shelf. He looked up at my voice, then stood, moving with a
dancer’s grace that always surprises people who’ve made assumptions
based on his enormous bulk. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight
streaming in through the window behind him.
“What sort of a person?” he asked. “Cousin
or human?”
“What’s the difference?”
He shrugged. “Humans can die of pretty much
anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take tobacco. The smoke builds up tar
in their lungs and the next thing you know, they’re dead.”
“Cousins smoke. Just look at Joe, or Whiskey
Jack.”
“It’s not the same for us.”
“Well, what about the Kickaha? They
smoke.”
He nodded. “But so long as they keep to
ceremonial use, it doesn’t kill them. It only hurts them when they
smoke for no reason at all, rather than to respect the sacred
directions.”
“And bee stings?”
“If you’re allergic—and humans can be
allergic to pretty much anything—then, yes. It can kill them. Why
do you ask?”
I shrugged. “I met a boy who died of a bee
sting.”
“A dead boy,” Lucius said slowly, as though
waiting for a punch line.
“I meant to say a ghost.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“He’s not very happy.”
Lucius nodded. “Ghosts rarely are.” He
paused a moment, then added, “You didn’t offer to help him, did
you?”
He didn’t wait for my reply. I suppose he
could already see it in my face.
“Oh, Maida,” he said. “Humans can be hard
enough to satisfy, but ghosts are almost impossible.”
“I thought they just needed closure,” I
said.
“Closure for the living and the dead can be
two very different things. Does he want revenge on the bee? Because
unless it was a cousin, it would be long dead.”
“No, he just wants to be remembered.”
Lucius gave a slow shake of his head. “You
could be bound to this promise forever.”
“I know,” I said.
But it was too late now.
* * *
After leaving the Rookery, I flew up into a
tree—not one of the old oaks on the property, but one farther down
the street where I could get a little privacy as I tried to figure
out what to do next. Like most corbae, I think better on a roost or
in the air. I knew just trying to talk to Donald’s mother wouldn’t
be enough. At some point, I’d have to, but first I thought I’d try
to find out more about what exactly had happened to her
children.
That made me cheer up a little because I
realized it would be like having a case and looking into the
background of it, the way a detective would. I’d be like a private
eye in one of those old movies the Aunts liked to watch late at
night when everybody else was asleep except for Zia and me. And
probably Lucius.
I decided to start with the deaths and work
my way back from them.
There was no point in trying to find the
bee. As Lucius had said, unless it was a cousin, it would be long
dead by now, and it didn’t make sense that it would be a cousin. I
could look into it, I supposed, but first I’d try to find the
driver of the car that had struck Madeline. A bee wouldn’t even be
alive after thirty years, anyway. But a human might.
* * *
Most people know there are two worlds: the
one Raven made and the otherworld, where dreams and spirits live.
But there’s another world that separates the two: the between. Thin
as a veil in some places, wide as the widest sea in others. When
you know the way, it’s easy to slip from one to another, and that’s
what I do when I find myself standing in front of the locked door
of Michael Clark’s house. It’s how
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