Ivory and Bone (21 page)

I want to welcome the dark. I open my mind to it, to the possibility of letting go of the pain in my shoulders, the shiver in my chest, the numbness in my fingers. I suck in a deep breath of darkness, letting it fill me.

Yes, I will let go. I will slump into darkness’s warm embrace. I will open my eyes one last time, take one
final look at the cold sun, and let go.

My eyelids flip open, and something at the water’s edge catches my attention.

Movement.

Among low cliffs of gray rock something flashes—light slides in front of dark before disappearing into the shadows. An elk, maybe? I know you have herds of elk in your range, and there are few other animals that would graze on such steep footing. I slow my boat and
let my gaze sweep over the ledges. I watch but see nothing. . . .

Nothing.

Gray on gray, shadow on shadow.

The sun stabs one final ray through the thickening gloom, and there it is again. The flash of movement. The glint of light.

My eyes shift involuntarily to the same rocky ledge they’d searched just a moment before.

And there you are.

Y
ou wave your arms. . . . I can see that you are calling to me. I bend toward your words, but before your voice reaches me it breaks into little pieces that scatter on the wind.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you’re saying. I only care that I’ve found you.

Deep within my core, in a part of me that’s been numb with cold since I first set out on this trip, my heart begins to
race. Panic wills my eyes to stay open. I need to do this last thing . . .
this last thing.
But what is this thing I need to do? My paddle rests across my lap. I know I need to use it, but I’m not certain that I can.

Holding the paddle feels strange, as if I’m holding it in a dream. It is both heavy and weightless at the same time. My fingers tense and release, tense and release.

Maybe, I think,
I’ve found you too late.

My eyelids fall shut. Letting go feels so good. I loosen my grip, let my fingers go limp. It feels so good, so good.

Forgive me. . . .
The words echo through my head, hover on my lips, yet I’m not sure who they are meant for.

Just as I let the shaft of the paddle slide from my fingers, a cold drizzle begins to fall. Drops beat against my forehead and trickle down my
nose. Unbidden, focus returns to my mind.

No. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to have to try anymore.

I open my eyes and watch the tiny dents the rain makes in the surface of the sea, each one a stabbing pinprick. They dot the surface on every side of the paddle. I watch it float away, carried by the waves to the edge of my vision. I hate that paddle. My hands ache and my palms burn with the
contempt I feel for it. I tip my head, watching it float to the edge of my reach. I hate that paddle. Soon it will be gone, unable to hurt me anymore.

My hands fall loose at my sides and the water stings my palms like I’ve dropped them into flames. All at once I remember . . .
the flames, the pain they caused.
I remember Pek, straining through the pain, demanding that I come here and warn your
clan.

I remember now. I came to warn you.

I hate that paddle, but it’s the only hope I have of reaching you. I watch it move upon the waves. It rises and falls,
rises and falls, one moment beyond my reach, the next tauntingly close. At the last moment possible, I lunge for it.

My fingers fight to grasp the wood; my shoulders throb with the effort. Seawater splashes up in protest, as if the
water has already claimed the paddle and is willing to struggle to keep it. One last fight I need to win. As I pull the paddle in, the vengeful sea throws saltwater in my eyes, leaving the whole world a blur of gray on gray. Dropping the paddle across my lap, I swipe furiously at my eyes, desperate to bring the world back into focus.

I look up. I see enough to know that a straight line separates
me from you—a short, straight line.

It’s almost over
, I tell myself
.
One way or another, it will all end soon.

The paddle strikes the sea once, twice, three times.
Again, again, again . . .
Each strike sends a shock through my body as if I am striking rock.
Again, again, again . . .

Perhaps I can push forward four more times, perhaps only three. I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost
track anyway. How many times has this paddle struck this unyielding surface?
Again, again, again . . .

Again, again, again . . .

Ten more times . . . eight more times . . . six more times . . . I lose count and start over. Eight? Six?
Again, again . . .
when all at once a wave of pain ripples through my arms and back as this wretched paddle digs into sand.

I look up. The front of the kayak
rests on the beach.

