Shadows Cast by Stars (13 page)

“No, thanks,” I say.

She laughs and turns back to the teapot, but not before I see a shadow pass through her eyes, a shadow that seems to have eyes of its own.

H
elen’s been working at the orchards all morning. She returns just as Madda and I set out a quick lunch of greens and salmon jerky. Madda gobbles her food, and then pushes herself away from the table. She looks tired, and somehow distant, like her mind is far away and troubled. “Off you go,” she says once Helen and I have finished eating. “I’m going to go for a walk in the woods. Cassandra, take the morning off tomorrow. Come by after lunch. I’ll have work for you then.” She attempts a smile, but her lips barely move.

Helen casts her a worried look as she picks up a basket of cedar bark and bulrushes sitting by the door. “You sure, Madda? I can stay, if you want.”

Madda just waves us away before wandering out the back door.

Helen sighs as we head out.

I glance back, but Madda’s nowhere in sight. “Is she like that often?”

Helen purses her lips, as if trying to decide whether to tell me. “Sometimes,” she ends up saying, “though it’s been more often lately. I wish I knew what was troubling her. She used to tell me when I was younger, but not anymore.”

I nod. I understand how that feels.

The sun is hot and heavy on the town’s dirt-packed streets. No one’s about. Helen and I turn from the lane and make our way to the chestnut tree in the park, where a group of women have gathered. Most are closer to Madda’s age than ours, but a few are younger. I look for Avalon among them, but she isn’t there. All the heads are dark, coppery brown or black or sleek like sable. At the far side of the group is Ms. Adelaide. She flashes me a grin.

“Who’s this?” a woman asks Helen when we get close enough.

“This is Cassandra,” Helen says, turning to smile at me.

“Hi.” I wave.

The woman peers at me as if I’ve grown an extra limb. “What’s she doing here?”

“I invited her.” Helen sits down beside Ms. Adelaide and takes out a strip of cedar bark. I sit down too,
because already I can tell that this isn’t going well. Helen hands me a bundle of rushes, and I quickly arrange them into spokes for a basket, hoping these women see I’m capable, that I could be one of them, if only given a chance. It’s easy to think you can stand alone when you’re by yourself, but now, sitting here, feeling their gazes on me, gazes that single me out as a stranger, someone not to be trusted, I realize that maybe that’s not simple after all.

The older women go back to their work, while the younger ones divide the cedar into narrow strips and pound them until they’re pliable. They watch me as Helen passes me the strips and I weave them between the spokes, pulling them snug, pressing them down for a tight weft. It feels good to work with the bark, to know I’m creating something from the tree I wronged yesterday.

“Jada,” Helen says when the last strip she brought is gone. “Would you hand me that dyed cedar? The stuff that’s black? I’m going to teach Cassandra the running raven pattern.”

Jada, the woman who asked who I was, glares at me. “She doesn’t get to learn that. Not yet. Look at that basket. It’s uneven. It’ll probably fall apart the first time someone puts something into it.” She gets up and takes
the basket from my hand to inspect it. “My five-year-old son can make a basket better than this.” She throws the basket on the ground, and then, keeping a wicked grin trained on me, steps on it, snapping the spokes in half. “That’s what we think of people who come to our town and take over. Remember that.” She turns on her heel and leaves.

One by one, the other women get up and follow her. I glance at Helen, who has averted her gaze, and then at Ms. Adelaide, who’s intent on her own basket. Did they not hear what she said?

“Just pretend you didn’t hear,” Helen mumbles under her breath. “Don’t say anything.”

I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m too stunned by what just happened.

“Give them some time,” Ms. Adelaide says. “In the past, new people have come to town and done more damage than good. They haven’t forgotten. Just be yourself. They’ll come around. You’ll see.”

Will I? They’ve settled on the other side of the park, right in the blinding hot sun. I want to get up and go over there—to do what, I’m not sure, but Helen stops me.

