Anya's clear voice is so incongruous and startling that at first Maryam cannot understand what she says. She had almost forgotten that Anya was in the room in the first place, and so she slowly looks up at the girl who stares back into Maryam's reddened eyes with her own eyes bright, her body tense.
"Are you just going to let her die?" Anya repeats.
Maryam winces at the question. It's not one she wishes to answer, because right now, the realities of life are something she is scarcely happy to embrace herself.
"Oh Anya," she sighs, and draws the girl closer, and still she is tense and firm. "All things must die, you know that. Everyone. And it's not always fair, sometimes it happens too soon, and most of the time when we don't want it, but all we can do is accept it. Like in the tale of the Black Wolf and the Raven, remember? Turning your back to death won't get you far."
"I know that,"Anya says and takes a long shuddery breath. And her voice rises when she continues, "But you fight first! You always said that. You can't just give up! If a beast wounds you badly, you don't just give up and go to sleep!"
And of course, that is exactly what Maryam has taught her. "Oh little cub, but Safiyyah has fought. And it's been such a long and difficult fight..."
"But it's not over!" Anya cries and now her eyes are bright with tears. She's still only a child, Maryam realises. Despite the bewildering way she's able to navigate this strange place, despite her fearlessness, she is just a child. And really, the fearlessness might be a result of that, more than anything.
"Anya..." Maryam starts, but then Anya kneels down, huddling as close to Safiyyah as she can.
Without any hesitation, Anya takes one skeletal hand into hers, and peers into Safiyyah's clouded eyes. "Your fight is not over yet, right?" she asks, voice bright, a hint of a determined smile on her lips. "You're tired and weak and ill, but it's not over. It hurts but that means you're alive. Your heart's still beating. You're free now, like you've wanted to be for so long, and you're still alive, so it's not over. Right?"
The girl's certainty is heartbreaking, her unwavering words, her determined face so full of convinction Maryam doesn't know what to do to make her understand the reality of the situation, even if she had heart to do so.
And Safiyyah's sunken eyes look deep into Anya's bright ones, and Maryam knows that there is nothing for her to do. If there is anything that can Anya make understand the realities of life and death, it is this. Not her mother's words, not cautionary tales, but the thing itself.
And then Safiyyah whispers, "Yes." It's more a breath than a whisper, more the sound of fabric brushing against something but that's what she says. To Maryam, it feels impossible, but that's what she says.
And Anya smiles with tenderness and delight and says, "It's okay, we will take care of you," and pets Safiyyah's long, tangled hair, and gently but firmly squeezes the brittle hand in hers.
For a moment, Maryam looks at her daughter in wonder, struggling to believe any of this, and then a smile breaks free somehow and lights her own tear-stained face. "Anya is right. We will take care of you."
And Safiyyah nods and the corners of her mouth quiver in what must be an attempt at a smile, and Maryam can see the light in her eyes. It may be faint, it may be only a flickering flame, but it's there, she's certain of it.
And so Maryam slowly helps Safiyyah to her feet. Her back is hunched from having stayed huddled up in the corner for so long, and her feet only barely carry her, so unused they are to moving around. But even so, she is moving. Maryam keeps a protective arm around her, but it is no small miracle that Safiyyah is standing on her own. That there is life left in her, still.
Anya runs to get Safiyyah's old blue veil to wrap around her now, and then picks up the battered sheep skull, clutching it to her chest. And so, little by little, they make their way out of the room, with a faded hem of darkness still lingering about Safiyyah.
When Maryam remembers the collapsed corridor, dread doesn't strike her as sharply as before. They've made it this far, so surely they can find a path onward. She'll move every stone with her bare hands if she must, though a more efficient way might be to have Anya climb out through the window and get some help.
"Okay, so first things first. We should figure out how to get out of here." The irony of this doesn't escape Maryam. It's likely Safiyyah has pondered this very problem quite a bit. But she's determined to stay optimistic now. "It's going to be a long way home."
But then Safiyyah shakes her head no. Before Maryam can ask any questions, Safiyyah closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
And then, gathering all her strength, she whispers, "Home."
Suddenly the darkness grows and rushes over them, like a wave.
That is the first thing. The second thing is the cold, an icy breeze flowing by them, a strange sensation after the city heat.
The third thing is the feeling you get when you've returned home after a long journey, relieved and pleasantly weary and eager to fall into bed and dream about everything you've seen.
This is how they come home.
They find themselves standing in the yard of Maryam's hut, Safiyyah leaning against Maryam's side, Anya still holding onto the sheep skull.
And in front of their snowblind eyes, the darkness melts into the white, and is gone.
Most of this is impossible. Things like splitting yourself in two, like surviving for years when you should have died within days, like crossing the journey of days and days in the time it takes to close your eyes and open them again. And yet they are standing here, in this familiar yard, and their hearts are beating and they're breathing and the sting of the cold air on their skin assures that this is no dream.
"We're home!" Anya cries gleefully, and spins around the yard, arms spread like wings.
And so they are. And it's spring. There is still a blanket of snow on the ground, but it's brittle, and all around the dripping snowmelt plays little songs.
In the time it takes for Maryam and Safiyyah to take in their surroundings, Anya has circled the whole yard, greeted the sheep and the horses, and hung the old sheep skull back to its rightful place over the shelter.
"Hey, come here!" she calls, her voice ringing clear, and Maryam and Safiyyah do.
Anya points to the ground where the melting snow is marred only by a single trail of footprints, leading away from the house. They follow it, past the shelter, and towards the woods, and right there, the prints begin to change, at first barely noticeably. But by the time they reach the edge of the woods, the singular shoe print has widened, and is haloed by claw marks. It's the paw print of a bear.