And right in front of me, a girl is wading into the sea, reaching for my hand. A girl with hard eyes and a soft mouth.

I don’t remember getting out of the boat. I don’t remember climbing up the rock. I must have fallen at least once, though, because when I come to myself in this dimly lit cave, my head pounding and my eyes nearly blind, I discover my palms and elbows are
sticky with blood.

“Where . . .” It’s all I can manage to push through my lips.

“Lie still,” you say. Your voice comes from my right and I turn toward it. Between me and the curtain of rain that falls across the mouth of the cave, a shadow moves before a sputtering glow. “I told you to stop trying to talk.”

Have I tried to talk before now?

I close my eyes and concentrate. A large pelt is wrapped
around me—a pelt of long, thick fur. Mammoth. A warm and soft mammoth pelt is draped around me, covering the entire length of my skin.

The length of my skin . . .
My clothes are gone. You’ve taken my clothes.

Could that have been when I tried to talk?

Where are we?
That’s all I want to say. I manage to push the word
where
through my lips once more, but the rest
of the question is bitten off
by uncontrollable chattering. A shudder ripples through my chest and up through my throat, escaping my body as a deep moan.

A warm hand touches my face, triggering another full-body shudder.

“Can you move any closer to the fire? Kol, can you move closer?”

I sweep my eyes around this small space. Is that the fire? A flickering light dances orange and red against a background of gray. It’s lovely,
but I feel no heat from it at all.

My eyes fall closed again, and shimmering light ripples like water on the backs of my eyelids. The ground beneath me moves as if I’m still on the sea.

I lick my lips. They’re cracked and salty. I force my eyes to open but I don’t see you. “You were right,” I say. I wait but you don’t answer, leaving me to wonder if I really said the words out loud. “You have
to go—warn your family. Lo’s coming for you.”

The effort of saying so much exhausts me. I roll onto my side, retracting into the pelt and into myself. The rushing of the rain rings in my ears. I listen hard, trying to hear you.

“Mya?” Beyond the reach of the firelight, I hear something like the soft shuffle of your boots against the rocky floor. Your breath comes in quick, shallow gasps. I remember
you standing in the rain, pulling me from the kayak. Your clothes were drenched, and ice water ran down your
face. “Mya? Are you cold?”

“Listen to me.” These words are just a whisper—your whisper, your words—from the dark somewhere behind me. Your mouth is so close, I feel the vibration of your breath on my ear. “You need to get warm. I’m trying to save you. I need you to understand this, Kol.
What I’m doing . . . I’m doing this to save your life.”

I try to work through your words, to make sense of what you’re saying. But only some words catch in my mind—
warm . . . understand . . . save your life.
As I try to arrange these thoughts into some sense of meaning, the edge of the mammoth pelt lifts from my shoulder and something made of pure heat and life slides in beside me.

It’s you.

Your bare skin stretches along the entire length of my back. Somewhere deep inside me, a flame that was fading catches in fresh kindling.

I want to speak—thoughts light up my mind like flashes of lightning in the night sky. I try to form words. “Mya
. . .
” is all I manage to say.

“It’s necessary,” you say into my ear. “I can’t let you die.”

If I could, I might laugh. I didn’t know how close
I was to death until your warmth pulled me back from the edge. Like a wave, heat washes over me. In my mind’s eye I imagine my frozen blood, thawing and cracking like the ice in our bay in the spring. Each spot where your skin touches
mine is like a stone dropped into that bay, sending ripples of warmth radiating outward. These ripples expand, reaching my ears, my cheeks, the backs of my closed
eyes. After what has felt like hours of constant shivering, my body finally goes still.

Your breath brushes over my neck, and it feels cool.

I no longer see water when I close my eyes. Instead, I see the sun. I feel its embrace.

Sleep pulls hard at me, but I fight it. I have to stay awake. My thoughts are slow and heavy, but I know I have to tell you something of huge importance. Perhaps the
most important thing I’ve ever said. I search for the words.

When I remember this later, I will realize that it didn’t make sense. I will turn these memories over in my mind and I will know that I was weak and my thoughts were jumbled and confused.

But at this moment, this one word feels like the answer to every question:

You
.

