Frank. He sat up and scratched his head. “Let’s go out.”
It was raining bullets. We hauled out the plastic sheets the cabin guy had saved and turned them into capes and leggings. They were so ragged that we had to wear three at the same time. When we opened the door the wind tore it away, slamming it back against the wall. That was too much for Thursday. He peered out at the rain and wouldn’t go past the door. Like a pair of giant birds ourselves, with enormous, flapping wings, Frank and I went down to the sandy beach.
Masses of things had come ashore. There were dozens of bottles and chunks of foam, scraps of wood and plastic. There were things that were sad and poignant too: a stroller with three wheels; a plastic doll in a white dress that rolled in the surf like a drowned child. I found a torn blanket I could wear as a poncho, and that pleased me. But we didn’t stay very long on the beach.
“This is crazy,” said Frank. The wind shredded his plastic clothes. The rain made him squint and frown. “Let’s go back.”
We trekked back to the cabin, past trees that swayed like grass. And we found the raven stealing our food.
Standing on the table, pecking at a fish, he looked like a boxer with a punching bag. As he jabbed with his beak, the slab of fish whirled away on the rope. He hopped back and forth. He ducked his head; he lunged and pecked again. Bits of flesh fell from the fish, covering the table in specks of pink and red.
Pucka-pucka-pucka.
Thursday’s black beak punched at the fish. The rickety table squeaked and squealed underneath him, and the fish swung in and out.
For a moment Frank just stood in the doorway, watching. Then he ran into the cabin and snatched up the gaff.
A sound like a gunshot startles me out of my memories. It’s loud and flat, and I look up with the thought that someone has fired a signal.
But the sea is empty. I realize that all I heard was the slap of a seal’s tail, or the burst of a whale’s breath.
In the north, the fogbank looks bigger. The sun glares off the top of it, but underneath it’s thick with shadows. I wonder if the ship that will save us is traveling along inside it, ready to burst at any moment into the sunshine.
Today is the day we’ll be saved. I believe that. Maybe when I reach the end of the novel, when Kaetil finds the man who killed his father, that’s when they’ll arrive. I convince myself it’s true—until I remember that there
is
no ending. Not anymore.
I take the book from the bucket and bend it open. A page falls out, fluttering away like an autumn leaf. It will leave another small hole in the story, something for Frank to argue about.
I find my place near the beginning. The Skraelings have murdered Valgaard on his farm, and now the man with yellow eyes is running across the fields, chasing Valgaard’s wife and child.
Over the meadow she ran, over the stony slope. On her back bounced Kaetil, laughing at the game. But this was no game. The man with yellow eyes chased them to the river, where the woman dropped to her knees, down to her knees she fell, and with her arms shielded little Kaetil.
“Please,” she begged. “Please spare the boy. Oh please.”
But her pleas fell on deaf ears. With one blow the Skraeling split her skull. Kaetil lay beside her, giggling at the sight of his toes sticking up in the air. He tried to touch them and giggled again. The man with yellow eyes washed his sword in the river and left them lying together in the grass.
At dusk, the ravens came.
I don’t understand why Frank loves this book so much. To me, the best parts are the notes that the cabin guy made. They’re scrawled with a red felt pen.
True! Ravens flocked to battlefields.
All through the book are similar comments. In his lonely cabin, the man must have become obsessed with the story. He knew a lot about ravens.
I keep thinking of Thursday.
•••
When Frank barged into the cabin, Thursday lifted his head. In the raven’s eyes
It was raining bullets. We hauled out the plastic sheets the cabin guy had saved and turned them into capes and leggings. They were so ragged that we had to wear three at the same time. When we opened the door the wind tore it away, slamming it back against the wall. That was too much for Thursday. He peered out at the rain and wouldn’t go past the door. Like a pair of giant birds ourselves, with enormous, flapping wings, Frank and I went down to the sandy beach.
Masses of things had come ashore. There were dozens of bottles and chunks of foam, scraps of wood and plastic. There were things that were sad and poignant too: a stroller with three wheels; a plastic doll in a white dress that rolled in the surf like a drowned child. I found a torn blanket I could wear as a poncho, and that pleased me. But we didn’t stay very long on the beach.
“This is crazy,” said Frank. The wind shredded his plastic clothes. The rain made him squint and frown. “Let’s go back.”
We trekked back to the cabin, past trees that swayed like grass. And we found the raven stealing our food.
Standing on the table, pecking at a fish, he looked like a boxer with a punching bag. As he jabbed with his beak, the slab of fish whirled away on the rope. He hopped back and forth. He ducked his head; he lunged and pecked again. Bits of flesh fell from the fish, covering the table in specks of pink and red.
Pucka-pucka-pucka.
Thursday’s black beak punched at the fish. The rickety table squeaked and squealed underneath him, and the fish swung in and out.
For a moment Frank just stood in the doorway, watching. Then he ran into the cabin and snatched up the gaff.
A sound like a gunshot startles me out of my memories. It’s loud and flat, and I look up with the thought that someone has fired a signal.
But the sea is empty. I realize that all I heard was the slap of a seal’s tail, or the burst of a whale’s breath.
In the north, the fogbank looks bigger. The sun glares off the top of it, but underneath it’s thick with shadows. I wonder if the ship that will save us is traveling along inside it, ready to burst at any moment into the sunshine.
Today is the day we’ll be saved. I believe that. Maybe when I reach the end of the novel, when Kaetil finds the man who killed his father, that’s when they’ll arrive. I convince myself it’s true—until I remember that there
is
no ending. Not anymore.
I take the book from the bucket and bend it open. A page falls out, fluttering away like an autumn leaf. It will leave another small hole in the story, something for Frank to argue about.
I find my place near the beginning. The Skraelings have murdered Valgaard on his farm, and now the man with yellow eyes is running across the fields, chasing Valgaard’s wife and child.
Over the meadow she ran, over the stony slope. On her back bounced Kaetil, laughing at the game. But this was no game. The man with yellow eyes chased them to the river, where the woman dropped to her knees, down to her knees she fell, and with her arms shielded little Kaetil.
“Please,” she begged. “Please spare the boy. Oh please.”
But her pleas fell on deaf ears. With one blow the Skraeling split her skull. Kaetil lay beside her, giggling at the sight of his toes sticking up in the air. He tried to touch them and giggled again. The man with yellow eyes washed his sword in the river and left them lying together in the grass.
At dusk, the ravens came.
I don’t understand why Frank loves this book so much. To me, the best parts are the notes that the cabin guy made. They’re scrawled with a red felt pen.
True! Ravens flocked to battlefields.
All through the book are similar comments. In his lonely cabin, the man must have become obsessed with the story. He knew a lot about ravens.
I keep thinking of Thursday.
•••
When Frank barged into the cabin, Thursday lifted his head. In the raven’s eyes
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