The Girl Who Fed a Monster

I had eaten that soup before, when I was too weak to lift my own head.

A storm had nearly killed me.

It wasn't an ordinary storm. Those seldom bothered me. This one had come at the end of an old cycle, when the world tested creatures that had lived longer than it seemed to consider reasonable.

Nine bolts of lightning struck me before I reached the valley.

The tenth tore through what the others had left.

I remembered wet grass against my face. Blood in my mouth. My body refusing to do anything useful.

I made myself small because small creatures lost heat more slowly beneath a coat of fur. Then I crawled under a broken fence and stopped.

The next thing I knew, someone was shouting.

"Dad! I found a rabbit!"

Two hands slid beneath me.

I tried to bite them. My jaws didn't work.

"She's hurt. Can we take her home?"

A man's voice answered from farther away.

"Leave wild things alone, Mara."

"But she's dying."

There was a pause, followed by a long sigh.

Then I was being carried.

The girl held me against her chest. Her heartbeat was quick and strong. One of her sleeves smelled of flour.

Their house had a leaking roof, two rooms, and a hearth that smoked when the wind came down the chimney.

Mara put me in a basket beside the fire.

Her father laid a hand on my back.

"Might not last the night."

"Then she should be warm tonight."

He didn't argue after that.

Mara was small, with dark hair that never stayed tied and a crease between her eyebrows whenever she concentrated.

She concentrated on me a great deal.

First she brought grass.

I ignored it.

Then a carrot.

I ignored that too.

"Rabbits eat vegetables," she informed me.

I lacked the strength to correct her.

At supper, she noticed me watching the pot.

"Do you want this?"

Her father looked over.

"That's beef broth."

"She's looking at it."

He let her bring a spoonful.

The broth was warm. There was pepper in it, ginger bought from a traveling merchant, and star anise used so sparingly that the same little packet lasted months.

Mara blew across the spoon before touching it to my mouth.

I swallowed.

Her face lit up.

"Dad. She's eating."

He came closer, watched, and scratched his beard.

"Odd rabbit."

"A clever rabbit," Mara said.

She fed me until the bowl was empty.

That night, she slept beside my basket because she was afraid the fire might go out.

I listened to her breathing and let the warmth settle into the places lightning had opened.

Healing took longer than I liked.

For weeks, I could do little except lie beside the hearth while Mara told me about the village.

She disliked mending socks. She liked the baker's son because he sneaked her burnt biscuits. She intended to own a horse someday, although her father said they could barely afford their chickens.

"You can ride with me," she told me.

I made a doubtful noise.

"In a basket. Not on the saddle. I'm not silly."

She never spoke to me as though I were stupid.

That was pleasant.

When my legs worked again, I explored the house.

When my appetite returned properly, I explored the chicken shed.

Mara caught me beside a suspicious arrangement of feathers.

For a moment, we looked at each other.

Then she laughed.

"You really do eat meat."

Her father was less delighted.

"That was our best laying hen."

"I'll give you my biscuit money," Mara said.

"It won't buy a hen."

"I'll save more."

I went into the hills that afternoon and brought back three wild birds.

I left them beside the door.

Her father stared at them, then at me.

"Definitely an odd rabbit."

Mara put her arms around my middle.

"You're the best rabbit I've ever found."

I allowed the embrace.

Eventually, the burns healed. My bones stopped aching. I could hear the deep movement of the earth again and smell rain a day before it came.

It was time to leave.

I wasn't good at departures. I waited until Mara was asleep and went out through the kitchen window.

At the fence, I looked back.

Her father had repaired the roof above her bed. A thin line of smoke rose into the cold air.

I intended to visit.

I slept in the hills while the last of my wounds healed.

When I woke, I caught wild birds for Mara's father and carried them toward the valley. I meant to leave them by the kitchen window and let her discover that her odd rabbit had come back.

I had even considered allowing another embrace.

It was a small thing to look forward to. I'd had very few of those before her.

When I returned, the valley smelled of mud.

The river had changed course.

Where the village had stood, water lay in shallow pools filled with broken timber.

I found the baker's oven split in half. The bell from the meeting hall was buried on its side.

The house with the repaired roof had no roof at all.

One wall remained.

I stood beside it until the sun went down.

Then I began searching.

I moved stones. I pulled beams from the mud. I followed scents that ended beneath silt and water.

Nobody answered when I called.

Near the old chicken shed, I found a bent iron latch.

Mara had struggled with it every morning. She used to kick the door, apologize to it, and try again.

I held it between my paws.

There was no ordinary storm scent in the valley.

There was dragonfire.

And beneath it, the sharp trace of a territorial fight.

Two dragons had battled above the river. Their bodies had torn through the clouds and broken the banks. Water had risen over the village before anyone could reach the hills.

I learned the rest from creatures downstream.

They spoke reluctantly. Dragons owned most of the sky in those days, and few wanted trouble with them.

I followed the first one's scent to a cavern full of gold.

He recognized me when I entered.

"Pip," he said pleasantly. "What brings you here?"

I put the iron latch on his floor.

"You flooded a village."

He looked at it without recognition.

Then he shrugged one great shoulder.

"A few humans. They'll all be dead in a century anyway. Why concern yourself?"

I looked at his mouth.

He was still smiling.