“Please,” she says. “Just let it go for now.”

It’s the pleading note in her voice, a note that I don’t think is there just for me but for her, too, that keeps me
where I am. For a moment Helen’s shade appears behind her, a hummingbird with matted, broken feathers feebly trying to hover in place. I blink and it’s gone.

What would do that to a person’s shade? Madda’s explanation of totems is still fresh in my mind. Is that what I’m seeing, a shade that has been damaged at the hands of others?

Helen, what have they done to you?

The next morning I decide to return Grace’s books. Between Madda’s lessons and the work that still needs to be done at the house, I don’t have time to read them. Besides, the one attempt I made told me what I suspected: These aren’t my stories. The only book I’ve kept is the one Bran gave me, the one that had the gray feather tucked inside of it, though today that feather is woven into one of my braids.

The walk into town seems longer than usual, the books growing heavier with each step, and when I set foot on the main street, they tumble out of my hands. “That’s just great,” I mutter as I crouch and pick them up. The last thing I want is to return them dirty and ruined. That will really impress Bran’s mother.

A group of women walks by as I’m trying to brush the worst of the dust from the covers. I look for Avalon, but
she is not among them. Helen is, though, and so is Jada. They carry hoes, shovels, baskets. One pushes a wheelbarrow. They stop to watch me. Not one cracks a smile or offers to help, except Helen. She looks at me, then back at the other girls, hesitating.

“Helen,” Jada says. “Come on.”

Helen gives me an apologetic look as I gather up the books. When I set off again, my cheeks burn with shame. I don’t blame her. I can tell she’s trying to regain her place here, and I can understand that. It’s the other woman, this Jada. I allow myself to glance back, once. A few shades flutter around them—a doe, an otter—but what I really see is anger and jealousy, nothing hinting at the possibility of friendship. Except for Helen. She glances back too, and looks about as lonely as I feel.

I try to pretend it doesn’t matter, and quicken my step.

A few hot minutes later, I turn onto the lane leading to Bran’s house. I wonder what his mother will say when she learns I haven’t read her books, but then, she didn’t ask me if I wanted to read them in the first place, did she? At least I have the excuse that my studies are taking up all my time, though even if they weren’t, Madda’s books are far more interesting than Grace’s. I haven’t read them all yet, but I have glanced through every one: a collection of stories about Madda’s tribe, another on the history of
this land, and, the oldest and my favorite, a slim book on Chinese meditation. There are secrets in that little book, Madda said, wonderful secrets, nothing like the dusty, dry tomes I hold in my arms. Grace’s books died a long, slow death ages ago.

I find her sitting on the beach, smoking. She turns her head just a fraction of an inch as I approach. “Well?” she says as she crosses her arms.

“I’ve brought your books back.”

Blue smoke curls around her head. I scan the air for her shade, but it’s missing. She coughs, and then takes a long, slow drag. “What did you learn?”

“Um,” I stutter, trying to find something to say, all the while sensing that no matter what answer I give her, it’s going to be the wrong thing.

“Um?” She shifts so suddenly her feet leave arcs in the sand. “That’s all you have to say? Um?” She raises an eyebrow and looks ready to laugh in my face.

I clear my throat. “Actually, I’ve been so busy with my studies that I haven’t had time for these.” I set them down next to her. “I thought you might need them back.”

This time she does laugh. “So, you do have a bit of a backbone after all. That’s good.” She grips the cigarette between her lips and pushes herself up off the beach.

“Come inside. I’m thirsty.”

I trail after her. She stops to grind the butt of her cigarette into the dirt and then meanders into the kitchen, clawing her hair away from her eyes. The house’s condition hasn’t improved since my first visit. In fact, it’s even worse. A rotten smell like the odor of unwashed bodies hangs in the air, forcing me to breathe through my mouth so I won’t gag.

Grace uncorks a bottle of murky wine, pours it into two dirty glasses, and hands me one. “Bottoms up,” she says.

