Obsidian and Stars

by Julie Eshbaugh

  DEDICATION

  For Gary. Thank you for filling my life with music.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Julie Eshbaugh

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  The day is so new, it’s barely day at all. Yet we are already far out on the blue water, gliding under the blue sky. The first rays of the sun paint long stripes of light on the surface. I watch that light—watch it shimmer and ripple until the movement makes my head swim.

  Either the movement or my nerves. Or maybe both.

  That’s the kind of day this will be—a day of movement and nerves.

  I wriggle in my seat, unable to relax. I go back to the moment I last saw Kol, standing on the edge of the sea. I can see his warm eyes, his half smile. I remember every detail of that last good-bye—that last time he said my name and kissed my lips. I can still feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. I hold that image in my mind as the oarsmen stab at the water, bringing me farther and farther north, closer and closer to that very same strip of shoreline.

  Bringing me back to Kol.

  I wish I could get comfortable. This canoe is so narrow I feel the rock of every wave in the pit of my stomach. My clothes are new and stiff—each place where the hides of my tunic and pants touch me, they rub against my skin. At the back of my neck, in my left armpit, against my right hip bone and the backs of both knees. I have no one to blame but myself, of course, since these clothes are the products of my own hands, made from my own designs. But though I may have bold ideas for intricate patterns of dark and light—the brown of caribou stitched to the tan of sealskin stitched to the gray of otter—I am not always the most patient of tailors. I do not always take the extra time to make sure the fit is perfect. The design on the front of my tunic may draw praise, but no one would want to spend a long day wrapped in this discomfort.

  Though that’s exactly what I must do today.

  This morning, as soon as I was dressed, I visited Ela’s hut. I don’t ask many people for their opinions, but Ela is one of our clan’s healers, and I trust her. She had not yet seen the new tunic; this was the first I’d shown it to anyone besides my sisters. “It’s supposed to suggest a meadow,” I said. “The golden grass bending and turning in the wind . . .”

  “Yes, it looks just like that, Mya.” She smiled, the sort of smile that belongs to a girl with a secret.

  “What?”

  “I just never thought I’d see you looking so much like a bride.”

  “This is not the tunic of a bride,” I said.

  “Not yet.” She laughed, and I shoved her, and I laughed, too.

  She was right, of course. These are the clothes of a girl coming for a betrothal. If a promise of marriage is made, this betrothal tunic will be enhanced, and even more pieces of light and dark will be worked in. It will become even more ornate. . . .

  It will become the tunic of a bride.

  A wave tosses and lifts the canoe as I think of this—as I let myself imagine for just a moment a wedding to Kol—and my stomach flips as I brace myself against the sides of the boat. This trip to the Manu camp would feel long on the calmest sea, but today, on these choppy waves, it will feel like it goes on for days.

  Before I left Ela’s hut, I sat on her bed, held very still, and let her do my hair. Her hands are the hands of a healer—hands blessed by the Divine. Pulling my hair up and away from my face, her fingers quickly divided sections of strands. She wove tiny ivory beads into a fan of small braids that met at the crown of my head.

  “The beads stand out like stars in a night sky,” she said, smiling at the product of her work.

  Now, out here on the water, I let my own fingers trace the beads in my hair. They are so similar to the beads that are strung on either side of my ivory pendant—the symbol of the Bosha clan I inherited from my mother.

  Will my own daughter one day wear a pendant of bone, as I did when I was a girl?

  I glance at the coastline. Short, stunted trees dot the cliffs, thinned out by the cold wind that even here, south of the mountains, begins to sting my cheeks. I think of Kol, somewhere on the other side of those mountains, and my head swims again. This time I cannot blame the movement of the boat or the light reflecting on the sea.

  This time I can blame only my nerves.

  Where are you at this moment? I wonder. Are you out in the meadow—the meadow that inspired the design on my tunic? Will you recognize your meadow when you see these clothes?

  In front of me in the canoe sits my sister Seeri. Like me, she wears ornate clothes, and her hair is carefully styled, but on her, these things look less out of place. From her clothes to her hair to her easy smile, Seeri is so effortlessly charming. So different from me. But then, she’s not the oldest girl. She didn’t have to take on as much responsibility when our mother died.

  But I don’t begrudge Seeri her lack of responsibility or envy her charm. I’m happy for her, just as I know she’s happy for me. This visit to the Manu camp will change both our lives.

  This trip is so different from the first I made to Kol’s camp, when I wore my simple hunting parka, the parka that had once belonged to my mother. When my brother, my sister, and I each paddled, sharing the work in one canoe. For this trip, with its more formal purpose, rowers have been employed—two to paddle this boat, and two to paddle the other. The second boat carries my brother Chev, High Elder of our clan, and my twelve-year-old sister, Lees. Her clothes are plain—this trip is not for her—but at least she is coming along. Chev had planned at first to leave her home, but she had pleaded and cried and pleaded some more, until he’d given in.

  “How can you keep me away when my sisters are becoming betrothed?” she’d whined, and he’d acquiesced. He’d admitted that this visit was important enough for all of us to attend.

