Who Repairs What Is Broken

I am not going to write anything about the story here, simply because I don't want to spoil anything. I hope you still want to read it tho c: Would mean the world if you would take a look at it. And please feel free to leave feedback!

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9. Prolouge

Prologue
 
“Dad!”
“Yes, what?”
“My feet hurts.” the little girl leaned theatrically over, pointing at her shoes. “Why do we have to walk for so long to get to those stupid birds?”
“Because the clan does not like the birds that close. If we feed them close to our home, they’ll just come there and beg for food.“ The man reached out a hand. One of the rooks landed on it and napped his finger. He gave it a fruit from his bag. The bird’s feathers shone in the light, blue and green and silver, like a gemstone or a rainbow trapped in a rook.
“Saaaarck!” it cawed.
“Why can’t they say my name?” the girl moped.
Her father laughed. “Maybe it will come one day. Wait and see. You’ll just have to say it enough times.”
“Munin-Munin-Munin-Munin-Munin-Munin see! It still doesn’t say anything.” She crossed her arms and looked at her father with angry eyes.
Her father shooed the bird away, then put his hands under her elbows and lifted her up. “You will probably have to say it a lot more times, my dear,” he told his daughter and placed her on his right arm, pulling a twig from her hair with the left.
The rooks gathered around them. The man sat his daughter on the ground again and began feeding them. The little girl began drawing patterns in the ash with a stick. After a while, she threw it away.
“Da-ad!”
“Yes, my dear?”
“I’m bored!”
Her father poured a handful of crumbs out on the ground before turning to look at her. “Do you want to hear a story?”
Her head jerked up, and a star got lit in each blue eye. She squealed with joy, jumping up and running to him, scaring most of the birds up. It lasted a few moments before they dared to come down from the trees again. “Story!” she eagerly said.
“All right, all right. I’ll tell you a story. The one about the dragon of dust?”
She stood in deep thought for a moment. “No,” she then decided, shaking her head, the wavy, golden hair twisting around her. “A new story!”
“A new one … that was tough,” her father said, drumming with his fingers on his knee. “You’re a big girl now, I have told you most of the stories I know. But maybe I could tell you where you got your name from.”
“Yes! Do that!” She jumped up and down, creating small clouds of dust. The birds jumped to a safe distance from this crazy jumping human, looking offended and cawing to each other.
“Okay,” the man said. “Your name is Munin. If you had been a boy, I would have named you Hugin. That is because of a man I once knew. He gave me the idea for breeding rooks. And I would not have been anything in the clan if I didn’t do that. You see, I showed him how to capture the rooks, and he told me about once where he tried to breed rats. He only had one arm. A bear had eaten the other one.” His daughter gasped, putting her small hands in front of her face. He continued, smiling at the sight of her wide open eyes. “He was having a hard time surviving, so he tried new things. But people didn’t want that. That was why he left.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I think they were afraid. He actually lived here, in our clan, for a few days, but then people got scared of him again and shooed him away.”
“What then?”
He ruffed her hair. “It’s coming now, Munin, take it easy. He told me that he wanted to find a person called Who repairs what is broken when time is for that, a person who was not afraid of doing things in new ways.”
“Did he find him?”
“Who repairs what is broken is a girl. Just like you.” He poked his daughter’s nose. “I don’t know, because I never saw him again.” He let the birds eat the rest of the crumbs. They kept pulling in his sleeves and trousers for more. He made a movement with his hand to get them away. “But lately, I’ve been hearing stories. First, I heard that Who repairs what is broken had rooks that told her when people approach, and that she rode a reindeer and bred rats. But just before you were born, I heard another story. It was about Who repair what is broken, and that there were two of them. That they breed reindeer and craft traps, and go on trips, map out the land, look at stars, and try to make sense of old symbols written in books. They have a large, spotted cat with long, strong legs that hunts for them, and they live in a giant building with lots of rooms. I don’t know if it is true … but I hope that it is, and I hope that it is Hugin that is the other who repairs what is broken.”

The rooks pulled in their sleeves, cawing and demanding more food. “Go away with you!” Sock said and waved his arms. “I don’t have more food. Go to Who repair what is broken and beg for some more. And greet Hugin from me if you see him.” The rooks took off, their offended cawing hanging in the air after they were gone. Munin took her father’s hand.
“I don’t want to walk home,” she whined and pulled in his hand.
“Do you want me to tell about how I met him?”
“Yes!” she jumped, suddenly filled with energy.
“Then you’ll have to walk.”
She considered this for a while before nodding. Sock laughed.
“All right. It’s quite fun. I was sitting in a tree and waiting for a bird to fly past, when I saw this person sitting under a tree. He only had one arm, and I actually think he was biting in a piece of bark or something … ”
The last bird, who had been sitting on a branch, spread its glossy wings, a piece of that night that would not come before autumn returned, and flew off. It glided over the large tents and past a rock, where ashen tentacles reached for the sky, and that everyone else walked in a big arch around, and over the deserts of dust, flapping the strong wings at a steady pace. It passed a large bear with wrinkled, black skin, flew over a group of trees with small, weak leaves, that insisted that just because the ground was made of ash, and the branches they emerged from were crooked and cracked, they would still be green and nutrient-rich, and create small, hard fruits when the leaves fell off. The bird swung in between a gap in an old net that stretched between two trees, and up, up, up, until it saw a large building in the distance. It turned, elegantly pushing through the air, and flew towards it, cawing loudly as it approached the factory. The rooks on the roof cawed back, but the black bird did not turn to join them. It did not belong there, and it knew. So it continued, over the world of ashes, between crooked branches and determined leaves, flying close to the ground, dust whirling up from the wind that its large wings created, the grey particles getting caught in the bristles covering the top of its beak. It raised, swinging through the air, high enough to see a coast, then another, and Greenland’s silhouette stood clear for its eyes, smaller than it had once been, but big enough for man. And with a last, rasping sound, it turned to find its mate, and to return to where it belonged, away from smaller birds with naked beaks.

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