Shadows Cast by Stars (22 page)

But it’s not. Beneath the jeans are rocks and sticks and feathers joined together by lengths of twine. Sea-shells, too, and wood carved into images of thunderbird and raven. Symbols are painted on the rocks. I stretch the lengths of twine and stare at the objects fastened to them. I know what these are. These are the missing wardings.

Paul took down the wardings? Paul? But why? And why did he hide them where I’d find them? Because he wanted me to know. He must have. If he didn’t, he would have hidden them better.

Paul, just what have you done?

It takes me a while to summon up the courage to talk to him. Things have been better between us lately, and
I hate the thought of ruining that. For days I put it off, finding one excuse or another, but today Madda forced my hand. We started to make new wardings this morning, binding stones and shells together with rope, while she chanted and anointed them with smoke.
The wardings
, she said,
are to keep bad spirits where they belong— in the burial ground
.

What bad spirits?
I wanted to ask, but I was afraid. So was she, and I haven’t seen Madda afraid of anything since the night of the gathering.

But Paul knows. He’s always had a way with the dead.

I find him out back, digging the hole that will become our well. Twenty feet down might not be particularly deep, but when it’s straight through time-packed clay, well, it’s damn hard work. I bring him sun tea, hoping that an offering will start things off on the right track.

He smiles as he takes the glass and drains its contents in one long draft. I pour another. “I’ve been missing you,” I say.

“I’ve been around.”

“I know. Just, things seem a bit weird right now.”

He wipes his brow and shrugs. “Lots happening.”

“Uh-huh.” I sit at the edge of the hole, letting my legs dangle. “So, I found something.”

“Did you?” He starts digging again.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No, not really.” A clod of clay flies out of the hole, landing with a thud beside me. “You should probably move if you don’t want to get hit.”

“Paul,” I say, not moving an inch, “what’s going on? Why did you take the wardings?”

He stops and glares up at me. “Because they’re not meant to be there.” He slams his shovel into the ground. “You think just because you’re Madda’s apprentice that you know everything that’s going on, that you’re the only one who walks the spirit paths, but I do too, Cass, and they ask things of me as well.”

“So they asked you to take down the wardings?” I don’t understand. “Who’s they?”

Paul bites his lip, as if deciding whether to tell me or not. I hold my breath, waiting. “The people in the woods. They’re trapped there by the wardings. They wanted to be free, and for once I could do something about it. So I did.” He starts digging again. “Why don’t you go running to Madda and tell her what I’ve done. Isn’t that what you want to do?”

“No, Paul,” I say as I step away from him. “That’s not what I want at all.”
I just want you back
, I think.

I just want my brother back.

B
ran and I are pulling weeds from between bean plants in the garden. Bees buzz around us, flitting from flower to tiny purple flower while, above, the wind stirs the trees, sending a cascade of needles raining over the lake. Bran sits back on his haunches and swipes at the beads of sweat running down his forehead, leaving a smear of dirt in their place. He looks down at the water. “You can’t avoid going in forever, you know.”

I rip a thistle from the ground. “I know.”

“Today would be a good day. I’m hot and dirty. I could use a swim.”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow sounds better.”

“Cass.” Bran turns toward me. “It’s been almost a month.”

He’s right. It has. I can’t avoid the lake forever. I pull my work gloves from my hands and throw them down. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

The wind dies as we make our way out along the dock. I stare down at the depths the entire time, looking for the shadow I know is there, but the only thing I see are dead fir needles, a sea of red giving way to silvered water farther out. Bran says nothing as I untie my shoes, sit down, and dip my legs in the icy cold.

I could stop there. Nothing says I need to conquer this today, but despite the glassy appearance of the lake, there’s a sense of urgency in the air. If I don’t do this now, I may never have another chance. I’m not sure why I feel so certain of this, but I do.

“Right,” I say to myself. There’s only one way to fix that. So with a deep breath, I tip myself off the dock and swim to the bottom. Darkness presses in on me as I remain there, treading water, waiting for the sisiutl.
Here I am
, I think.
What are you waiting for?

The world above me is glass-bottle green. The dock sways to and fro and I can see Bran peering down, looking at me looking up at him.

Finally, when my lungs feel like they’re about to burst, I push off toward the surface, breaking the glass bottle into pieces.

Bran’s lying chest-down on the dock. “Wasn’t sure you were going to come up.”

I brush water from my eyes and swim toward him. “Me neither.”

He tries to smile. “At least the monster didn’t come back.”

“That’s what you think.” I reach out and pull him in. I don’t laugh. This is not a game. None of this is a game.

He surfaces and spits water at me. “I knew you’d do that.”

“I knew you knew.” I spit back and then, seized by impulse, I tug my shirt over my head. This is my lake. I claim it as my own, and nothing—not even the sisiutl— will harm me. My shorts come off next as Bran bobs and gapes.

“What are you doing?” he says.

“You wanted to prove the lake wouldn’t hurt me? Well, I’m showing you it won’t hurt me.” I dive, pushing through the water, shattering it with my body.

When I surface, Bran is gathering up my floating clothes. He puts them on the dock, and then adds his own to the pile.

“Wait for me,” he calls as I swim away, but I don’t. If he wants me, he’ll have to come get me. On land, Bran is master of his domain, like the stag who is king of the
forest, but the lake is mine and I am its, and besides, I swim better than Bran. I toy with him, pausing just long enough to let him draw close. The moment his fingers graze my feet, I’m off, sliding through the water, melding with its currents. Slick like a seal. Flashing and fleeting, a salmon racing after prey.

Bran curses as he swims after me. I laugh and turn onto my back, floating naked under the sun, strangely unashamed.

