Shadows Cast by Stars (21 page)

“Oh.” Avalon closes the cupboard door and tries to pretend that she’s not interested.

I can’t help but smile as I turn away. For once I have
the upper hand. “Madda might be a while. Do you want to come back later?”

“No,” she says. “I’ll wait here.”

“Fine. Just don’t touch anything.” Helen’s left a half-finished basket sitting beside the fireplace, so I pick it up and start weaving where she left off. Madda did say I could go home, but that was before Avalon arrived, and I’m pretty sure leaving Avalon here by herself isn’t a good idea.

“So,” Avalon says, nodding at the basket, “where’s Helen?”

“Don’t know,” I say as I join a new piece of cedar to the one Helen’s already worked. “At the orchard, I guess.”

“Really.” Avalon snickers. “You know about her, right?”

My breath sticks in my throat. “Know what?” I say as I force myself to keep weaving, even though every muscle in my body has gone rigid.

“Let’s just say”—Avalon gets up and peers out the window, smiling to herself—“that Helen isn’t as innocent as you think she is. Ask Cedar about it sometime. I’m sure he’d love to tell you.” She opens the door. “You know, we should hang out more. You, me, Bran, and Paul. Just the four of us.”

I stop weaving and stare at her. Right. Just the four of us. “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll talk to Paul about it.”

“Paul. He’s a pretty sensitive guy, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. Just what is she getting at?

“I worry about him. He feels things too deeply. Takes things too personally. People like that, well, it’s not hard to hurt them.”

“Paul’s stronger than you think,” I say carefully. “You’d be surprised just how strong.”

Avalon looks at me for a long moment. Neither of us has said what we mean, but I think we understand each other perfectly. “Well,” she says with a lazy smile, “looks like Madda’s going to be longer than I expected. I’m glad I got to spend a little time with you. It’s hard to get you alone, you know.” She hops off her perch and heads out, but not before stopping to pick a daisy. I watch her as she twirls it between her fingers, and then, pulls the petals from it, one by one, tossing them over her shoulder as she strolls down the path.
He loves me, he loves me not
. An innocent game, if played by anyone else, but Avalon is no innocent. If I didn’t know that before, I certainly do now.

M
adda’s attempt at discretion hasn’t worked. Some-one’s been talking—two someones, with the names of Avalon and Cedar, no doubt—and the whole town’s buzzing about the missing markers. Judging from the way people look at me as I walk down the street, I know there’s been more talk than that.

“That damned Cedar,” Madda mutters to herself. “Never could keep his mouth shut. Just hold your head high,” Madda says, loudly enough for the people nearby to here. “Not your fault people are stupid enough not to know a lie when they hear one.”

We’ve been summoned to a meeting with the Elders. Madda tried to get me out of it, but they insisted, and I can tell she’s not happy about it.

I follow her past the watchmen totem poles and the forbidding stare of the thunderbird. My palms are sweating.

Madda stops and sets a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let them see your fear,” she whispers. “Just be you. Tell the truth and everything will be fine.”

I nod as we set off again. Dust motes catch in the light drifting through the smoke hole, casting the great room in a pleasantly hazy glow. Nothing remains of the gathering, none of the madness that gripped Madda, not even the ashes from the fire, but I can feel the songs in the air, the words that bring the old stories alive, turning myth into reality. The supernaturals press at me, wanting to take root in my body, wanting me to dance them back into this world, but I don’t let them. This isn’t the time or the place, and little by little, they back away, waiting their turn to be called forth.

Madda opens a door and we step into the meeting room, where the Elders wait for us. All men. That’s the first thing I notice, and though Madda prepared me for this, seeing them here, staring me down, sets my heart fluttering. Henry Crawford sits at the end of a narrow table, leaning back in his chair. The others I don’t know. Henry nods at me, and then looks down the line of men.

