Shadows Cast by Stars (41 page)

Your brother
, the sea wolf says.

Yes, my brother. Me, for Paul. If I do this, if I take Paul’s place, I will save him.

But I can’t. Even as a great sob rips through my throat, I know I can’t. I must stop the sea wolf and whatever it is that follows him, no matter what the cost.

And that cost, for me, is my brother.

So before I change my mind, I seize the moonstone with my mouth and press it to the monolith. At first, nothing happens, but then from far off comes a faint noise, like the sound of ice cracking under the warmth of a spring sun. It has begun.

“Bran,” I say, turning just in time to see him begin to shift back into his human form and vanish. “No!” I scream, grabbing at him. “You have to stay here!”

He slowly opens his eyes and the plumes of red reappear on his head. “I hurt,” he moans.

“I know, I know,” I say, helping him up. “We’re almost done. Just one thing left to do.”

Pain rockets through my bad shoulder as I fold my wings and help Bran stand, ignoring the sea wolf, who is poised to strike. Bran leans into me, and with the last of his strength, he presses his stone into the monolith just as the sea wolf leaps toward us.

The world shudders. The monolith screams, a sound that defies description. My ears feel like they’ve been shot with glass and I’m forced to drop the spirit stone so I can press my hands to my head. My ears—I’ve never felt such pain! Bran falls to the ground and vanishes. It doesn’t matter. We’ve done what we needed to do. Cracks appear, turning the surface of the monolith into a spider-web. I see my face fragment into a mosaic of selves, each one skewed, each one me.

No!
the sea wolf howls.
Do you know what you’ve done?

I ignore him. Smoke seeps out of the cracks on the monolith and I drink it in, greedily consuming its power. Its power is now mine, and I will devour it whole and turn it on this creature of nightmares beside me.

The sea wolf rushes to the other side of the monolith, lapping at the smoke, trying to claim what he can for itself, but it’s too late. With each breath I take, the cracks widen, until chips slough off. The creatures of the spirit world rush forward, catching them in their maws and swallowing them before disappearing from sight. The dust left behind I swallow myself. I don’t know what this will do to me, but I do it anyhow as my sisiutl self takes over and drives me on.

When the chips stop falling, all that’s left is a single obsidian shard. It slices my palms as I seize it and turn it over and over, watching as my eyes stare back at me.

I don’t see the sea wolf lunge at me, but I feel him. Before he can tear flesh from my body, I lift the obsidian shard high in the air, and with all the strength I have left, I rip the veil between the worlds apart.

B
ran and I lie on the ground, head to head. I can’t tell if he’s alive or not, and I’m not ready to find out. I close my eyes, and in my mind, I see that it’s raining, but it’s not water that falls from the sky. I see the boundary falling in jet-black rain drops, and with it fall the creatures of the supernatural world. Eagle. Thunderbird. Wolf. Sisiutl, on wings that glitter in the sunlight. Raven.

The last drops down beside me and hops onto my chest. He cocks his head from side to side, and then pokes his beak right in my face.
Bet you didn’t expect you could do that, did you?

I don’t answer.

He chuckles.
This won’t be the last we see of each other
.
He hops off my chest and takes to wing, flying after the horde of supernatural creatures that have now descended into our world.

I reach out with my senses, testing to see if the spirit world still exists, and it does, just beyond the mist, just beyond reason, but that mist is thinner now, and maybe one day it’ll evaporate so that the spirit world and the physical world will be one again, just like they were a long, long time ago, in the time of the old stories.

After a while, I sit up. The obsidian shard is still in my hands, bound to me by a crust of my own blood. Bran wakes shortly after, and we realize, after speaking words that we can only see, that our hearing is gone. There’s always a price to pay in the world of spirit, and a sacrifice to be made. I should have known that right from the start.

The dzoonokwa have left, except for one. She stands just beyond the tree line, watching us, hidden by the shadows so she’s hard to make out. She’s shorter than the rest, closer to my height, and thinner. Her hair finer. Her hips not as wide. She raises a hand for one fleeting second, and then vanishes into the forest.

Bran and I rise from the ground, and leave too.

I
t takes several days to get back. When we arrive, we skirt around the village, stopping at Ms. Adelaide’s so she can send word to my father before heading to Madda’s the long way so no one else will know we’ve returned. Before we left the clearing where the monolith no longer stands, we decided that after all we’ve been through, we deserve a little time to ourselves. Time to heal the wounds we both bear.

Healing is more than medicine. Madda always said that healing starts with the heart, and though we aren’t healed yet, we’re on our way. Some of our hearing has returned, but not all, and I don’t think it ever will. A small sacrifice, I suppose, for freeing the creatures of the spirit world. Maybe one day they’ll return to give thanks,
and I’ll be able to ask for my hearing back. But maybe not. We talk about these things, Bran and I, between the moments when we stare at the fire, sleep, look at the stars when the sky is clear. We talk about what it means that the boundary is no longer there. We talk about the guilt we feel, and what will happen when we tell the Elders what we’ve done. We talk about if there had been another way, if we could have tried something else, if we were somehow mistaken about what the dzoonokwa wanted us to do. We talk about Plague, and the men it infected, and wonder,
Have we just been lucky, or is there more yet to come?

We talk and we talk, but in the end, talk doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. We can’t change that. No one can.

The only thing we manage to decide in all our talking is that we must find Paul. How, we don’t know, but we will. Together, we will.

But for now, we exist in our little spell, for soon it will end.

And, as fate would have it, it is Avalon who ends it for us.

We are in bed, beginning the slow process of finding each other. We touch each other’s scars, the half-healed wounds, the bruises that mark our histories. Bran kisses
the sisiutl’s bite, slowly, one dot at a time, as if his mouth can take away the pain that still lingers there. He’s about to slide lower when someone opens the cottage door, and before either of us has time to react, Avalon wanders into the bedroom as if she owns the place. We look at her; she looks at us. If she’s surprised to see us, she doesn’t show it.

“Get out” is all I say.

Bran laughs as she slams the door shut. It’s the first time he’s laughed since I found him, and if it weren’t Avalon he was laughing at, I might laugh too. But I don’t. I reach out and pull him toward me, and then we pick up where we left off.

Word spreads from there, and it isn’t long before we have to explain ourselves and what happened.

The Elders are arguing over the Band’s next step at this very moment. They can argue all they like, but there are two things I know. The first? We can’t stay here anymore. The boundary has fallen, and this place is no longer safe. The sea wolf knows where we are, and the creature that follows him does too.

The second? I’m going north, and Bran’s coming with me.

There’s a story among people—not my people, for I am, and will always be, one apart. But there’s a story of how people came to be, how Raven dropped from the sky
to pry open a clam shell, and found humankind inside. They say that this story took place a long, long time ago when the earth was still young, when Raven still spoke words that were lies and truth at the same time.

So I say: This is the story of the way things once were, and now are, and how they will be, for if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we are not bound by the myths created for us. It’s time for my own myths, and those myths will take place in the land of ravens, the land left behind by time—the land of the Bix’iula.

These are my truths, my myths, my lies. This is my story.