Ivory and Bone (19 page)

H
er last few words set off a loud ringing in my ears. The room grows dark a moment and then brightens again, lit by an unnatural golden glow independent of the sunlight that bleeds in from outside. Lo’s face, illuminated by this eerie gleam, appears so calm, so lovely. She cannot have said the words I thought I heard.

The ringing in my ears begins to fade, and as it does, the sound
of kayaks splashing into the sea rises from the beach, mixing with the calls of gulls, circling, shouting out a warning.

“Where are they going?”

“I told you. The tyranny of a false leader, the wedge dividing a clan—they go to remove these things.” Lo’s voice is oddly changed—controlled, detached, rhythmic, like the voice of Shava’s mother—a storyteller’s voice. “When their orders have been carried
out, the so-called Olen clan will
be no more. We will again be one clan, and we will again be strong.” There is no conflict in her eyes, no hesitation in her voice.

“Their orders are to remove a false leader?”

“Their orders are to
end
Chev’s tyranny—to end the tyranny of his entire family.”

“By what means?”

Lo lets out a faint sigh. “I’m sure you already know.”

She smiles at me now, and her
eyes invite me to smile back. She wants my complicity. Worse, I can see she thinks she will get it.

“You can’t do that.”

“Of course I can! Death will be repaid with death—it’s what they deserve!” And there it is—a sudden flash like lightning splitting the night sky—the hatred Shava described. The hatred I would not believe in. A bright white flash of rage—fleeting—but in its light everything
comes into view. With crisp clarity, the true shapes of things are shown.

I don’t waste time with a reply—I push past her. I’m out the door before she can react, running as fast as my legs will move. The path to the shore is steep and uneven and my feet slide on loose rocks. More than once they nearly go out from under me, but I keep running and never slow down.

I only dare lift my eyes from
the ground right in front of my feet a few times, but even so, it doesn’t take long for
me to realize my kayak is gone. The spot where I pulled the boat up onto the shore is empty, marked by a telltale rut in the sand leading back to the water’s edge.

Of course they would take it. Without it, I have no way to pursue them across the bay.

Out on the water, I see the black silhouettes of Lo’s followers
as they head east toward the sun, toward the eastern shore, toward my own clan’s camp.

The overland route that I hiked with Lo yesterday is to my left. It will take me much longer than the water route, but I have no choice. I scan the edge of the trees that conceal the trail up the mountains. My empty hand twitches—I think of my spear, tucked inside my kayak’s hull.

I allow myself one last glance
at the silhouettes receding across the bay before sprinting off toward the trees.

Cloudless, the sky is the clear smooth blue that appears only in summer, somehow closer than the remote gray of winter. The sun throws white light all around, but still, the brightness hinders more than helps. Trees cast splotchy shade on the trail, making it difficult to see roots and other hazards as I run. I
make it only to the first bend in the path before the toe of my boot catches on a jagged rock jutting out of the dirt. I find myself sprawled out on the ground before I know what happened, the palms of both hands scraped and dirty.

I sit up and allow myself just one moment to examine
my hands, to study the blood soaking into the thin layer of dirt, turning it sticky and black. A moment later
I am on my feet, wiping my bloody palms against my pants and running hard again.

I pass the places Lo and I passed yesterday—the fallen tree where Lo sat, the ferns where we stretched out beside each other. My feet move faster and my legs pump harder. The extra effort makes my chest ache, but I welcome the pain.

I try to imagine what will happen when Lo’s people find that you and your family
have gone. Will they pursue you to the south? Or will they return to Lo and tell her the opportunity was missed?

And what will she do then?

The higher I climb, the crisper the air around me grows, like I’m climbing backward in time, back into the spring, before leaves sprouted and insects hatched. Turning a blind corner around a cluster of dense trunks and naked, twisted branches, I startle
as something small races into the low brush—a hare or maybe a fox. My feet lose their rhythm and my left foot stubs against a root.

I catch myself before I fall, but not before my ankle turns. With the next step, pain shoots up into my knee and down into my foot. Now I fall, clutching the ankle as I roll onto my back.