I glance around for a place to sit, but there is none.
Madda stands at my side, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable too. This isn’t a casual chat. It’s the first time these men will test my resolve, and we all know this meeting will establish the dynamic between us from here on in. Right now, it’s not so important. I’m an apprentice and will be for some time. But later, when Madda passes on? I pray that’ll happen years from now. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever really be ready to face these men alone.

“So, you gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna tell us what happened?” This comes from a man with fat jowls and gray hair. He leans forward and glowers like a great, fat toad.

Madda nudges me. I take a step forward and glance back at her. The truth is, I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to say because I’m not sure what they’re asking about. Do they want to know about the sisiutl, or the incident at the burial ground?

“Something wrong with her, Madda?” another man says.

“Nope. You’re just going to have to be a bit more specific. Speak plain, you old fools.” She says this in an offhand, friendly manner, but there’s a hint of warning about it, as if she’s reminding them that we’re here for their benefit, not the other way around.

Henry Crawford speaks up next. “So, do you wanna tell us what you were doing on the burial ground, then?”

My gaze flickers to Madda. They already know I was with Cedar and they already know his version of the story. So why do they want my take? What could I possibly tell them that they don’t already think they know? The words I choose are important, that much I can tell. “I didn’t know it was a burial ground,” I decide to say. Keep it vague.

The men exchange looks. I can’t tell if what I’ve said is the wrong thing or not, but I do sense that I’m on trial and they’re my jury, and all the reasons I have for hating the Band come flooding back to me. What right do they have to judge me? Who says they’re any wiser than I am? Who’s elected them? Not me. I never asked for any of this.

Madda must sense I’m about to explode because she rests a hand on my shoulder again. “Tell them the rest, Cassandra.”

I draw a deep breath. “I was on my way to see Madda. Cedar offered me a ride on his bike, and I said no—a couple of times—and I got scared because he wouldn’t leave me alone. So I ran.”

Henry Crawford nods, but he’s the only one who seems to believe me. The rest have skeptical looks on their faces.

“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?” the jowled man says. “That’s a pretty strong accusation.”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” I say, drawing
myself up tall so I don’t feel so scared. “I’m telling you what happened, just like you asked.” I can hear my tone start to get lippy, and I know that’s dangerous territory. These men have the power to make my life a living hell, and, by proxy, my family’s, but when I see the corner of Madda’s mouth quiver like she’s resisting the temptation to smile, I know I’m doing okay.

“Teach her the wardings,” Henry Crawford says to Madda.

And that’s that. I’m not sure what’s happened, for as Madda steers me from the room, I’m left bewildered. They brought me all the way down here just to tell Madda that?

Before we’re out of earshot, the men start talking. “Stupid half-breed” is the first thing I hear. Followed by: “Idiot kid.” “Pot-stirrer.” “My son wouldn’t lie.” “Slut.”

Madda walks faster, towing me along, but not fast enough. All I want to do is run back into that room to give them a piece of my mind, but Madda tightens her grip on my arm. “Let them think what they want,” she mutters. “They’re fools. The people who count will always know you for who you are. For the truth of you.” She halts and turns me so we’re looking each other right in the eye. “You know that, right? You know who you are? You know they’re just a bunch of spineless, scared men?”

I nod. I do know, but that doesn’t mean their words
don’t pierce me like glass. I want to know what Cedar said. I want to know what his father believes, because I’ll set him right. I’ll show him who his son really is.

“Just don’t forget who’s on your side. They haven’t done battle with a sisiutl, have they? Although it’s just as well that they don’t know about that, considering what just happened. No telling what they’d do if they knew your true power. Then they’d have real reason to be scared.”

Maybe she’s trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t help. Not one bit.

Bran is the last to know. It always works that way.

