Shadows Cast by Stars (6 page)

I go back to the truck while Paul hacks away. A spark of light passes through my field of vision as I pick my way up the path, forcing me to shake my head.
Please, let it just be a speck of dust
, I think, but no, it’s there, just in the corner of my eye. “Stop it,” I murmur. “Just stop it. I’m not going, and that’s that.”

The spark sits there a moment longer, and then vanishes. I slide a box from the truck and return to the house, blinking, hoping that the spark is truly gone. Paul is pulling pieces of the door from its hinges, but stops what he’s doing to peer at me. “You okay?” he says.

“Yeah.” I force myself to look at him. “Just not feeling quite right.”

“I know.” He looks around. “It’s almost like this place isn’t fully here. I feel it too.”

We both shiver, and then laugh just as our father approaches. “What are you two up to?” he says, grinning. “Must be nice, standing around while I do all the work around here. Come on, back at it.”

I’m still laughing as I make my way back to the truck,
but for some reason I glance over my shoulder. Paul’s still standing there, motionless, staring at the shadows in the trees. My laughter dies.

By the time I return, the last of the door has been cleared away. My father’s inside, already sizing up a broken window. “Put that down over there,” he says, nodding at the box in my arms, “and then take a look upstairs. There’s a bedroom up there with a good view of the lake.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

My father rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ve been here before, back when I was about your age.” He motions to the stairs. “Go on. You’d better go claim that bedroom before your brother does.”

Paul would never claim a room for himself, but still, I go upstairs, knowing that my father hasn’t told me the whole truth of this place.

Pinecones and skeletal leaves cover the floor, but my father was right. In this room, I am high above the lake, closer to the sky than the earth. My old bedroom only had a view of the apple tree, but this? This is a view that sings to my soul, and instantly I feel guilty, as if I have betrayed our old house and our life there. That apple tree is where my mother rests. Am I ready to exchange her for the view of this lake so quickly?

No
, I decide as I throw open the window and let the
wind rush in. Not just yet, though I can’t help wondering what my mother would think of all this. She worked so hard to make sure we had a home at the Corridor. She didn’t want me here. She wanted me in a place where I would have a future that didn’t involve marrying a warrior and bearing him babies, a future that didn’t condemn me to working my fingers to the bone and aging far before my time. That’s what she told me, at least, but then, she didn’t live to see what happened with the searches. Would she still have made the same choice if she knew what we know now?

On the far shore, several cottages nestle into the trees. Just beyond them, a plume of smoke rises from the forest, a smudge of gray against the expanse of green. The house creaks around me, its bones shifting in the afternoon sun, as on the lake, a single canoe breaks the watery mirror in two. It’s heading this way.

“We’ve got company,” I call out the window to where Paul has taken over the job of unloading boxes from the truck.

My father rounds the corner of the house and peers up at me. “Company?”

“There’s someone in a canoe down there.”

“Hmm.” He scratches his head and frowns. “Well, you might as well go down and see what they want.”

I don’t like the look of that frown, but I try not to think about it as I make my way out of the house and down the hill, out onto the dock, where I stop short. The canoe is tied to it, bobbing in the gentle rhythm of the waves as the boy from the store, the one with the auburn hair, lifts a cage holding three fretful chickens. His kingfisher shade flutters at his shoulder, and now that I’m closer to it I can see that some of the feathers are new, as if they’re just growing in over recently healed wounds.

“Oh, hi,” he says when he notices me standing there. He sets the cage down, wipes his hands on his shorts, then holds one out to me. “Heard you were moving in and came to see if I could help.”

I open my mouth, shut it, and open it again like a landed salmon. His kingfisher has begun to change shape, sending a wave of unsteadiness swooping over me. I close my eyes to fight it off.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” I open my eyes to face the images hovering over the boy’s shoulder, one morphing into the next: the kingfisher, swirls of mist, a green stone, a strange dark shadow. I have never met anyone with more than a single totem before.

“Well,” he says, nodding at the chickens. “Madda sent these. Where do you want me to put them?”

“I don’t know,” I say, while I grasp for anything that will bind me to reality.

“Okay,” he says. He’s trying hard not to laugh at me, I think. “How about the boathouse? I’ll move them there, for a price.”

“A price?”

“Your name. Tell me your name.”

Finally, something I can answer. “Cassandra. Cassandra Mercredi.”

Relief colors my voice, and he laughs again—but not in a cruel way. More as if he understands. “Mercredi …” He rolls the word on his tongue. “Mercredi, like Wednesday? You’re French?”

“No. Anishinaabe. Métis.”

“Ah. Half-breed. Me too. My dad’s full-blood, but my mom’s white.” He shrugs. “Well, welcome to the Island. I’m Bran. Of the Band, I guess. Lead the way, Cassandra Mercredi.” He hoists the cage up and nods toward the boathouse.

I set off, Bran following behind me. Bran. It’s an unusual name, even by native standards, but I’ve heard it often enough when the Band men stop to give my father news of the Island. Is this the missing leader’s son? Only one way to find out. “Bran, as in Eagleson?”

“Yep,” he says. “That’s me.” The disappointment in his
voice isn’t hard to miss. But why? Because I know who he is? And who his father is? Probably. It’s hard having a ghost follow you wherever you go. I know. My family has ghosts of its own.

The boathouse isn’t the best place to set the chickens loose, but they flutter up into the rafters, happy to be free of the cage. Bran doesn’t speak as we step back outside and make our way up to the house. I can feel him watching me as I climb. What is he thinking? Why doesn’t he say something? Why do I want him to say something?

Paul greets us as we round the corner of the house. Quick introductions are made with my father, then I duck inside to unpack our belongings because I know what happens next: Band talk.