To the count of ten
, I tell myself. Y
ou can lie here to the count
of ten,
but then you have to be up and moving again
. By the count of three, I remind myself to breathe. By six, I unclench my jaw. By nine, I rotate my ankle once in the air. At the count of ten I’m upright, testing my weight on my left foot. Painful, but bearable.

I hobble at first, then shuffle, until finally, nearing the summit, I run. I wince with every step, but still, I run.

As I reach the crest
of the hill—the spot that marks the halfway point in the trail—the sight of the sky confuses me. Dark gray clouds move surprisingly quickly across the bright blue sky. They roll and puff like storm clouds, and at first I think I sense it—the fresh cool wetness on the breeze that precedes a storm. But another scent overwhelms the coolness—a stinging sharp scent that burns my throat.

Smoke.

Half
running, half sliding on loose gravel underfoot, I speed down the trail that now descends sharply before it makes its first switchback since the summit. From here, I get my first view of my camp. The neat circle of huts, each one glowing with red and orange flames. Each one emitting a plume of black into the sky.

The ring of huts has become a ring of fire.

Wind sweeps across the valley floor
and rises up the steep face of the cliff at my feet. It carries with it the heavy, oily scent of burning hides. A strong gust rattles the still-bare branches, speckled with pale green buds, and smoke mixes
into my hair. Another blast hits me hard in the face, my eyes stinging and swelling, blurred by thick tears that streak down the sides of my nose. My lips dry and swell like blisters.

A shadow
passes over my head—a large bird is circling, a buzzard—and I startle out of a trance I’d fallen into. How long have I been standing in this spot, riveted by the horror of the scene at my feet? I can do no good standing here. I drag my eyes away and force myself to keep moving.

The farther I descend into the valley, the thicker the smoke becomes. Cinders fly by in the breeze—pieces of charred
hide and tiny flecks of wood, glowing red-hot as they spin through the air. As I run, a few sear the skin of my face and hands, but I brush them away and keep moving.

I emerge from the trees at the foot of the trail and walk right into a wall of heat. Sweat pools at my neck and runs down my back. The air is so thick I fear it will choke me.

I allow myself to turn my face to the water for three
breaths—just three breaths. No more. As I gulp in cool air, I notice that the beach and bay are empty—there’s not a single sign of Lo’s clanspeople or their boats. I fill my lungs once, twice, three times. Then I turn and run up the path to the camp that from here is visible only as a red glow at the top of the rise.

As I move closer to camp, voices reach my ears—voices vibrating with panic and
fear. The roar of flames drowns out words, but I manage to pick out shouts from my father. He
is calling for everyone to move away and head for the water.

Yet no one is listening. Alongside each hut, dangerously close to the flames that dance across the surface of the hide coverings, people are moving—digging, scooping up dirt and throwing it at the fire, frantically trying to extinguish the
blaze. My uncle Reeth and his family work to save the kitchen. My brothers and mother use broad flat stones from the hearth to fling dirt at our own hut. Even my father, still shouting for people to give up the fight and retreat to the beach, is helping Kara, the widow whose hut stands next to ours.

I have never seen—never even imagined—so much flame. A spark from the hearth sometimes spreads
to a pelt, a wall of the kitchen once caught fire, but never have I seen flames like these. My aunt Ama and her sons run by, carrying full waterskins from the beach, but all the water they can carry has little effect. The trip to the beach is too far. By the time they fetch more, the flames have only grown.

All around me, shouts are punctuated by coughs as people choke on the smoke that swirls
and circles, coating and covering everything, rising high above our heads. I look up, my eyes drawn to a darkening pillar of smoke that stretches to the sky, when I realize with a start that it isn’t a pillar of smoke at all.

It’s a storm cloud. A dark storm cloud rolling in quickly from the north.

The scent of an approaching storm . . . I had noticed it on the peak but then had all but forgotten
it. If only it were closer. But watching the clouds roll in, I know they won’t come in time. At the rate the fire is burning, the camp will be nothing but cinders before the rain reaches it.

A hand grabs my shoulder. I turn to see my brother Roon beside me, his face bright red and his hair soaked with so much sweat it appears he’s been swimming. “Help me,” he says. He tugs on my parka like a
child. “Come with me to the beach.”