I slide the glass onto the counter. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh, really?” She frowns. “I never trust a person who doesn’t drink.” The frown loosens into a catlike smile. “Are you sure you want me to distrust you?” The tone of her voice conveys she’s serious. She leans against the counter, watching, waiting to see what I’ll do, leaning so close that I catch a whiff of her breath. She’s drunk. “Go on,” she says. “It won’t kill you.”

“I know.” My finger traces the stem of the glass. The wine might not kill me, but botulism certainly could. I grapple for an excuse. “It just gives me really bad headaches.”

Grace snorts. “Well, if you drink the whole bottle by yourself, it might. Do you have a problem with alcohol?” She leans on the word
problem
, and I blush.

“No, I don’t.” My voice trembles. “I mean that only a little bit gives me a headache.”

She drains her glass and pours another. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard that line before.”

“No, really …” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. “I should get going.”

“But you’ve only just arrived.” She laughs. “Come along, my pet. Stay with me a little while. It’s so lonely here when Bran’s away.”

I don’t want to go with her, but I do, because of Bran. This is his mother. I may not like her, but I can treat her with respect, if only for her son’s sake.

She leads me into the library and motions to the sofa. “So, now, I notice that the story of Arthur isn’t in the pile you returned. Might I assume it’s to your liking?”

I nod, though the reason I kept it is because Bran gave it to me, nothing more.

“And what did you think of his legend?” She flops down beside me and lights another cigarette.

“It’s good,” I say as I try to figure out a polite way to waft the smoke away from my face. “An interesting story.”

“Story?” She leans toward me. “It’s much more than a story—truth is hidden beneath those words. That is my history you speak of. What stories do you have? Is your family’s history written down in books?” She exhales and bats at the cigarette smoke. “And why not? Because it isn’t worthy. History has taken no notice of your ancestors’ passing.”

You’re wrong. My blood runs back to Louis Riel. My blood almost changed the fate of a nation
, I think, but before I can say a word, someone near the door clears her throat.

Grace jumps, and then snarls, “What do you want?”

Madda’s standing there, frowning. “I think that’s enough,” she says.

Grace takes a quick, desperate drag of her cigarette. “Do you mind? We’re in the middle of a lesson here.”

“Last time I checked, Cassandra was my apprentice, not yours.” Madda locks eyes with Grace. “The only lessons she attends are with me.”

I press myself into the sofa, hoping that it’ll swallow me whole.

“This one knows nothing,” Grace says, dismissively flicking her ashes onto the floor.

“She knows more than you think, but how do you expect her to answer your questions when you’re doing all the talking?” Madda gives me a quick half-smile before returning her attention to Grace.

Grace’s eyes shift to me. They widen a little, as if seeing me for the first time. We sit like that for what seems like several minutes—Grace looking at me, Madda looking at Grace, and me wishing I was anywhere but stuck on the sofa in this library.

Finally Madda clears her throat again. “Grace, I’ve got a matter I need to discuss with you. Band business. Cassandra, would you wait for me outside?”

I force myself to take slow, even steps as I cross the room and slip into the hall, but when the library door doesn’t close all the way, I creep back to listen.

“How do you know she’s not the one?” Madda asks.

“She’s a half-breed. She said it herself.” Grace coughs. “Bran can do better. He
will
do better.”

“She might be a half-breed, but she’s also touched by spirit. I would have thought that would be enough for you.”

“I’m looking for pure blood. That’s what Bran needs to step into his inheritance—a woman whose lineage I can be sure of. Spirit has nothing to do with it. I am rebuilding what should never have been lost. I’d think you’d understand, considering you trade in myth and legend. The old myths are being reborn. You know that as well as I do.”

That’s when the door slams shut. When I press my ear to it, all I can make out is the murmur of their voices. I sigh, and go outside to wonder what it is that Bran is supposed to inherit, and why I’m not good enough to be part of the equation.