"Was the White Bear the old bear, the one with the summer dreams?" Anya asks, kneeling down and tracing her fingers along the shape of the large paw mark in wonder.
Maryam and Safiyyah glance at each other, surprised. Then, slowly, Maryam smiles, "She may well have been." Summer dreams, of an escapade, of becoming a hero. And once they've served their purpose, and seen you through the night, it was time to face the winter. It sounds about right.
It occurs to Maryam that she's not sure who was the hero, in the end. Was it she herself, setting off on a journey she could not imagine, and making it back in one piece? Was it Safiyyah who in the end was able to stare the darkness in the face and accept it for what it was? Or was it perhaps Anya, after all, as Maryam had always imagined, in all her fearlessness and boundless hope? It seems there is no answer, not really. And that's okay.
"I think Safiyyah could use some rest and nourishment now," Maryam says then. "And so could we all."
With Safiyyah leaning against her side, Maryam tugs Anya close by her braid, and they make their way to the little hut that has been waiting for their return.
There may be no great rewards, no treasures and castles and halves of kingdoms, but even so, everything has changed. They all have.
The first weeks are very difficult for Safiyyah, and there are times when both Maryam and Anya think she will not make it through. The deprived body cannot quite adjust to its new conditions, and so she develops a high fever and spends days wandering between dreamless sleep and vivid hallucinations, muttering about curses and potions and old women. Clover the healer comes by and helps as much as she can, but admits that she doesn't have the last word in Safiyyah’s fate.
But one early morning, before dawn, Safiyyah awakens and recognises her surroundings, the wallcloth, the sleeping shapes of Maryam and Anya, and she knows the worst is past.
She will never have a strong and healthy body, and her voice will always retain its hoarseness from all that time she spent crying in vain, but she lives, and that's something.
Anya is happy to be home, so happy she spends several days running from the sheep to the horses to the house to Safiyyah to Maryam and around the yard, and then starts her cycle all over again.
And then one day she tells Maryam that she will not be a regular horsewoman or a Bear. That she will be a traveller instead and see foreign lands, explore large cities and old ruins and take a ship to the end of the earth. And Maryam kisses her daughter's forehead and gathers her up in her arms and squeezes her tight, and then whispers, "You'll be great at that. And you'll love it all." because this is not a surprise.
And Maryam... Well, Maryam is a simple horsewoman, with a herd and a hearth and a horse. That is the surface of the pond that she is, of course, but it's important, nevertheless. Ever so important.
And so she tends to her herd and hunts and reminds Anya her dagger is not for play and leaves a bundle of food and drink in the woods for any old Bear who might happen by.
One day she is coming back from a hunt, and finds Safiyyah in the yard, walking in the stiff and stilted way her body allows.
Safiyyah smiles, slightly embarrassed. "Trying to get some exercise. One day I'll need to be able to get by on my own, I figure. Move on."
"I suppose that's true," Maryam says as she dismounts her horse and takes the reins off. From the corner of her eye, she can see a tightness around Safiyyah's mouth, and she knows perfectly well what it means. It's the idea of leaving, of setting off into a world with a no safe place to land. It's an idea that would bring a smile to Anya's face, but Safiyyah feels differently. And then the corner of Maryam's mouth curls into a smile although she keeps her voice as nonchalant as she can, "I mean, it does make it easier when it's time to pack everything up and move to a new place. We are a nomadic people, after all."
The way hope fills Safiyyah's face is almost heartbreaking.
"Unless, of course, you have some other plans," Maryam adds with a grin.
It is simple like that, life, and love, too. It is not some sudden revelation, or something they knew all along. It's in the little things, in the journey and in the life here, in a mutual understanding, in the comfort of growing together, in the pain and the healing, in all those days when nothing wondrous happens and no great words are spoken. In the sleepy evenings by the fire, the early mornings when Maryam finds Safiyyah cooking something at the stove and humming to herself in a low voice.
It's how sometimes Maryam will be telling Anya a story and gets carried away, playing the parts instead of just telling them, only to cause Anya to throw her bedclothes away and climb on a table to play the hero to her mother's beast, and Safiyyah will laugh until tears stream from her good eye.
And sometimes a storm howls outside and Anya runs out to scream right back at it, while Maryam and Safiyyah huddle under a sheep skin and entwine their fingers and listen to the wind and Anya's high cry until they melt into one.
Sometimes, when a sheep groans in labour and the lamb just won't come, when there's a beast comes too close to the yard and the horses whinny in fear, or a storm threatens to rip off the roof, Safiyyah will find a solution.
The signs never point to her, however. The lamb will finally fall to the hay and quickly find its feet, the beast will balk, the storm will pass. It is only later when Maryam sits by Safiyyah's feet and looks at her in the firelight that she finds the scar has grown another branch.
"You're not supposed to do that, you know," Maryam will admonish, shaking her head softly, and Safiyyah will look at her innocently and pretend she's done nothing at all.
"It is my gift," she says one night, her eyes lingering on the wallcloth depicting the Black Wolf and the Raven, gaze wandering from one silver shape to the next. "It is mine to use. It must have been given to me for a reason, after all."
And then she gives Maryam a wicked grin, "And it's not like such little marks are noticeable on this rugged face of mine." and Maryam scoffs and shakes her head again and kisses the new silvery lines on Safiyyah's face which really is a lovely face, the growing tree of the scar and all.
This is how it is, afterwards.
And this is how, perhaps, they live until the end of their lives.
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