Page 115 of Winter Lost

I took a good look at it, then took a better look at the woman who rose from the lake. It was as like her as her image in a mirror.

Grandmother Spider waved her hand at Garmr, summoning him to her. He set the lyre down and stepped into the water—which lit the submerged bits of his body with gold and red as if his coat were made of fire instead of fur. Maybe it was, just then.

He heaved his front paws to the edge of our pond, extending his nose out toward the spirit. She moved toward him and touched his muzzle.

“Hugo,” she whispered.

“Hugo never was,” Grandmother Spider told her gently. “He was an idea born in the heart of this one. This good dog who serves so that the world is not engulfed in madness. Mercy didn’t kill Hugo—he was created to live briefly and had to die this night so that Garmr could serve as he should. She did him a kindness.”

Had I? It didn’t feel like a kindness.

As if he’d heard my thoughts—and maybe he had—Garmr turned his head toward me. His tail wagged gently, splashing water on my face.

Yes, said Garmr, his voice a deep bass purr. A kindness. Though I think you would have saved him if you could have.

“He was fated to die,” I said.

From the moment he was created, Garmr agreed.

“Because of Mercy,” Grandmother Spider said, “he did not take the world with him when he went.”

He wouldn’t have wanted that, Garmr said.

I wasn’t as sure as Garmr was about Hugo’s wants, but I didn’t think this was the time to argue with him.

“Mercy has served us all,” Grandmother Spider said. “We should help her in return.”

The spirit gave the dog a thoughtful look. But when Garmr nodded, she took the cloth from Grandmother Spider’s fingers and disappeared under the water with it. For a moment I could see a faint glow, and then it was gone.

Garmr waded back out of the pond and shook himself dry—or made the motions, anyway. No water splashed around him, but his drenched fur appeared to absorb the water. In a handful of seconds, he was dry.

“Good boy,” Grandmother Spider said. “Take the harp that will be to your master, would you?”

Yes, he said. Taking the instrument in his mouth once more, he bounded over the wall and into the storm.

“There,” said Grandmother Spider in satisfaction. “That’s one thing done.” Her bright smile lit the night. “And here’s the other.”

She reached into the bottom of the pool and pulled. The cloth that emerged this time was still made of light, but now there were threads of white intermingled with the red. She held out the cloth in both hands and then wrapped it around me.

—

I woke up, wet and naked, sitting in the bed next to Adam’s gun. I didn’t even have time to look for a towel before Adam burst into the room—tearing the door off its hinges.

“I see Grandmother Spider was right,” I told him ruefully. “Locks only ever keep out people who aren’t determined to come in.”

Interlude

Asibikaashi (Grandmother Spider)

Asibikaashi relaxed into the hot steam and closed her eyes. It would be a while now before the mortal children came to perform their ceremony here. Hours.

She was more tired than she’d thought, but the satisfaction of a job well done warmed her more thoroughly than the water. It had been interesting walking in the world again. Possibly she should leave her cabin more often.

She slid lower until the water touched her chin. She could teach some of the young people a thing or two, maybe.

The spirit of the lake had lingered for a while, but she wasn’t one to talk. She’d just needed more reassurance that she’d done right by Hugo.

That had been an odd thing, giving a dog—no matter how intelligent and ancient—a human life. Of course, the poor dear had been terrified of death. Immortal things should not try to be mortal.