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They still call her Whistlecage, but more and more the name is whispered with reverence.

Her fingers are bewitched, they say. She makes up songs nobody has ever heard before, songs she plays over and over until they stick in your ears like thorns. She grows in skill and stature. The girls and boys who used to mock her now gather at her tent-flap, dreamy-eyed, hoping for a smile or a word or a long lingering glance. Her songs become langourous, coy, sinuous as coupled garter snakes. Hands as nimble as hers, she quickly learns, are good for weaving many alliances.

They carry away her tunes in their heads, on their lips, nestled in the branching forks of their hearts. They wrap them around words, little lessons of love or caution.

Some even fashion their own flutes. They play for their families and they play for others who pass through and small skirmishes break out over these new songs and who is allowed to use them. If a man is going to share a map of his heart with the whole wide world, they say, he deserves tribute.

And this is not entirely unfair, for many of these men have families with mouths like baby sparrows waiting fractious in their tents. But not Whistlecage. She takes a wife, and she takes what offerings are given to support that wife and herself and whatever lovers she feels like plucking from the crowd that season, but her joy of joys is watching the shape of her feelings wing across the world, flitting from wrist to wrist.

She is a dandelion.

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She blows into her flute and for the length of a song everyone who hears it is a small girl beneath a tree, the world still young and shaggy-coated with tawny lingering winter around her. Most never recognize that they are being possessed by her memories. They never sense that they are being changed, dug into like roots in the rich dark earth. Who could resist working such magic?

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Why squat over yourself like a dog snarling over a gutpile when you could be so many? The ones who do understand what has happened are dear to her. They find each other like bats chirping in the night: Here I am, where are you? They swap melodies swaddled in old ghosts, re-shaping each other in a cycle as never-ending and natural as salmon fighting upstream. This is her sorrow of sorrows, keener now than it was even then: Not that part of her may yet die, but that the dying will cut short all those meetings, all those pieces of her heart left unfitted, the unheard songs and stories scattering in every direction like starlings shattering an evening sky.

The water inside comes up to her knees, so thick and oily it barely ripples as she wades her way farther in. The girl follows it, still humming bravery into her bones. The song turns to an echo in its great mossy throat, shaking a few restless bats free from their perches. She instinctively flinches away from their fluttering dives, remembering small deadly shapes, her mother with roses blooming at her throat and across her chest.

None of them hold food or anything useful. One has little stone figures arranged in rows.

Another holds the skull of an animal with teeth like long jutting knives. The girl slowly works her way back into the shadows, checking each container with growing disappointment. The light from the crack fades. Overhead, nestled in the distant curves of the dome, more bats stir and squeak. Soon the water will rise, submerging the lower levels of the room almost completely.

Just one more. Before she is a woman in mourning for a lover lost in the hunt, head shaved and arms tattooed and the first fractures appearing at the corners of her eyes, Whistlecage is a sleeping mound of furs next to her wife, a meeting ground where the living and the dead come to parlay. The witch is there with her, as bowed and surf-voiced as she was so many seasons before. Like a moth in amber, time has simply thickened around her. They stand in the bowl of a meadow long ago swallowed by the rising sea, golden waist-high grass rippling in a memory of wind.

Are the songs you hear pleasing? Does your name and your renown fill the empty spaces inside you? I told you that before, remember? The first time we met.

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Move on with what mortal life you have left, little whistler of feelings. Her belt-trinkets move with her, all the oyster shells and polished stones and skulls of sparrow and snake clattering gently in agreement. Some distant part of her notes the sensation and stores it away for future songmaking. Is there no way to collect them all? The smell of wet ashes and fur leaks through the gap. The final pedestal is cracked wide open, one side of the glass broken out completely.

Cautious pawing at the mound of moss reveals that it is a bone. Not a familiar one from a person or a dog. Four holes have been drilled into its length.

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It fits the shape of her hand almost perfectly as she pulls it free, careful again not to slice her wrist on the jagged edges of glass. She angles it this way and that—peering through the holes, testing the heft of the strange object in her hand. The water has quietly crept to just above her knees. She glances up at the first bats taking flight, then back down at the bone. Maybe someone will want it as a curiosity.

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Before she is a martyr, a memory, or a song—before the flames, before knives and tears and smoke blotting the sky in blood-red clouds—Whistlecage is an elder of the community, a wrinkled, toothless relic. She is old, older, oldest. They call her Grandmother Whistle, the cage long since splintered by the crash of endless days against its bars. Time is a great worker of magic. It takes a legend and turns her to a landmark. It strips all the things that made her a person—her lusts and desires, her bad days and good days and joys and fears—and sands her down to a gentle, edgeless doll.

She is treated with cloying respect. No one is left alive who remembers the bird in the cage. Her songs have outlasted her. The village children play them like twittering birds. Youths court their lovers with tunes she warbled especially for her own. It hurts too much for her to play any more; her knuckles are knotted tight with aching roots. She listens to melodies shaped like her bones, smiling when they bring back dear ones long since gone to rest beneath the grass. Her wife, mouth stained purple with berries, laughing herself red-faced at some forgotten joke.

The rapt faces of friends carved into black and orange angles by shadows and firelight. The new musicians take all those parts of her and change them, like a mammoth tusk whittled into a wolf. They wrap their shoulders with her skin and build their own stories beneath the shade of her ribs. And perhaps this would be enough.