Who is Davey Minnow?

Chapter Fifteen

In my dream I am a bird.

No, in my dream I am two birds. First a crow, all green-black gloss and intelligent poise. Later I am a magpie, clean-striped and cunning.

As the crow and as the magpie, I flit from tree to tree, checking all the time that my quarry has eyes only for me. I drop leaves, stones and seeds at her feet. I will do my job; I will lure her on.

The one with dark hair knows this game – we have played it before. I, the crow, drop a white stone ahead on the path and she follows my trail. She eyes me with amused suspicion; she is not sure whether we are old friends or enemies. I have no such confusion, for I know that I am neither – I am a messenger. Some call me the bringer of death, a harbinger of sadness. To them, I am only an omen. They don’t know me at all. For I am the wise; I am the view from the treetops; I am the guide that leads you to something new.

They call me one for sorrow, but she is the broken one who looks like her body could shatter. All those lines, like fractures. I, the magpie, must draw her and protect her on this journey. I use my clear voice to call her on. The leaves offer her feet a carpet of gold, finer than any royal furnishing. I, like her, have an eye for jewels and I know how to capture her heart. I am not sorrow, I am love, and if she will just follow me she will find love that never ends.

The mark on my stomach, the mark of the reunited sisters, has darkened overnight, I’m sure of it.

I run my hands across it and think of Moriah – she was the one whose skin grew ink of its own. By rights I should be more like Belia, because by blood and birth I am blank – my mother was blank, and I was born in Featherstone. But I was born marked; my name was written on my skin before any hand touched me. I was a curse, a threat, a warning.

Or I was a saviour. It just depends on whose story is being told. It depends on who is listening.

Mel doesn’t wait for me to sit down before she speaks. I can tell from the speed at which she talks – slow, careful, considered – that she has been wanting to say this for a while, she just couldn’t decide how.

“What do you know about automatic writing?” she asks as I sit.

I stare at her.

“Right.” Mel smiles slightly. “I’ll start with a bit of history, then.” I wriggle to get comfortable and Mel shifts her chair so it’s closer to me. “We talked about how storytellers have had the freedom to choose how the stories are inked on their bodies?” I nod. “Well, these days there is just one storyteller for the town, but once upon a time there used to be a community of storytellers. Like the readers in the hall of remembrance, working together.”