I feel better now that I’ve said it. I let sleep pull me from your
arms.

W
hen I wake again you are dressed and sitting at the opening of the cave, staring out through a sheet of rain and sleet. The world outside is beginning to lighten. Could it be first light already? Could you have sat up through the short, summer night, waiting for morning?

“Lo’s clan . . . They’re coming. If they didn’t turn back—”

“You told me,” you say. “I’ve been watching for
them.”

I told you? I remember wanting to tell you, but I don’t remember saying the words.

Your pack lies beside you, and you pull out a small wrapped package about the size of your fist. “You should eat,” you say. “I’ll leave this with you—”

“Leave it?”

You turn to face me, your features glowing in the amber light thrown off by the dying coals of the fire.

“I need to go. To warn them—”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“You need more rest—”

“If you intended to leave me, why didn’t you leave while I was still sleeping, rather than wait for sunrise?” Something inside me wants to believe you waited to be sure I was recovered, but I know better.

“It will be hard enough to travel in this weather in the day,” you say. “At night, it would’ve been impossible. You told me the Bosha were waiting
out the storm, so I waited, too. But I was watching. If I’d seen them, I would’ve left you to warn my clan.”

Of course you would have, but that doesn’t matter now.

“Well, I’m awake. So I’m going with you.”

Instead of traveling back down to my boat, I follow you through a shower of freezing rain, up a narrow footpath that leads to the peak above us. I look down to the surface of the water and
some part of me stirs with the memory of scrambling up the rocks in the dark last night. My bruised hands remind me how slippery and treacherous it was. Yet as difficult as that trail was to climb, the trek farther up strikes me as impossible. Only the smallest cutouts in the rock allow me to place my feet safely as we ascend. “This path is man-made,” I say.

“My brother found that cave when our
clan first settled here. We use it as a lookout, to watch the sea to the north.”

“Watching for what?”

“When we first came here, it was you. Well, your clan. We watched for the kayaks of the Manu, not knowing if you would pursue us.”

I’m struck by the sudden realization of how improbable it is that you and I should find ourselves here, together on this morning. The past should have ensured that
this day would never come. Your mother and your betrothed both died. Your brother killed a man. You and I should have remained enemies for the rest of our lives. Yet here we are, making this climb together.

My foot slips on loose gravel as I take my next step up the steep path and you spin around quickly and grab my arm to stop me from tumbling. Our eyes meet, but you turn your head, dropping
your gaze to the rock underfoot.

Why won’t you look at me? Are you embarrassed about last night? Or did the mention of the history between our clans stir some resentment toward me?

I don’t ask. Today is not a day for talking. With each step, the urgency to reach your family grows. There will be time to talk later. For now, I focus on my footing and ensure you don’t have to help me again.

It
isn’t long before we reach the highest point of the cliff and start to descend. The terrain drops down into a pass between two rocky slopes, both of which are streaked with flows of water, runoff from what has again become torrential rain.

The trail is little more than a ledge of hanging boulders and rocks, suspended from the wall on our left. To the right, a drop-off plunges to a ravine filled
with rushing water. It is a long way down—at least the height of three men, standing on each other’s shoulders.

The slabs we cross are wet and slick with sleet. Once—then a second time—you stumble, but you right yourself before I have the chance to come to your aid. You plod on, without even a glance back at me.

My stomach tightens. If one of us were to get hurt—if one of us were unable to keep
walking—the other would have to leave them here, alone on these cold, wet rocks. We don’t discuss the danger, but our progress slows as we take more care to place our feet.

Gradually, the trail descends to the floor of the ravine, until we are walking alongside the rapids. In places, the trail and the river merge, and we have to scramble over boulders surrounded by rushing water.

Finally, the
trail winds down to the base of the cliff. It levels and broadens, becoming a corridor that cuts through two wide swaths of trees.

Through the gray rain, I spot a valley that opens at the foot of the path. This is a view I recognize. We hurry now that the ground is flatter. The trees end abruptly, yielding to a clearing. Below us stands a circle of huts—your camp.

