am content.” Grim folded his arms behind his head. Stars wheeled overhead. “The night is soft and perfumed with pine, and I rest upon the earth’s downy breast.”
You are drunk and lying in the dirt.
“Spoken like the soulless engine of knowledge that you are.”
I am not—
Grim launched into a song, an old ditty about a fox on a chase on a moonlit night.
Grimford, I would caution you to—
Grim sang louder, lingering over the town-os, down-os, and bones-os at the end of each verse.
He finished the song and started another round.
The Provider gave up and went away.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday morning
Old Man River was singing and wouldn’t hush up. He burbled on about the fish tickling his belly and the sun warming his muscular brown back as he stretched toward the sea.
Old Man River liked to hear himself talk. Sassy didn’t mind. Being a river is a mighty fine thing, and the river had a lot to say.
The trees were singing, too, green songs about root and twig and tender new leaves, damp earth and nourishing rain. Summer was coming and the trees were happy. They flirted with the wind, unfurled searching fingers deep into the soil; hummed to the creatures in their branches.
Perfect egg, perfect egg, a bird in the window chortled, pleased with the treasure in its nest.
Sassy stretched and opened her eyes. The tray ceiling above the bed was café au lait. The color contrasted nicely with the creamy molding and tan walls, but this wasn’t her room. Her befuddled gaze wandered from the bank of arched windows to the muddy robe draped across an upholstered chair.
She groaned, remembering. She was at her brother’s house, in his bed. Clad in one of his tee shirts and some random chick’s underwear.
Yesterday had not been some crazy whacked-out dream.
The bird in the window tapped on the glass. Perfect egg, perfect egg, the bird trilled.
Sassy leaped out of the bed. Holy mother-of-pearl, she spoke bird.
And tree.
And river.
She ran to the window and threw back the curtains. The light outside was thick with the amber blush of dawn. Mist rose in wisps from the dewy grass and hung in garlands from the trees in the surrounding woods. A sculptured island of lawn carved out of a ten-acre plot of woods sloped gently down to the water. The Devil River was lazy here, deep and wide. Sunlight danced on the water near the shore. On the opposite bank, a dark mustache of trees fringed the lip of the river and cast shadow castles on the silvery surface. The rising sun set fire to the hilltops beyond, turning lush green vegetation into mounds of golden treasure.
A rap on the glass drew Sassy’s attention. A little bird with bright black eyes, crested head, and a round beak perched on the sill. A tufted titmouse; Mrs. Olsen from the senior center was an avid birdwatcher, and had shared her knowledge with Sassy.
Peter, peter, peter. The bird whistled and fluttered to a nearby bush. Perfect egg. Sassy see perfect egg?
Unable to refuse the invitation, Sassy opened the French doors and stepped onto the damp grass. The bottoms of her feet burned. Sensations flooded her body: sights, smells, sounds, and tastes. The overload of information whited out her vision and buzzed her brain with static.
Sassy clapped her hands over her ears. “Goodness gracious grandma, what in the world is that noise?”
A bullfrog voice penetrated the cacophony. “Don’t let it fash you. It’s their way of saying good morning.”
Sassy dropped her hands, wincing at the din assaulting her ears. She glanced around for the speaker, but no one was there.
Oh, dandelions. She’d finally lost it, snapped and gone mental
There was a tug on the bottom of Trey’s tee shirt.
“Hey, fairy puss. Down here.”
A funny little man peered up at Sassy from the grass. Two feet tall with ruddy cheeks and a long, sharp nose, the fellow wore a grease-stained yellow tunic belted at the waist, patched hose, and moth-eaten slippers. Black eyes winked from a sly face, and his large pate was adorned by an orange skullcap.
Sassy squeaked and jumped out of reach. “What are you?”
“Calm down, sister. I’m not going to hurt you. Name’s Irilmoskamoseril. I’m a nibilanth.”
“A what?”
“Nib-i-lanth. Nibkin? Nibling? Nibber? You’re jerking my twig, right? Sildhjort sent me.”
“Who?”
“The stag in the forest. Why do I always get the dim ones?”
“I’m not dim. I’ve never met a . . . a . . . whatever you are.” Sassy glared down at the little man. “There’s no need to cop