  True enough, but I suspect Lees has another motive. By coming along on this trip, she will get to see the boy she hopes one day will be her own betrothed—Kol’s youngest brother, Roon.

  The spray from the waves grows colder as we press farther and farther north, and I look back over my shoulder at the boat that carries Chev and Lees, a few oar strokes behind. Chev’s head is down, leaning into the wind, but Lees’s eyes are raised, fixed on the ice-capped mountains that rise ahead of us, her lips curled into a smile, oblivious to the knife within the wind.

  Or perhaps welcoming it, as it signals that we are drawing closer to our destination.

  I wish I could welcome it, too. I wish I could welcome the cold and the wind, and all the other small signs that announce that I will soon see the Manu. A part of me does welcome it. Of course I’m anxious to see Kol’s clan—to see Kol’s family—but I am not anxious to be seen. I know that one glance at me will reveal my intentions, and I shrink at the thought of my private hopes displayed so
publicly.

  He already knows, I tell myself. It’s no secret how you feel. And though I know this is true, it feels much more like a secret when it’s whispered between a boy and a girl lying in the grass.

  This will be much more public. Everyone will know my desires. I will have no secrets left.

  As the shoreline bends to the west, the coast changes. Tree-dotted cliffs transform into bare bluffs of rock. Farther ahead, waterfalls of ice—blue in the bright sunlight—spill into the sea.

  The sun is almost directly overhead—our shadows are tucked up tightly beneath us, the shining water seeming to give its own light—when the Manu camp comes into view. The southern point of the bay, an ominous mass of rocks and ice, passes to our right, and we leave the open water behind as we enter the shallows. The oars beat in unison, suddenly so much faster than they’ve beaten all day, or so it seems. My heart quickens, too. Tiny silver fish race by in the sun-heated water just beneath the surface, and I feel their wriggling motion in the pit of my stomach.

  People stand at the shore, watching us come. There are only two. We draw closer, and I recognize Kol’s brother Roon and his mother.

  Our boat comes into shore first, and Roon hurries to the side of the canoe to offer a hand to Seeri. As he helps her step out, the boat pitches hard from left to right, and I grab the sides. The rower at the front—Evet, an elder of our clan who has known me all my life—jumps into the water and quickly offers his hand. I smile, taking hold of his outstretched arm with both hands as I steady myself and the rocking boat. “You’re fine,” he whispers. His wife, Niki, the rower at the rear, is suddenly beside me, holding the boat still to allow me to step out.

  My face flushes with heat. I can usually trust my own legs to hold me up, my own feet to find steady ground beneath me. What is it about this day—this moment—that makes me so unsure?

  As I grab my spear and climb up onto shore, my eyes meet the eyes of Kol’s mother, Mala, and I know the answer to my question. The edges of her face soften when her gaze falls on me. She reaches out her hand, and I take it, expecting her to haul me up the steep bank. Instead, she pulls me into an embrace.

  My body goes stiff in her arms. When was the last time a woman—not a girl—held me in this way? Was it my own mother? No, it was Ela’s mother, right before she died, too, a year after mine.

  “Kol told me about the battle in your camp, and how strong you were,” Mala says against my ear. Her breath is warm, and the tension in my shoulders melts a bit as I slump ever so slightly against her. “He told me how you’d faced injury so bravely, how you’d tried to save Lo.” Goose bumps rise on my arms and at the back of my neck. “I’m proud of you, Mya, and I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  A memory shivers across my skin. A memory of my mother’s voice. She is saying, “I’m proud of you,” as she draws me into her arms.

  Kol’s mother pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes sweep over me, taking in the patterned tunic, the crisp newness of my pants, gliding over my face to linger on the beads in my hair. Her lips soften, smooth into a smile. Her eyes move to mine, and they touch something at my core.

  I know she sees right into me, to the meaning of everything on the surface, to the secret in my heart. Not just that I’m here to be betrothed, but that I want to be betrothed. That I want to be betrothed to her son. She looks at me and I am known. More known than I’ve been in so long.

  I lean away, just far enough that she loses her grip on my arms, and I drop my eyes. Kol’s mother has seen into me, to a place I’m not ready to show. Not to her. Maybe not even to Kol.

  Not yet.

  Anger flares up in me like a flame—anger at myself for my selfishness. For my unwillingness to share myself. Kol gave me everything. He wanted me. He gave me the security and confidence of knowing I was wanted.

  And I gave so little back.

  But I’ve resolved to change that. I told Kol I trust him, and I do. And I want more. I want trust and everything else.

  Beyond Kol’s mother’s shoulder, the path that leads to the camp is empty. I hear no shouts of greeting, no feet hurrying down the trail.

  “They’re hunting,” Mala says. I notice all at once that my brother and sisters are behind me. Chev has just asked about Arem, Kol’s father. “They left early this morning, and we’re now past midday, so I’m sure they will be returning to join us soon.”