In your meeting place, the
elders of your clan are gathered
under the roof. They sit in a tight circle, speaking in hushed tones. Are they planning their defense? Morsk is among them, and when he sees me he gets to his feet, but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he gives me a long, critical stare, his eyes full of contempt. He watches me as I follow you to Chev’s door.

I’m not sure if Morsk is reacting to his broken betrothal
to Seeri, or to the threat of an attack on your clan. Maybe, like you, he feels that nothing good has ever come from contact with the Manu.

We find Chev in his hut with Yano and Ela, who stop their chanted prayers when we enter. From the look in Chev’s eyes, I’d say he has been awake all night, waiting for you. Those tired eyes shift to me, and for a rare moment I think I can read your brother’s
expression. His usual stoic facade breaks. He was not expecting me.

“Where did you find him?” he asks you.

“He was out on the water last night, half dead with cold and exhaustion—”

“Last night?”

“At the height of the storm. He came to warn us.”

Your brother turns to me and I can see he’s sizing me up, weighing all he knows of me to decide if he should trust me.

I’d been your clan’s hero
once, when I killed the cat. That was not long ago. But since then, I’d defended Lo when it was revealed that she was plotting to kill him. Could he
wonder if I might be conspiring with her? If I am here to give you false information?

His attention slides from my face to yours. He doesn’t speak, but he is asking you. This will be your decision to make.

No words. Just a nod of your head.

“Well
then,” your brother says, getting to his feet. “Thank you for bringing a warning. I’m saddened to hear that Shava’s story was all true. I had hoped that somehow—”

“I had hoped so, too, but now I know those were false hopes.”

I tell Chev everything I’ve already told you—the number of kayaks I’d seen launch from Lo’s camp, the rough weather on the sea, and the place I’d seen their boats sheltering
from the storm.

A plan is made. Chev decides that Seeri will take Lees away from camp to protect the both of them. He tries to force you to go as well, but you won’t have it. Perhaps he realizes that your skills with a spear are worth having around; perhaps he knows you are too stubborn to ever follow his orders—it doesn’t matter. He lets you stay.

Moments later, all the members of the clan
have been assembled under the roof in the meeting place. With the roar of rain and the clatter of sleet against the canopy over our heads, a small voice inside me silently thanks Morsk for
his handiwork and the brief relief it offers from the storm.

Everyone listens as Chev outlines his plan. Anyone who wishes to help defend the camp is welcome, but no one will be forced. Those who are injured
or otherwise unable to fight are encouraged to stay behind and keep the children out of sight. The rest of us will head to the water and climb the low cliffs that overlook the beach where Lo’s clan is most likely to land. We will take weapons, but Chev warns against using them. “Only defensively,” he says. “These are not strangers. They are our own clan, our own people.”

I flinch at Chev’s words,
remembering Lo’s:
A false leader, a wedge . . . they go to remove these things.
They are coming to remove Chev—to kill him—and to kill you and your family, too.

I hope that Chev is right, and bloodshed can be avoided. But if he is wrong, I am not part of Chev’s clan. He is not my High Elder, and I am not obligated to follow his rules.

The cliffs rise to both the north and south of the beach.
Chev decides to position himself on the cliff to the north, where the view is best, allowing only you and me to accompany him. The rest of your clan who have come to fight—sixteen in all—split into two groups. Half follow Morsk up the cliffs to the south while the others guard the paths that lead up to these two lookout points. If someone tries to get to Chev, they will have to fight just to get
to the trail.

We each have a spear, but once in position, on this windy,
rain-drenched ridge, you and I move wordlessly, collecting a stockpile of large rocks. It’s slow, hard work, but the effort keeps our blood warm. When we’ve collected every rock we can lift, we station ourselves at a break in the low brush that lines the ledge. From here, we can watch for boats approaching the beach far
below, but we cannot be seen.

For now, the sea is empty. The gray expanse of water rolls outward to the horizon.

We wait. The temperature drops and the wind increases, blowing hard from the north, right into our faces. Tiny shards of sleet prick the skin of my cheeks.