Their voices drift through an open window as I carry a box of clothing upstairs. I pause, and look down to see Paul, my father, and Bran sitting on the tailgate, sharing a canteen of water.

“And so they’re building more outposts to the south?” my father asks.

Bran holds a hunting knife by its blade, only to flip it into the air, grabbing it by the hilt just before it can embed itself into his thigh. “Yep. They’ve had some strange reports coming out of the Mohawk and Pueblo reserves, so they figure it’s time to strengthen the south,
though that’s part of my father’s plan anyhow. Make ourselves strong, so we’re not dependent on the boundary, just in case. The reports have just moved up the pace, is all.”

I step back. I don’t like the look in Paul’s eyes, the desperation to prove himself to Bran, to show that he’s a warrior too, that he’s strong, that he can fight. Suddenly it strikes me that all of this has been too easy. We’ve only just arrived, and already we have a house and a truck and chickens. But at what price? My father? My brother? Is that what the Band will charge us for this new existence far away from the Corridor and the danger of searchers?

I don’t know, but I don’t want to be here anymore. I wish there was someplace else
to
go, a place where I wouldn’t have to worry about my brother turning hard and bitter.

Except there is no other place. It’s here, or nowhere.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll sit here and listen to them.

I’m halfway down the hill when Bran catches up with me. “Hey,” he says, giving me a curious look. “What are you running away from?”

I stop in my tracks. “Why do you think I’m running from anything?”

“Whoa.” He holds his hands up. “It was just a joke. But seriously, are you running?”

I look out over the lake. Am I? “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

“Hmm. Well, don’t go too far. I haven’t had a chance to get to know you yet.” He peers at me. “My mother would like to meet you too. She asked if you would visit her tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “Would you?”

I manage to nod. I don’t want to like him. He’s part of the Band. But I can’t help it. I do like him, and I want him to like me, too. Me, who has never cared what anyone thought about her, who has never given a guy the time of day, and here I am, nodding. I can’t seem to stop myself.

“Good.” He smiles. “I’ll come get you after lunch, okay?”

I shouldn’t go tomorrow. We’ve only just arrived. There are still so many things to do. I have to help my father. I can’t go with Bran.

But I don’t say a word. He assumes my silence is assent, and by the time I find my voice, the only thing that remains of Bran are the ripples of his canoe.

W
e work by candlelight. I mop the floor while Paul brings buckets of water up from the lake. My father prowls the house, opening cupboards, taking stock. He’s in the crawlspace right now, crowing about something he’s discovered.

“Whatcha got down there, old man?” Paul says, hanging his head into the darkness.

My father pops out of the hatch, grinning from ear to ear, and motions for Paul to get out of the way. “Close your eyes,” he says. “Both of you. Go on, do it!”

Paul groans as we do as my father asks. He grunts as he pulls himself up through the hatch, and then I hear the snap of a latch and the scrape of something against wood.

“Come on, Dad,” Paul says. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Just a moment longer,” my father responds. His voice is positively crackling with excitement. I laugh. I haven’t heard him like this in ages, and soon I know why. The notes of a jig fill the room. My father has found a fiddle.

He pauses to retune, and laughs. “Not bad for an old scrap of wood, huh? All those years under this house, and it still sounds good!” He draws the bow across the strings again, then peers at Paul and me, beaming. “Well? You two think I’m going to play for nothing? Go on—dance!”

And so we drop the mop and the bucket and the washcloth to dance while our father plays. His fingers aren’t certain at first, the fiddle squealing as his bow slips across the strings, but we don’t mind. When he plays the final chord, Paul and I are panting and sweaty and the happiest we’ve been since our mother’s passing.

“I can’t believe this is still here,” my father murmurs as he sets the fiddle back in its case. “I just can’t believe it.”

“What’s that, Dad?” Paul says, reaching into the case before my father can snap it shut. He pulls out an old photograph.

“Oh. That.” My father won’t look at it. “It’s of me and your mother and your uncles, back when we were all here on the Island.”

I peer over Paul’s shoulder. Staring back at us is a young
man who looks a lot like me. My father, probably not much older than I am now. Two men stand next to him—his older brothers, whom I only remember as tall and serious. My mother is pretty and fair and laughing. She reminds me of Paul. There’s one more person in the photo I don’t recognize, another man, younger than my father, with enough similarities that he must be related to us too.

“Who’s that?” I say, pointing at the one I don’t know.

“Oh. Just some kid,” my father says, taking the photograph from Paul’s hand and setting it back in the violin case. “I can’t even remember his name.”

As my father snaps the case shut, Paul and I share a look. My father is a terrible liar. He knows who that young man is, and I know Paul is thinking the same thing I am: Why won’t he tell us?

But soon the mysterious young man in the photograph is forgotten as we take up mop and broom and bucket again. We have so much work to do. Cleaning the house is just the start. Our only source of water is the lake. There’s no outhouse. We have no beds, or any furniture for that matter, and no wood for the fireplace. There’s no garden to grow our own food, and nothing to feed the chickens with. What little joy we had while we danced to the tune of my father’s violin has vanished, replaced by the truth of our predicament. In the Corridor, we had
enough wood for two winters stored up at all times. Our garden had been planted. The apple tree had already bloomed and would, with luck, produce some fruit, for I’d fertilized it by hand myself.

Here? We are not just starting over. We are starting from scratch.

I set the mop down again and stare at my hands, where blisters are already rising. Is this what this place holds for me? Am I all that I’ll ever be?

“Dad,” I ask as he passes by, “is there a school here?”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Don’t know. Probably nothing formal, but we’ll figure something out for you and Paul, okay?”