Page 41 of Hummingbird and Kraken

The rest were scattered texts from a few people he didn’t know well. A phone bill alert. Two from Mike’s friend Bruce, wondering where he was. Like Declan would tell that dickwad when he hadn’t even written back to Mike. Bruce had always been unnecessarily cruel to him about his makeup and choice of attire. That was an easy delete, too.

He switched over to his banking app. Their joint account had a terrifying five hundred dollars in it. Not approximately that amount, which was a fraction of what had been there, but exactly that amount. Five hundred dollars and zero cents.

Was that supposed to be some sort of consolation prize? Thanks for being my boyfriend for three years and quitting your job so I could take care of you—here’s $500 ‘cause I was cheating on you. Good luck with the rest of your life. No hard feelings, right?

He held back the rising tension in his chest. He knew just how many weeks of ramen and oatmeal packets that was. How many nights at the cheapest possible motel.

But he’d been through worse and made it work out. He just needed to stay positive. Even if he didn’t have a way to save that money until he needed it. The next time he looked, it could be gone.

He reluctantly took his credit card back. “Sorry, maybe some other time.”

“Here,” John pressed the necklace on him. “Take it.”

“Um… I can pay you back, I guess? Like, write it down with my name.”

John smirked. “Askuwheteau was given his name for a reason. It means He Keeps Watch. If he wanted you to have it, it’s yours.”

“He Keeps Watch? Um… thank you, then. I’ll still pay for it, though.” He slipped the leather thong around his neck, feeling awkward. “I… I think I need some time to think.”

Only when he stepped onto the low, flat porch in front of the store, he wasn’t alone. The Guide sat on a wooden bench, his face raised to the sun.

“Good afternoon, Grandfather,” he said politely. His head was in a muddle, thoughts going nowhere.

“Come sit with me,” the Guide beckoned. “I have a story for you.” The phrase had an odd formality.

Declan had a million problems to figure out. But escaping into a story first sounded like just what he needed. If he got wrapped up in someone else’s hurt or anger or stress, the rough edges of his own problems might be smoothed over by the time he returned to them.

He also didn’t want to give up the chance to feel the storyteller work his magic again.

He sat down on the bench. The weather had turned cooler, but the wooden slats were still warm. “Thank you for the story. I’m honored.” He had no idea if it was the right thing to say, but he hoped to match the formal tone. He liked the idea of stories as a gift or honor.

“Long ago,” the Guide began, “Manito lived alone in his lodge beside a frozen stream. His hair was long and white with age and frost. Winter covered the Earth and harsh winds came down the mountain sides and flew wildly through the branches of the trees. Animals died, and even the evil spirits dug deep under the snow to stay warm. When Manito could not keep the fire in his lodge alive, he called in anguish to the Great Spirit.”

Declan had expected to get swept up into the tale, his emotions following the journey of the characters. But instead, he only got to enjoy the elder’s rich voice. He wanted to ask what was different this time, but he didn’t want to miss any of the story.

“A fierce gust of wind blew aside the bear skin over his lodge door, and a beautiful maiden stepped inside. Her hair was as black as a crow’s wing and her cheeks were red like wild roses. On her head was a crown of flowers, and her clothing was woven with sweet herbs and ferns. When she breathed, the lodge became warm, and the cold fell back in fear.

“The old man was awed, but he was also proud. ‘When I, the Manito, breathe on the waters, the rivers stand still, the lakes sleep, and the burbling of the streams is silent.’

“‘Ah, great is the Manito,’ the maiden agreed. ‘Though when I smile, flowers spring up, the leaves unfurl, and the plains are covered in blankets of green.’”

Declan chuckled. He liked the maiden.

“‘I shake my hair,’ bragged the Manito, ‘and the Earth is wrapped in a death-shroud of snow.’

“The maiden only smiled. ‘Strong and powerful is the Manito. But when I breathe into the air, the warm rains fall, and the death shroud melts into the darkness as the great fire awakens.’

“‘The Manito said, ‘When I walk, the leaves die and fall to the ground, the birds fly away from their nests, animals bury themselves under the earth, and the winds sing a death chant as they pass.’

“‘Great and cruel is the Manito, and known throughout the land,’ said the Maiden. ‘But when I sing, the birds build their nests, and the animals seek their mates, and the wind sings songs to the People who take their children and play in the warm sun.’

“And as the maiden spoke, the lodge grew warmer and brighter and birds swooped down and sang, but the Manito paid no heed. Then she passed her hands over his head and rivers poured from the Manito’s mouth, bubbling in their freedom. His garments turned into bright and glistening leaves.

“She stepped out of the lodge, and touched the Earth, hiding arbutus flowers under the leaves. ‘I give you the treasure of my sweetest breath,’ she said, ‘which men shall pluck with bowed head and bended knee.’

“The birds and winds sang together, the flowers greeted her, and the animals leapt through the forest. And wherever she stepped, and nowhere else, grows the trailing arbutus.”

They both rested quietly for a moment, absorbing the story. Declan turned the little pouch over in his hand. On the back, more small star-shaped flowers were worked into the leather.