Then she saw it and stopped dead.
Someone was there, standing at the side of the path.
Kestrel bent down and pretended to tie her shoelaces, but she was watching the person in the trees. She was lucky she’d seen them; they were half steeped in shadow, and as still as a rock.
Now she could smell something. Mold and mildew. Decay. Vinegar.
Her heart started beating so fast she thought it would fail.
It wasn’t a person.
It was a grabber.
Her grabber.
Run after it! she screamed at herself, but she couldn’t move an inch. She couldn’t shove her fear away. It was too big for her to ignore.
She wanted to know what it was.
No, she didn’t.
She did.
Something bright and sharp fell in front of Kestrel’s face and bounced on the ground, breaking the spell.
It was her spoon.
Kestrel snatched it so fast she almost lopped her own fingers off. Before she knew what she was doing, she strode forward, fizzing with a horrible mixture of bravado and terror.
“Show your face!” she screamed, as though she were holding a saber-toothed sword.
The grabber drew in a deep breath and inclined its face toward her, just for a second. It was too dark for Kestrel to make out its features, but she saw a blob of drool fall from its lips as though it had just been offered a plate of food. Then it turned and plunged into the forest. It didn’t seem scared. If anything, it seemed to be enjoying itself.
Kestrel ran after it and glimpsed her slingshot, which seemed to be propping up its head. The grabber turned between two trees. As the light caught the side of its body, she saw that it had covered itself in a tapestry of stitched-together rags, all different colors, like a bright coat. Pieces of silver caught the sunlight and gleamed. It was almost dressed like—
Don’t think about it!
Kestrel stumbled into the trees, but it disappeared in an instant, leaving behind nothing but its necrotic smell. She kicked her way through the undergrowth, lashing out with her spoon, but there was nothing more dangerous than a toadstool.
Kestrel shouted in frustration and struggled back to the path. A small part of her knew that she could have gone farther, or run faster, but she stamped on the thought furiously.
“I would’ve gotten you,” she said loudly, but she knew the grabber was gone. Her stomach was churning, and her palms were sweating. Her legs collapsed and she sat down, her fingers still curled around her spoon.
Her spoon. Weapons didn’t just fall from the sky. She looked at the trees sharply.
And there was Pippit.
He was stuck to a tree, covered in the weird fruit juice of the Marrow Orchard, his fur matted and sticky, one of his eyes gummed closed.
Kestrel moved without thinking. She climbed the tree faster than she ever had before, and pried him free with both hands. Pippit was disgusting and he smelled, but he was here, he was really here, and he was hers.
She regretted every stupid thing she’d ever done to him and all the times she’d ever been careless.
Like the time she dropped him in a pot of soup.
Or the time she ran away from an angry swarm of bees and managed to leave him behind.
Or when she sat on him and didn’t notice.
But he’d come back for her. He’d followed her all this way, and he’d rescued her spoon for her. She felt a rush of love so fierce she almost fell over.
“You stupid weasel!” Kestrel said, nearly sobbing with relief as they slid back to the ground. “You could’ve been eaten!”
Pippit glared at her with his one unstuck eye and that look told her everything she needed to know.
“I didn’t mean to shout earlier,” she wept, hugging him until he was as wet as a used handkerchief. “It wasn’t your fault about your tail. You were trying to help.”
“Gone! Tail! Gone!” Pippit wailed, straining to see his own behind.
“I’ll get you another one,” she said, not caring that it might be impossible. “I’ll fix it.”
She sniffled and wiped him on her sweater, trying to get the stickiness off.
“Gruh,” said Pippit. “Got a gruh.”
“It’s nearly ready,” she said, hiccupping. “Not yet, or it would have attacked me. But it’s getting bigger. It’s going to eat me soon.”
She closed her eyes and saw her grabber take a deep breath, just like her dad’s had before it ate him. She saw its tongue flick from its mouth as it licked its lips. It was almost as if her fear made it hungrier.
Kestrel started to wonder whose form it would take, and cut herself off immediately.
What keeps you awake at night and gives you nightmares? Granmos had asked. What makes your guts shrivel?
Kestrel shook her head. It didn’t matter. She was going to outrun it. She would never see the grabber’s face, because she would escape the forest before it caught up with her.
Say it! her grandma screamed.
“Got gruh!” Pippit said, shattering her thoughts. He jumped up and fought an imaginary grabber, weaving between its legs and biting the air. He fought so hard he threw himself over.
Despite herself, Kestrel snorted with laughter. Pippit, looking pleased with himself, jumped onto her foot.
“Go,” he said. “Feed the nasty. Get ridda the dog. No more gruh!”
He was right. She was going to get rid of the dog. Then she was going to run and run, and never stop, until she came to the end of the woods.
16
POISONOUS PORRIDGE
The black dog was on the rampage. It tore through the houses, scattering everyone’s belongings, leaving spoons and clothes and trinkets outside in its wake. Ike was on his hands and knees, scrabbling around after the things he hadn’t already burned.
The dog was making a huge show of looking for Kestrel, overturning beds and tables. Every now and then it hurtled toward a villager and barked so sharply they all jumped in unison.
The dog knew Kestrel wasn’t there. Neither it nor her mother were that stupid. But Kestrel knew as soon as the villagers saw her, they’d riot against her.
Kestrel crashed to a halt at the edge of the village, dread pooling in her stomach. She knew she had to show herself, and that every minute she wasted hiding in the trees, her grabber was a few steps closer. But somehow, her legs were frozen.
Pippit trembled and nudged her with his nose. “Brave,” he said.
Kestrel touched the bloodberries in her pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped out from the trees.
Mardy Banbury looked up and screamed as though she’d just seen a wolf.
Kestrel realized that she must look monstrous. She was dressed in black rags, covered in cuts and bruises, and stained with a mixture of fruit juice and blood. Her hair was sticking out like she’d been hit by lightning. She was still missing part of an eyebrow. And she was so full of tension and pent-up fear that the side of her mouth was twitching.
Walt was the first to speak. “There’s your girl,” he rumbled to the black dog, his voice as dark as oil. “Now leave us.”
The dog huffed through its nose. Mardy let out another small scream, but the black dog, instead of biting Walt’s hand off, grinned.
Kestrel started walking, trying to force her legs not to shake, crossing by the well and wolf fire. It was a very long walk. Hannah was leaning against the wall of a tumbledown house, her arms folded. Only Kestrel could hear her as she passed.