We drift there a moment, golden and glorious, until his hand finds mine and he tows me toward a thicket of willow leaning into the water. His fingertips trace my body, marking the curve of my hips, the length of my arms, the rise of my breasts. I want to touch him, but I can’t. Something that is fear, and yet, deeper, older, nameless, has stolen my body. All I can do is tip my face toward the sun, close my eyes, and breathe as his hands wander over my skin.
Don’t think
, I say to myself.
Don’t think. Just feel
.

I try, but I can’t stop myself.
Do I put my hand here? Should I put it there? Is that too forward? Not forward enough?
I don’t know this dance. I want to let go, to let myself feel him, to let his weight fall against me, to give myself over, but I can’t. Every muscle in my body is tense as I fight—not against Bran, but against myself. What does
this mean, giving myself over to him? What does this mean to him? Am I just another girl, or is it more than that?

“Cass,” he whispers in my ear, “we don’t have to do this.” He lifts his hand from my body and pulls away. “If you’re not ready, we can wait. There’s no rush.”

But there is. Just like the day of the earthquake when I kissed Bran on the lakeshore, I know that this is the moment. “I’m ready,” I say. I know what I want.

“Then,” he whispers between kisses, “do me a favor and stop thinking?”

And just like that, for the first time in my life, I do. I stop thinking, and just feel.

Sometime later, the siren starts.

Bran winces at the sound. “That’s the emergency signal,” he says, blinking. “Something’s happened. I’ve got to go.”

I reach for Bran’s arm. “Wait. Not yet. Please.”

But he’s already swimming away, and all I can do is swim after him.

We dress in our soggy clothes and jog toward town. The sound of the siren is muffled by the trees, but it’s still there, haunting our steps. We stop at the edge of town. Bran pulls me into his chest, kissing me hard. Neither of us want to stop, but Bran is the first to pull away. “If it’s
a search, go into the woods,” he says. “Take Madda with you. I’ll find you.” He pushes me away and breaks into a flat-out sprint.

I wait until he rounds a corner, and then head toward Madda’s, steadfastly refusing to look at the skies. A search? A search here, on the Island? It’s not possible. How would they have gotten through the boundary?

Sparks begin to fly around my head. They’re thick and bright, clouding my vision so it’s harder and harder to see, but I must make it to Madda’s before they take over. I can’t risk losing myself here, in the middle of the road.

Madda is coming up her walk as I stumble through the gate. “Oh mercy,” she says, “what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble as she pushes me into the cottage. “Sparks. The sparks have come. I don’t know what they are.”

Madda makes me sit down. I hear the strike of a match and the snap of something catching fire. “Here.” She pushes a bundle of leaves into my hand. “Breathe. The smoke will ground you.” She bustles around the cottage, bashing into things as I inhale the sharp, musty scent of burning sage. “We don’t have time for this now,” she mutters. “You breathe in that smoke until I tell you not to, and nothing else, got it? Open your eyes.” She glares at me. “I don’t know what’s happening, and I can’t find out
until you’re attached to this world properly. Here, put this on.” She shoves a strand of purple beads into my hand. “And don’t take them off until I say!”

I slip the beads over my head. Smoke wafts in my face, making my eyes water, but the sparks begin to float away.

Madda squints at me. “Better?”

“Just about,” I say.

“‘Just about’ will have to be good enough.” She pulls me to my feet, snatches the sage wand from my hand, and extinguishes it in a cup of water. “We’ve got to get to town. Who knows what ridiculous schemes they’ll have cooked up by now.” She throws the door open. “Honestly, there are times when I think I’m the only sane person left on this planet. At least you have a little sense about you.” She sets off at a clip so fast that I’m forced to jog to keep up. “Men don’t know what’s coming and going half the time. When the Elders aren’t jumping at their own shadows, they’re creating half-baked excuses to go blow shit up.” She stops, draws a deep breath, and then sets off again toward the longhouse.

For the first time, I catch sight of Madda’s shade. It’s not an animal. It’s not anything I’ve ever seen before. It almost looks human, but it’s not. I can make out swollen lips and bulging, bloodshot eyes. It’s … grotesque.

“Got a bad feeling,” she grumbles.

I’ve got to admit, I’ve got a bad feeling too.

W
e’re at war. The siren wasn’t signaling an emergency. It was a call to arms, a general muster. Word has reached the Band that the hospitals where they harvest Other blood were wiped out in the last earthquake, and now the Corridor is out of Other blood. That means they’re coming for us.

Madda doesn’t stay to learn the details. She pushes our way out of the crowd gathered around the longhouse and storms to the cottage without speaking a single word.

The cottage watches us with wary eyes. It knows we’re leaving, and as if to reinforce that point three ravens fly overhead, a trio of black periods in the sky. Dot, dot, dot. What happens now …

Helen’s inside, wide-eyed and pale.

“You’re going to stay with Adelaide,” Madda snaps at her. “Go pack.”

Helen scurries off. “Why isn’t she coming too?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Madda is half bent over, about to pull a basket full of bandages out from a shelf, when she pauses and turns back to me. “Because the first and last time Helen went on one of these things with me, I left her alone and she was raped. She was eleven. Does that answer your question?”

I don’t know what to say. I just stand there gaping as Madda pulls stuff out of cupboards—bundles of cloth, packets of things that crunch, herbs, syringes, vials. She fires them all at me. “You wanted to know,” she snaps. “Now you do. Let that be a lesson not to ask questions you’re told not to ask.”

“Who?” I whisper as I try to catch the jar Madda tosses to me, but it slips from my fingers and breaks, sending a rain of lavender rolling under our feet. I sweep it up as fast as I can. Madda doesn’t even seem to notice.