I’m sitting on the sundeck, staring out at the lake, watching for the sisiutl. I should be weeding, or mending my father’s work shirt, or kneading bread, but I’ve found a length of rope. It’s been some time since I’ve made something, and I can’t stop myself. My hands are twisting and knotting, forming the rope and the stones I’ve gathered into a wind chime. That’s when I hear Bran’s footsteps rounding the corner of the house, and from the way they fall on the wood of the sundeck, I know, just from their rhythm, that he’s upset.

“I should have been there.” His voice is breathy, as if the words hurt his throat.

Should he have? I look up at him. For sixteen years
I’ve survived without Bran Eagleson. I stand, slowly, and lift my shirt to expose the scar on my belly before Bran can look away. “Look at this, Bran. Look. I don’t need a protector. I am capable of taking care of myself, and if you can’t handle that, then you should leave.” I let my shirt fall back into place and sit back down.
Did I really just say that?

“You want me to leave?” he asks. Surprise colors his voice.

“No.” I sit back down and begin to work on the wind chime again, just so I won’t have to look at him. If I did, I would want to fix his hurt, his confusion, but that’s not for me. This, Bran needs to figure out on his own, though nothing says I can’t help him along a bit. “I want you to stay, but only if we’re equals. Not if you think I need your protection, that I’m your responsibility all the time.”

He drops down beside me. Our shoulders touch. “That might be hard for me. I’ve spent most of my life taking care of my mother. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Yes, you do.” I take his hand and trace the calluses on his palm. “You’ll see.”

“Okay,” he says. And then, he leans in and kisses me. His lips are warm and taste like salt.

That’s when Paul rounds the corner. “Oh hell,” he says as Bran and I lean away from each other. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Paul mutters, backing away, pretending not to look at us.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Come back.”

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, and then walks over to Bran and punches him hard in the shoulder. “That,” he says, “is for kissing my sister. Just to keep things on the straight and narrow.”

Bran laughs and gets up, then punches Paul back. “So, where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere.” Paul eyes the welts on my legs. “I heard what happened. I’m going to remove more than Cedar’s tooth the next time I see him. You with that fool? I laughed in his face.” He smiles one of his brilliant smiles. “I think I’ll kill him for you.”

I don’t know what to say. The words sound so light, so carefree, and yet I believe him.

“Well, it’s hot.” Paul rubs his hands together. “Swim, anyone?”

Bran nudges me.

I shake my head. “Not for me, but I’ll come watch.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Bran’s voice is soft, as if he’s suddenly a long ways away. He, too, is remembering.

Paul jumps up and is gone, racing down the slope, his raven shade chasing behind.

“He seems happy,” Bran says. I nod. Happier than I’ve seen him in ages.

A kingfisher flutters at Bran’s shoulder and for a moment, I don’t know whether it’s real or his shade. Its plumage is sleek, shining, glossy. Not a hint of disease, not a hint of anything other than health.

I close my eyes and smile into the sun.

“What are you grinning at?” Bran pokes me in the side.

“Nothing. Everything.”

He kisses my nose, and then offers me a hand up. I take it, and together we walk down to the end of the dock. Paul is already in the water, swimming away from us.

It is a pleasant place, our little slice of Eden. We live beyond the world of noise and plastic, of searches and power cuts and microchips and disease. Here on the Island, we till our gardens, wander paths created by deer. We have forgotten what runs in our blood, have forgotten the Corridor altogether.

Forgetting is such an easy thing.

A week later, Madda finally gives me a day off. There are a million things I’d like to do with my free time, but the necessities of life need to be dealt with—the first
being laundry. My father is already down the hill, heating water in our biggest pot, while I wander about the house, picking up dirty socks and underwear, pants stained red from the dirt, shirts stinking of sweat. My father makes a neat pile in the corner of his room. Paul? His clothes are strewn everywhere, forcing me to hunt for them. This makes me grin, because that’s just the way Paul is. That’s the way he’s always been: messy, dirt on his knees, pants pockets full of rocks and sticks, and when I pick up his only pair of jeans, that’s what I think I’ve found at first, a pocket full of rocks and sticks.