  Something inside me lurches sideways at the thought of this disparity—Kol out hunting, running, working with his wits and his weapons, while I stand here, expectant, dressed in these stiff, formal clothes, holding a spear like an ornament instead of a weapon.

  I’m broken from my thoughts by the movement of the others up the path. Seeri gives my arm a small squeeze as she passes, and when I look into her face she beams as if a light burns inside her. I need to try to be more like her. Relaxed. Trusting. Willing to let people see that there’s light and heat in me, too.

  I told Kol I trusted him the day of Lo’s burial, lying next to him in the grass, his cool hand on my back, his warm lips on mine. That memory never leaves me. If only the trust I felt that day could be just as constant.

  We travel in a quick procession up the slope to the center of camp, to the meeting place. The whole clan is out, readying the midday meal, and everyone jumps to their feet, calling to us, offering us each a place to sit and food to eat.

  If they notice my clothing, my hair, all the hints to my purpose in coming here, they make nothing of it. The meal is mussels and roasted lupine roots, and the portions—though far from skimpy—are not robust. My mat is far lighter than at any other meal I’ve shared with this clan. My thoughts go to Kol and the hunting party, as I realize the pressure they must feel.

  After we eat, Lees helps Roon gather empty mats before the two of them disappear into the kitchen. Good for them, I think, envying the lack of notice they enjoy. Chev seems oblivious to the preference they clearly show each other. Instead, he is caught up in speaking with Mala and other elders—Mala’s sister, Ama, who brought in the shellfish, and a man I believe to be the High Elder’s brother.

  As they talk, the clan goes back to their tasks. Two boys sit down with Urar, the Manu healer, to help him sort sharply fragrant herbs. A group of women twist stalks of stinging nettle into twine. Mala talks and smiles, smiles and talks, but her eyes move frequently to the shadows of the huts, measuring their progress along the ground. The wind shifts, from a gentle sea breeze to gusts coming down from the east, and she shivers, even though it is far from cold. Her sister, Ama, moves to sit beside her, leaning close and saying something into her ear.

  When the sun is hanging over the tops of the spindly trees that stand out in silhouette across the ridge to the west, my brother finally goes quiet. Mala’s mouth draws down at the corners. Her eyes have darkened.

  “We’ll go and look for them,” my brother says. “They do not know that we are here, so they take their time. We will go call them home, and help them bring in the kill.”

  “I should come to lead the way,” Kol’s mother says, turning in the place where she sits on a large stone beside the unlit hearth, looking over her shoulder toward the meadow as if she might have heard something. I look up too, but the only new sound is the call of geese passing overhead. There is nothing new to see but the even strokes of their wings.

  “No need,” says Chev. “You should wait here, in case they return by another route. I’m sure we remember the way into the hills since the last time we hunted with your clan.”

  Kol’s mother falls silent. The chorus of conversation of those scattered around the meeting place goes quiet too.

  How can any of us remember that hunting trip and not remember the saber-toothed cat that I killed, the cat that threatened to kill Kol? How can we think about any hunting trip between our two clans and not think of death?

  We move quickly, and before the sun has brushed the tops of the trees on the ridge, Seeri, Chev, and I are ready to hike north into the meadow, th
en east into the hills. Lees and Roon will stay here. They are not too young to face the risks of hunting—Lees has hunted many times at home—but perhaps too young to come along on a trip such as this one, with so much uncertainty about what we might find. No one says this, of course, but everyone thinks it—probably even Lees and Roon.

  I raise my hand to shield my eyes as I look back at them—Mala, Lees, and Roon—and the wind rattles the ivory beads in my hair. I had forgotten they were there. My hand moves to touch them, to trace over Ela’s handiwork, and Lees lifts her hand and waves.

  Roon waves too, and my mind catches on the sight of them, standing side by side. A thought leaps to me as I hurry to catch up to Seeri, who strides behind my brother up the sloping path.

  Do not think of it, I tell myself. Do not open a flap in the roof and let such a thought blow in. And yet the thought is there.

  Of the three of us—me, Seeri, and Lees—Lees is the only one who is certain to see the boy she came to see.

  TWO

  We take the trail we walked with Kol’s parents, on that morning not long ago when the three of us arrived, uninvited, on the Manu’s shore. The day we hiked to the meadow to meet Kol and his brother Pek.

  The day I first saw Kol and first learned his name.

  We hike in silence, except for the birds that nest in the grass, fluttering into flight as we shuffle by. When we are well away from camp the rising ground levels off, the north wind blows hard against our faces, and the tall grass mixes with wildflowers.

  We’ve reached the meadow, and Kol is everywhere.

  I imagine I see him as he was on that morning when we first arrived, the morning my heart overflowed with insult and contempt. He stood with Pek, watching us approach, and I felt his assessing gaze.

  Or so I thought.

  That day, I saw Kol and his whole clan as enemies—enemies of my heart and of my mind. I squint into the wind, and I see him in my memory as if he is standing there now.

  How little I understood Kol that day.

  Chev hesitates, looks east toward the mountains, and rolls his spear in his hand. Absentmindedly, Seeri does the same.