Hunched beside me, you speak for the first time in a long while. “We met on an early summer day. Today it is winter again.”
Your voice is soft and low. Your brother, crouched just a few paces away, doesn’t seem to hear you. These words are for me only. “How is it possible that winter has returned?” you ask.

“Winter hasn’t returned. She isn’t really back. She’s just making a last assault, hoping to hang on.”

“And what will happen? Will winter triumph?” You let your eyes leave the sea for just a moment to glance at
my face, maybe to gauge my expression.

“Of course not.” As I answer, my eyes fix on a tiny shadow on the water near the horizon. “By this time tomorrow, she will realize she has been defeated. Summer will return with all its force and winter will be a memory.”

“There!” Chev shouts and points into the distance at the shadow I am watching, now growing and moving in.

They are here.

We remain
quiet and hidden as the first of the boats—I count eleven in all—lands on the beach. As the paddlers step out onto solid ground, Chev emerges from hiding and calls out from our vantage point high above them. “What do you want here?”

A stocky, bowlegged boy spins at the sound of Chev’s voice. He lifts his face to search for the source of the sound and I recognize him. This is the boy who was on
the beach the day I walked Lo home.

This fleeting recognition robs me of my focus, transports me for just an instant from the present to a moment in the past. But an instant is all it takes.

The boy raises his arm and extends it behind him.
This is the boy called Orn. I recognize his stance, his clamped jaw. . . .
These scattered thoughts distract me until a spear flies from an atlatl in his
hand.

Its flight is fast and true, and it pierces Chev’s parka just below his collarbone. Rainwater tinged red with blood streams down his chest.

Chev lets out a small sound—more gasp than moan—and collapses to his knees at my feet.

On the beach below, Lo’s clanspeople scramble for cover as rocks rain down on them from the southern cliff. Like an anthill kicked by the toe of a boot, measured
order is replaced by frantic motion. Screams rise—people may be hurt—but I hardly notice. All my attention is focused on Chev.

Crouching beside him, I place one hand on his chest and one on his back, then gently ease his weight backward until he is sitting on the ground. His eyes flash wide, staring blankly over his suddenly pale cheeks. I bend close to him, squinting at the place where the spearhead
penetrated the hide of his parka, but with the rain still falling, it’s impossible to distinguish how heavily he is bleeding. I don’t dare remove the spear. Instead, I press both hands against the wound.

“We need to get him to the healers,” I say. Dark red liquid leaks between my fingers before diluting to a pale pink stream that collects in a pool in his lap. “I can’t tell how hard he’s bleeding.
. . .”

I look up to ask you for help getting Chev to his feet, but you are not watching me. You don’t appear to be listening to me, either. All your attention is on your spear. You snatch it from the grass at your feet and raise it to your shoulder.

Chev sees you, too. He reaches forward and grabs the hem of your pant leg. “No.” Both of us startle at the strength of Chev’s voice. Despite the
haze that begins to cloud his
eyes, his voice is clear. “He’s of our clan. He’s Dora’s son—”

“He just tried to kill you—”

“He tried, but he failed. That doesn’t make it right for you to kill him.”

Your face hardens.
You will not listen
, I think.
You will not obey your brother.
But then you let the spear slide from your shoulder, roll to the edge of your fingers, drop from your hand. It splashes
in a puddle and thick mud splatters my face.

As I drag the back of my hand across my chin, you drop to your knees and reach around your brother’s waist. An embrace? Before I can process your actions, you spring to your feet. “Fighters from my clan are posted at the foot of this cliff, guarding the trail that leads up here. I’ll send help,” you say, “but I have to get down there. I have to help
protect my people.” Before I can answer, you turn on your heels and fly down the trail to the beach.

“My knife,” Chev breathes. “She took it—the blade I keep in my belt.”

It’s all I can do not to take off after you. These are the people who set fire to my camp, who caused the pain I saw on Pek’s face. One of them has already tried to kill Chev. Any of them might try to kill you.

I grab your
spear from the mud, wiping it clean in the crook of my elbow so that I can get a firm grip. I realize there’s no question—I must follow you. But I can’t leave your brother here to bleed to death. And I don’t know how
long your clanspeople can hold back Lo’s followers and keep them from reaching this cliff.