Read Online The Raven and the Reindeer by T. Kingfisher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. Kingfisher
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went looking for the local inn.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The inn was quiet. The evening rush had not yet descended. There was a great deal of warm, polished wood, and a mellow quiet.
An old woman was sitting next to the fire. She was really truly old, older than Gerta’s grandmother. Her hair lay in thin, straggling wisps.
“Come in,” she said, when Gerta paused on the doorstep. “You’ll let the heat out.”
And when Gerta had come inside, with Mousebones on her shoulder—“Look at you!”
“Everyone else is,” said Gerta dryly.
The old woman cackled, a really good cackle, the sort that you can only get if you are over the age of eighty and know how to drink.
“Sit down,” she said. “You could use a bite to eat, I bet, or your black-winged friend could.”
“It’s true,” said Mousebones.
“Caw!” said the old woman, and cackled again.
Gerta had one very surreal moment when it seemed that Mousebones was speaking a human language and the old woman was speaking like a raven. Then the woman said, “Caw to you, too!” and Gerta realized that she was imitating Mousebones.
“Her accent is atrocious,” said the raven haughtily.
“I’m sure he’d like something,” said Gerta, sitting. “But I can pay…”
The old woman shook her head. “Nothing doing!” she said. “You’ve paid me already. They’ll all come in tonight, you know, to ask me for your story.”
Gerta rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”
“I’m the storyteller,” said the old woman. “Gran Aischa. My daughter runs this place.” She banged her mug on the little table beside her. “Ebba! Ebba, come here, and bring this girl and her bird some sausages!”
A tall, stoop-shouldered woman came from the back, looked at Gerta, looked at Mousebones, rolled her eyes, and went into the back.
A few minutes later, she re-emerged with a plate of sausages. “I hope your bird is housetrained,” she said.
“Nope!” said Mousebones happily.
Gerta winced and moved her chair so that Mousebones had his tail over the hearthstones instead of the wooden floor.
The sausages were small and spicy and delicious. Gerta handed every third one up to Mousebones, who took them from her fingertips as neatly as if he were plucking out someone’s eyeballs.
Gran Aischa watched her while she ate, her bright eyes moving from her face to Mousebones on her shoulder. It would have been uncomfortable, but the old woman kept up a string of chatter about the town—commentary about the snow coming down so early in the year (but not so early as the one winter, when it snowed all through the harvest) and some foolish farmer who hadn’t brought the cows in early and had to go out in the snow with a lantern to find them.
Gerta said nothing, and let the flow of words wash over her, until she was full of sausages and potatoes and cider.
“Good?” asked Gran Aischa. “All the corners filled in?”
“Very good,” said Gerta.
“I forgive her the accent,” said Mousebones, “if her daughter can cook such sausages.”
The storyteller smiled, and her eyes nearly vanished in the swirl of wrinkles.
“Good!” she said. “Very good. Now…about your story…”
“Do you want to know my story?” asked Gerta, somewhat amused. “So you can tell it?”
“Not particularly,” said the old woman. “No one wants true stories. They want stories with truth dusted over them, like sugar on a bun.” She cackled again. “But tell me a little bit of yours anyway.”
Gerta considered.
My friend was stolen away by the Snow Queen and I went after him and then I got caught by a witch and stayed for seven months and don’t remember much of anything and now I can understand ravens —well, that was true, so far as it went, but it wouldn’t actually sound all that sane coming out of her mouth.
Then again, here I am with a raven…
“My friend is missing,” she said finally. “I think he
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The inn was quiet. The evening rush had not yet descended. There was a great deal of warm, polished wood, and a mellow quiet.
An old woman was sitting next to the fire. She was really truly old, older than Gerta’s grandmother. Her hair lay in thin, straggling wisps.
“Come in,” she said, when Gerta paused on the doorstep. “You’ll let the heat out.”
And when Gerta had come inside, with Mousebones on her shoulder—“Look at you!”
“Everyone else is,” said Gerta dryly.
The old woman cackled, a really good cackle, the sort that you can only get if you are over the age of eighty and know how to drink.
“Sit down,” she said. “You could use a bite to eat, I bet, or your black-winged friend could.”
“It’s true,” said Mousebones.
“Caw!” said the old woman, and cackled again.
Gerta had one very surreal moment when it seemed that Mousebones was speaking a human language and the old woman was speaking like a raven. Then the woman said, “Caw to you, too!” and Gerta realized that she was imitating Mousebones.
“Her accent is atrocious,” said the raven haughtily.
“I’m sure he’d like something,” said Gerta, sitting. “But I can pay…”
The old woman shook her head. “Nothing doing!” she said. “You’ve paid me already. They’ll all come in tonight, you know, to ask me for your story.”
Gerta rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”
“I’m the storyteller,” said the old woman. “Gran Aischa. My daughter runs this place.” She banged her mug on the little table beside her. “Ebba! Ebba, come here, and bring this girl and her bird some sausages!”
A tall, stoop-shouldered woman came from the back, looked at Gerta, looked at Mousebones, rolled her eyes, and went into the back.
A few minutes later, she re-emerged with a plate of sausages. “I hope your bird is housetrained,” she said.
“Nope!” said Mousebones happily.
Gerta winced and moved her chair so that Mousebones had his tail over the hearthstones instead of the wooden floor.
The sausages were small and spicy and delicious. Gerta handed every third one up to Mousebones, who took them from her fingertips as neatly as if he were plucking out someone’s eyeballs.
Gran Aischa watched her while she ate, her bright eyes moving from her face to Mousebones on her shoulder. It would have been uncomfortable, but the old woman kept up a string of chatter about the town—commentary about the snow coming down so early in the year (but not so early as the one winter, when it snowed all through the harvest) and some foolish farmer who hadn’t brought the cows in early and had to go out in the snow with a lantern to find them.
Gerta said nothing, and let the flow of words wash over her, until she was full of sausages and potatoes and cider.
“Good?” asked Gran Aischa. “All the corners filled in?”
“Very good,” said Gerta.
“I forgive her the accent,” said Mousebones, “if her daughter can cook such sausages.”
The storyteller smiled, and her eyes nearly vanished in the swirl of wrinkles.
“Good!” she said. “Very good. Now…about your story…”
“Do you want to know my story?” asked Gerta, somewhat amused. “So you can tell it?”
“Not particularly,” said the old woman. “No one wants true stories. They want stories with truth dusted over them, like sugar on a bun.” She cackled again. “But tell me a little bit of yours anyway.”
Gerta considered.
My friend was stolen away by the Snow Queen and I went after him and then I got caught by a witch and stayed for seven months and don’t remember much of anything and now I can understand ravens —well, that was true, so far as it went, but it wouldn’t actually sound all that sane coming out of her mouth.
Then again, here I am with a raven…
“My friend is missing,” she said finally. “I think he
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