The Seven Sisters of the Silver Forest: A Short Story Collection by Emily Michel

Author:Emily Michel [Michel, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DragonSmith Publishing, LLC

Oriole

Oriole followed the high-pitched keening through the undergrowth, pushing aside briars and stepping around the white trunks of the birch trees. The thorns left scratches down her bare arms, but at least she’d been smart enough to wear leather breeches today, though it was the depths of summer and the heat was oppressive. She’d been tempted to go with linen breeches today, but opted for the leather, and her special lightly quilted linen jerkin, leaving her arms bare. Now brilliant red stripes from all the thorns covered them.

The noise was louder to her left. She turned quietly and padded through the forest. Approaching slowly, she kept all her senses on high alert. It wouldn’t be the first time some trickster used the sounds of an animal in pain to lure an unsuspecting traveler close. Most would merely steal their food or valuables while they investigated, but a few of the intelligent creatures of the forest would find a human, or a pixie, a tasty snack.

Her job was to keep that from happening. And Oriole took her oath seriously. All of her sisters did, really.

She stopped dead in her tracks when the ferns beneath an old oak rustled, and the keening ceased. She waited patiently. The ferns rustled again, and a low whimper replaced the wail she’d first heard.

Oriole transformed into her small form, shrinking down to a handspan tall, her black wings fluttering wildly behind her. She zipped high into the canopy, looking for anything large that might be luring a snack. She saw nothing…

Wait, there.

Dashing down, Oriole approached the green-furred creature writhing at the roots of the oak. It held a forepaw close to its body, and a large stripe of red on its flank bled freely.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said without thinking.

The creature, weasel-like with a pig snout and tiny tusks sticking up from its lower jaw, snarled at her. Oriole hovered out of reach, putting her hands on her hips.

“Hush, now. I’m here to help, you daft beastie.”

It snarled again, but when she went nowhere, it lowered its head to the ground. Oriole landed far enough away to not scare it further. It tracked her movements but put up no resistance.

She approached its head first, holding out an arm for the ramidreju to get a good whiff of her scent. Calm, cool, unafraid. Another whimper escaped from it.

Oriole rummaged in her pockets—her special jerkin was filled with herbs and bandages and sutures and even a few potions in tiny vials. A wearable first aid kit. She pulled out a bit of dried yarrow and applied it to the wound on the flank to stop the bleeding. The ramidreju hissed but made no other sound or movement.

Then she pulled out a pastille. The apothecary in Avora made them, a special blend of willow bark extract, valerian, a little mint, and a lot of sugar to hide the bitter herbs.

“Here you go,” she murmured soothingly, holding out the medicinal candy.

The creature sniffed but didn’t take it.

“Fine.”

Oriole crept closer. It raised its head again and hissed.

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