The Wood Wife by Terri Windling (the false prince TXT) 📕

apart suddenly, and the snake lifted an inquisitive head. The skinny coyote had come into the yard, trotting briskly from the mesquite wood. He ignored the snake but eyed the fat grey birds, licking his chops.

“Good morning,” Maggie called.

The coyote cocked his head and looked at her through his one good eye. His long pink tongue was visible, hanging comically to one side.

Then he came toward her, approaching slowly, moving in a strange, stiff way. His back was arched aggressively, but he held his head tucked low in submission. His mouth gaped in a snarl, or a smile, exposing long rows of canine teeth. She had read about this in the books she’d borrowed from John. This was how coyotes made friends, or communicated peaceful intentions. But nothing she’d read indicated they would do this with humans, only other coyotes.

Inch by inch the coyote crossed the yard, bowing and bobbing as he came, till he stood just at the edge of the porch by the step where Maggie sat. He turned his head, looking through the good eye. He made a sound deep in his throat. Then he bussed her hand with his long cold nose, gave a bark, and dashed away.

She waited on the porch a while longer, but the one-eyed coyote did not return. The quail came back to finish their meal. A spotted roadrunner appeared in the yard; it stopped for a moment, raising and lowering its long tail, then it turned and raced on.

Maggie took the pile of mail inside. She put the teakettle on the stove. The house was quiet. Thumper was still sleeping when she went into the bedroom to grab some clothes. It wasn’t until Maggie sat down to breakfast along with the latest letter from Tat and a copy of last week’s Village Voice that she heard the bedsprings squeak in the other room, and a flurry of footsteps.

Thumper appeared in the kitchen doorway, one ear standing straight and stiff, the other angled down over one eye. She stood and blinked, her eyes very dark, her hands spread over her belly.

Maggie swallowed, staring at the girl, who was very real, very dirty, and smelled rather strong as she stood barefoot on the kitchen floor.

“Are you hungry?” Maggie asked. “I’ve got cereal here. Muesli. You can have some.”

The girl nodded and came into the kitchen, pelted feet padding softly across the floor. Maggie continued to stare at her. She needed more coffee, no doubt about it.

Maggie dished muesli into a second bowl, poured milk over it, and placed it on the table. She sat down and gestured to another chair. Thumper looked at it. She climbed over the chair and sat hunched on the tabletop. With small, agile fingers, she fished the oats and nuts from the milk and popped them in her mouth. Maggie watched the girl eat, then she went to the sink and ran tap water into a glass. She passed it to Thumper, who took hold of it, her expression intent, almost reverent. She dipped her tongue into it three times, and then she passed it back to Maggie.

“No, that’s for you,” Maggie told the girl, and Thumper’s eyes grew even wider. Of course, Maggie realized, water would be precious to a creature of this land. “But let me put it in a bowl for you instead. I think you’ll find it easier that way.”

The girl emptied the bowl, lapping at the water delicately with her small pink tongue. She looked amazed when Maggie filled the bowl again from the tap at the sink. She said, distressed, in her soft, gravelly voice, “But I mustn’t. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“That’s all right,” Maggie told her.

Thumper shook her head. It wasn’t all right.

“Well then,” said Maggie, sitting down again, “I’ll tell you what you can give me. I’d like you to answer some questions for me.”

The girl looked at her warily.

“Is that the rule,” Maggie asked her, remembering Cooper’s notes about gifts and exchange, “that when you receive something, you must give something back?”

Thumper nodded, looking down at her toes.

“But you’ve taken things from this house before. My stones. My Celtic broach.”

“The Spine Witch took the stones,” she whispered. “And then she gave you Sight.”

“Sight?”

“So you could See the desert.”

“She did? Well now, that’s interesting. Why did the Spine Witch want the stones?”

“For protection.” Thumper lifted her eyes.

“Protection from what?”

The Rabbit Girl frowned. “I don’t remember,” she admitted.

Maggie smiled, trying to put them both at ease. “What about my silver broach then?”

Thumper hung her head. “I wanted it. It was pretty,” she told Maggie.

“And what did you give back for it?”

Thumper swallowed. “Nothing. I forgot.”

“What happens if you forget?” asked Maggie.

The girl looked perplexed. “Nothing happens.”

“Then why is it a rule?”

Thumper shrugged, a very human gesture. “It’s just a rule. That’s all. It’s dammas. It’s … it’s what you do.”

“Dah-maz? What’s that?”

The girl flushed red, two spots of color beneath the downy cheeks. “Beauty. Motion. That-Which-Moves.” She made a spiral movement with her hands. “I can’t tell you. I don’t have the words… Or maybe I forgot them.”

“Then who has the words? Who can answer my question?”

Relief flooded the Rabbit Girl’s face. “A mage. A witch. Or a shape-shifter.”

Maggie said, “And what are you, then?”

“A shifter. But only a very little one. I don’t know very many shapes. I always forget them,” Thumper admitted. She held out her hand, so Maggie could see the spiral pattern marked on her wrist.

Maggie was reminded of Crow’s spiral tattoos. “Is Crow also a shape-shifter? Is he the one I should take my questions to?”

“Uh-huh. To Crow, or else the One-Who-Sleeps—only you mustn’t wake him up. But not the Drowned Girl. She scares me.” Thumper shivered. “Only I forget why.”

“All right,” Maggie said, “I’ll ask Crow then. I won’t ask you anything more; I can see my questions distress you. But thank you for trying to answer anyway.”

Thumper squirmed and ducked her head. “Don’t thank me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just another rule. I