Shadows Cast by Stars (12 page)

I want to believe him. “You promise?”

Bran laughs. “Of course I promise. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you know.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Everyone in this family seems to think nothing of breaking promises.” I say the words loud enough for my father to hear.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine,” Paul echoes.

“And who’ll make sure
you’re
safe?” I demand, poking Bran smack-dab in the center of his chest.

“Finally!” Bran flings his head back and whoops so I can’t help but smile. “The girl is worried about me!” He grins as he rubs the spot where I poked him, and heads inside.

And that’s that.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll remain inside with those guns. I meant what I said. My father promised me. Paul promised me. I’ve never asked anything of them except this one thing.

And now that promise is broken.

Later, at dusk, Paul joins me down on the dock. “I’m sorry” is the first thing out of his mouth. “I have to do this,” he says.

A hatch of gnats hovers over the lake. “Why, Paul?” I ask. “Tell me why you have to go.”

He doesn’t answer at first. I can tell he feels he doesn’t owe me an explanation, and yet he’ll offer it anyhow. “Do you remember,” he says finally, in the pained tone of memory, “when Mom was still here, when she would make me wash my face and I’d cry and cry?”

I nod. I do. It wasn’t that Paul was a dirty child. It was that he painted his face with mud, in stripes and circles, a mask of dirt. It was his way to hide, he used to claim, but hide from what?

He never said.

“It’s like that,” he says. “I know you hate guns, Cass, and I do too, but you don’t know what it’s like to be lost all the time, to never know what’s inside of yourself.”

I do, Paul. I know that feeling all too well
.

“If I go,” Paul says, “maybe I’ll learn something. Maybe I’ll figure out a way to leave all the lost ones behind. Maybe I’ll figure out how to read my visions. Maybe I’ll come back someone else. You know, different.”

“I don’t want a different brother,” I whisper, but Paul has already stood up and turned away. I watch him leave, my younger brother by four thin minutes, tall and brooding and haunted, and wonder just who it is he wishes he could be.

I
’m awake and out the door before the sun has even crept over the trees. I can’t wait to get to Madda’s, but more than that, I want to be away from the house, from the weight of Paul’s absence.

I try to think of what Madda’s going to teach me as I walk into town, but no matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep turning to Bran.
What was I thinking? What was he thinking? I kissed him. What does he think of me now?

Robins accompany me part of the way, swooping ahead in search of worms, and a jaybird takes over where they leave off, hopping from tree to tree, cackling at me.

“What do you want?” I say to it. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

The jay tips its head to one side, listening, and then flies off.

Another hatch of gnats rises over the road where it dips close to the lake, so I break off a branch of cedar, using it as a broom to clear a path. I like cedar, its strong, resiny scent, so I keep the branch, swinging it back and forth until I reach Madda’s.

“You’re here early,” she calls from a patch of dill as I step through the gate. “What you got there?”

“Oh.” I toss the cedar branch aside. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing to me. Go get it and bring it back inside. You’ve just chosen your very first lesson.”

That doesn’t sound good
, I think as I go back outside and retrieve the cedar branch, shaking it free of dust. Madda points at the kitchen table where Helen sits, spinning a length of wool. I set the cedar bough in front of Helen, who gives me a worried look before rising and heading outside, taking her spinning with her.

“So, cedar. A very useful tree.” Madda motions for me to sit. “What can you tell me about it?”

“It smells nice,” I say, picking my words carefully. Madda’s setting me up for something. “It grows near water. People use it for houses and canoes.”

“Yes, this is all true. Cedar is a good tree, a helpful tree.” She narrows her eyes. “So, did you ask to take that branch from it? And, did you say thank you once you did?”

“Ask?”

“Yeah.” She picks up the cedar branch and shakes it at me. “Before you picked it, this branch was alive. Now, it’s not. If you’re going to kill something, the least you can do is ask first, and then give thanks afterward. The trees, they have long memories, and they talk to each other, you know. They’ll remember you, and next time you take something without permission, they might not be as willing to just let you go. So your first lesson is to go back to this tree and apologize.”

“Apologize to the tree?” I echo.

“Yep. Trees have spirits too, and going around breaking bits of them off without giving them a bit of common courtesy is rude. You’ve got some dark roads to walk, Cassandra, and you need all the friends you can get. So make amends. A little gratitude goes a long way, and the trees, they remember.” She picks up the cedar branch and runs her hands over it. “Just think of what this branch might have become if you hadn’t taken it—a nest for a bird, for example. Its cones might have fed a squirrel. Maybe, one day, if the tree was tall enough, this branch might have held someone’s body after they passed over. That’s a mighty powerful thing, don’t you think?”

I make myself nod. Madda sets a hand on my shoulder as if to say it’s okay, but her touch just leaves me feeling worse. She gives me a kind smile. “If you want to be my
apprentice, you’ve got to know that you are responsible for all your actions now, and spirit holds you to higher standards than it does other people. That’s the price you pay for what you’re going to learn. Best decide now whether you’re willing to do that or if you’d like to go back to being like everyone else. So?” She sets the branch back down on the table. “What’s your decision?”

“I want to be your apprentice.” I can barely speak the words, I feel so stupid.

“Good.” She taps the branch. “When you go home this afternoon, stop and bury the branch when you find the tree you took it from. And, tomorrow, I want to hear about every single living thing you encounter once you leave here. Not just the obvious ones, like birds and bees, but other things too. Here’s a piece of paper. Take notes.”

I stuff the paper and a pencil into my pocket. This wasn’t how my first day was supposed to go. Tomorrow I’ll have to do better.