His eyes are wide. Is he panicking? I want to help him, but my head spins around as I take in the image of my family and friends, each one desperately working. It might all be in vain, but I know I have to help them. “I can’t,” I say. “You go and rest. I’ll be there soon.”

“No!” Roon’s eyes blink rapidly. He grabs my shoulders with both hands and shouts into
my ear, “I have an idea to put out the fire, but I can’t do it alone.”

I pull back and study his face when cold water drips from his hair onto my hands. Icy rivulets run down his face. His parka is soaked.

What I’d thought was sweat is seawater. He’s been in the sea.

“I have an idea!” he says again, gripping my shoulders even tighter.

I nod, and without another word he turns and runs. It’s
all I can do to keep up as he races to the water.

There, half submerged and half resting on the gravel beach, is a two-man kayak. When I get close enough I see that it is filled with water.

He’s trying to bring all this water—more than a hundred waterskins—to the fire.

“Yes,” I say. “This can work.” I wrap my hands around the front edge of the boat and pull, but I can’t move it. Even when Roon
wades into the water and pushes from the back, there’s too much weight. “We need to dump some out—”

“We need all of it. Let’s drag it—”

“The hull will rip—”

“Fine! Just . . .” He trails off. We’re already tipping the boat, turning it ever so slowly, letting just enough water run out that the back end begins to float up and Roon lifts it above the surface.

“Go!” he shouts, and without a moment
to draw in a breath, we take off, carrying this huge vessel of water as fast as we can without letting it all splash out along the way.

Once we get back to camp, Roon shouts and waves, trying to get everyone’s attention, but no one notices him. Finally, he takes off his already dripping parka, dunks it into the kayak until it is soaked with water, and beats it against the flames racing across
the surface of my family’s hut. The burning hides beneath Roon’s coat hiss and smoke as the fire sputters, sizzles, and finally goes out.

Everyone sees, and everyone follows Roon’s lead. My mother grabs a mammoth pelt that hangs from a post beside the kitchen door—a tool she uses for sweeping out dirt and scraps from the floor—and practically throws herself into the opening in the kayak. Pulling
the dripping hide from the water, she flings it onto the wall of her sister’s hut. When the flames sizzle and smolder, my aunt drops to her knees, tears running down her cheeks. My young cousins—just nine and ten years old—throw down their waterskins and add their own drenched parkas to the mammoth pelt. A few more hurried trips to the kayak and their hut is saved.

All around the camp, voices
go up in cheers. Roon, my incredibly brilliant brother, works harder than anyone. Progress is slow and many hides are lost, but if not for Roon, our camp would have ended in ashes. When the last flame is out, he collapses in the center of the meeting place, his face framed by singed hair, his chest, face, and neck flushed with heat. Blisters form on his hands, still dripping with icy water. He presses
his palms to his cheeks and his teeth chatter.

“You’ll get sick. You need to get warm.” Our mother stays shockingly calm while soot and cinders swirl around her like swarming insects. She bends over him and wraps him in a hide that was pulled from his own bed. It smells of smoke but is otherwise undamaged. Stroking his hair,
she whispers to him, “Roon. My youngest, my most overlooked. I promise
you will never be overlooked again.”

“I’m all right,” says Roon. “Take care of Pek and Kesh. They need you more.”

I raise my eyes to my mother’s face, confused. Why do Pek and Kesh need her more than Roon? It’s clear from the heavy look in her eyes that there’s something I haven’t been told.

“What’s wrong with Pek and Kesh?”

Our mother slides a hand under Roon’s back ever so gently, her fingers
barely touching his skin, but still, he flinches. His teeth clamp together as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Mother, what’s wrong—”

“Shh! Don’t upset your brother.” When she finally gets her arm around his back she manages to lift him to his feet, each small movement accompanied by a gasp. Once he’s upright, I notice a cluster of angry red burns, broken and oozing, at his waist.

The sight sends
a wave of sickness through me, starting in my stomach and emanating outward.

“Pek and Kesh—are they worse—”

My mother looks at me behind Roon’s back, and the message in her hard glare is clear—they are definitely worse. “Urar is with them,” she says, shooting a quick glance in the direction of the sea. “Just now he led them and several others to the beach.”