For the rest of the morning, I’m assigned the task of weeding Madda’s garden. Helen sits not far off, working on her spinning, watching me work. I’m not sure whether we’re allowed to talk or not, so I don’t. I’m already in trouble. I don’t want to find myself more.

As the day approaches noon, Madda comes outside, bringing a large basket along with her. She sets it next to
me and squats down. “So, weeding. Why do we weed?” She holds up a length of ivy that I’ve just ripped from the rosemary. “Why is it okay to rip this plant out of the ground, but not to take the branch of the cedar tree without asking?”

I sit back, but keep my hands rooted in the dirt. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I know you don’t know. But you’ve got a brain, don’t you?” She shakes her head. “A perfectly good one, I’m assuming. What good is that if you don’t use it? Think, girl.”

My cheeks go hot. Behind Madda, Helen gives me a sympathetic look. “Because,” I say as I grapple for words, “of what the ivy does? It takes over and chokes out the other plants?”

“That’s part of it.” Madda inspects the vine. “This is a tough plant. On one hand, we’ve got to honor that. It’s a survivor. But that doesn’t mean it gets to go wherever it wants. You’re right—ivy kills other plants if it’s allowed to take over. Like me and my blackberries—they taste good, but they aren’t native to this land. They were introduced here by white men, and they need to be managed carefully, or soon all that’s left are blackberries. Spirit work is a little like that too. You got to take care of yourself—tend your own weeds, in a matter of speaking. It’s easy to go too deep, to go too far, when you’re trying to help a person, and all that does is weaken you. A healer has to be strong, and
not just in the ways of spirit. Strong in the body, strong in the mind. So that’s why I’ve got you out here, working in the garden. Dirt,” she says, picking up a handful and rubbing it between our fingers, “isn’t just dirt. It’s us. Healthy soil makes healthy plants. Unhealthy soil? Only the weeds will grow in that.” She straightens up, groaning, and points at the basket. “That’s yours for now on. Take it wherever you go. Gather what you find, whatever you think might be useful, even if you don’t know why. Things come to us for a reason—never look a gift horse in the mouth.” She starts to turn away but changes her mind. “You’re free to go. Come back tomorrow morning, and don’t forget your list. Oh, and I think there’s something Helen wants to ask you.” She winks at Helen, and heads inside the cottage.

Helen smiles at me. “Tomorrow afternoon, some of the women are getting together to make baskets. Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” I say, returning Helen’s smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Helen nods, but in a way that makes me think she was expecting me to say no. “Good,” she says, almost to herself. “Tomorrow.”

“How did it go?” my father asks when I walk in the door.

I drop the basket, now full of rocks and flowers—all of
which I’ve said thanks for—and the list of birds and berries and rocks, on the counter. “Don’t ask.”

My father eyes the basket, but doesn’t say another word.

Later, as we sit by the fire under the stars, I want him to ask. I want to talk, but I’m so afraid.
Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m not the person Madda thinks I am
.

Maybe I can’t help Paul
.

And if I can’t, what then?

I don’t know, but just the thought of that possibility turns my stomach to stone.

The next morning I return with the paper Madda gave me. Both sides are covered with notes. She takes it, inspects it, and hands it back. “Not bad,” she says with an appreciative nod. “Wind, stones, good. What, then, does something need to be considered alive?”

“I guess it depends on a person’s perspective,” I say, adding quickly, “but if you ask me, it just needs to exist. Everything has a piece of spirit in it.”

“Good. Very good.” Madda fills her kettle and sets it over the cook stove. “So, why is that, then? Why does a rock have a piece of spirit?”

I take my time answering. It’s a good question. Why
does
a rock have a piece of spirit? “Because,” I say slowly, “spirit is part of existence?”

“Sort of.” Madda sits down with a huff and examines her hands. “You ever hear people speaking of auras?”

I nod.

“Well, it’s sort of like that. Everyone has a signature, an aura. Scientists, they call it an ‘energy field.’ What I was taught—and I haven’t heard a better explanation yet—is that each of us has a little piece of the old times, when supernaturals were with us, when the animals walked and talked like people. Somewhere along the line, the supernaturals got a little tired of all our bickering and squabbling, so they created the division between our world and what we now call the spirit world, and headed off for a little peace and quiet, but they didn’t cut us off completely.” She stops to clear her throat. “A few, like you, like me, can still travel to the spirit world. Most people, though, just have that little piece of spirit in them. Not everyone, mind you. Some people have given their spirit away, to greed or crime, to addiction, or to just something as simple as forgetting that us and the earth are one. And that’s when you see a person get really sick. If your spirit’s healthy, if you walk in harmony with the world, then you’re healthy too. That’s one of our jobs as healers, to bring that piece of spirit back.” She taps the table. “But as far as we’re concerned, this table here has as much spirit as you and me. Anyone
who says otherwise just hasn’t looked well enough.”

“When I see shades then,” I say slowly, “is that what I’m seeing? That bit of spirit?”

“Shades?” Madda frowns.

“Totems.”

“You can see totems?”

I nod.

“Without going into the spirit world?”

I nod again. I don’t tell her that I can’t see hers. It’s there, hovering just above her shoulder, but it’s out of focus, like a shadow trapped behind mist. Madda gets up and lifts the kettle from the cook top, setting it to one side before taking the teapot down from a shelf. She knows I’m trying to make out her shade, but she doesn’t say a word. Neither of us does.

“So,” she says when she turns back to me.

I hold my breath. Is she going to ask me what her totem is? What will I do then? Will she doubt my ability when I tell her I don’t know?

Madda smiles. It’s as if she can read my thoughts. “So,” she says again, “do you want honey in your tea?”