Robins accompany me part of the way, swooping ahead in search of worms, and a jaybird takes over where they leave off, hopping from tree to tree, cackling at me.
“What do you want?” I say to it. “I’ve got nothing for you.”
The jay tips its head to one side, listening, and then flies off.
Another hatch of gnats rises over the road where it dips close to the lake, so I break off a branch of cedar, using it as a broom to clear a path. I like cedar, its strong, resiny scent, so I keep the branch, swinging it back and forth until I reach Madda’s.
“You’re here early,” she calls from a patch of dill as I step through the gate. “What you got there?”
“Oh.” I toss the cedar branch aside. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t look like nothing to me. Go get it and bring it back inside. You’ve just chosen your very first lesson.”
That doesn’t sound good, I think as I go back outside and retrieve the cedar branch, shaking it free of dust. Madda points at the kitchen table where Helen sits, spinning a length of wool. I set the cedar bough in front of Helen, who gives me a worried look before rising and heading outside, taking her spinning with her.
“So, cedar. A very useful tree.” Madda motions for me to sit. “What can you tell me about it?”
“It smells nice,” I say, picking my words carefully. Madda’s setting me up for something. “It grows near water. People use it for houses and canoes.”
“Yes, this is all true. Cedar is a good tree, a helpful tree.” She narrows her eyes. “So, did you ask to take that branch from it? And, did you say thank you once you did?”
“Ask?”
“Yeah.” She picks up the cedar branch and shakes it at me. “Before you picked it, this branch was alive. Now, it’s not. If you’re going to kill something, the least you can do is ask first, and then give thanks afterward. The trees, they have long memories, and they talk to each other, you know. They’ll remember you, and next time you take something without permission, they might not be as willing to just let you go. So your first lesson is to go back to this tree and apologize.”
“Apologize to the tree?” I echo.
“Yep. Trees have spirits too, and going around breaking bits of them off without giving them a bit of common courtesy is rude. You’ve got some dark roads to walk, Cassandra, and you need all the friends you can get. So make amends. A little gratitude goes a long way, and the trees, they remember.” She picks up the cedar branch and runs her hands over it. “Just think of what this branch might have become if you hadn’t taken it—a nest for a bird, for example. Its cones might have fed a squirrel. Maybe, one day, if the tree was tall enough, this branch might have held someone’s body after they passed over. That’s a mighty powerful thing, don’t you think?”
I make myself nod. Madda sets a hand on my shoulder as if to say it’s okay, but her touch just leaves me feeling worse. She gives me a kind smile. “If you want to be my apprentice, you’ve got to know that you are responsible for all your actions now, and spirit holds you to higher standards than it does other people. That’s the price you pay for what you’re going to learn. Best decide now whether you’re willing to do that or if you’d like to go back to being like everyone else. So?” She sets the branch back down on the table. “What’s your decision?”
“I want to be your apprentice.” I can barely speak the words, I feel so stupid.
“Good.” She taps the branch. “When you go home this afternoon, stop and bury the branch when you find the tree you took it from. And, tomorrow, I want to hear about every single living thing you encounter once you leave here. Not just the obvious ones, like birds and bees, but other things too. Here’s a piece of paper. Take notes.”
I stuff the paper and a pencil into my pocket. This wasn’t how my first day was supposed to go. Tomorrow I’ll have to do better.
For the rest of the morning, I’m assigned the task of weeding Madda’s garden. Helen sits not far off, working on her spinning, watching me work. I’m not sure whether we’re allowed to talk or not, so I don’t. I’m already in trouble. I don’t want to find myself more.
As the day approaches noon, Madda comes outside, bringing a large basket along with her. She sets it next to me and squats down. “So, weeding. Why do we weed?” She holds up a length of ivy that I’ve just ripped from the rosemary. “Why is it okay to rip this plant out of the ground, but not to take the branch of the cedar tree without asking?”
I sit back, but keep my hands rooted in the dirt. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I know you don’t know. But you’ve got a brain, don’t you?” She shakes her head. “A perfectly good one, I’m assuming. What good is that if you don’t use it? Think, girl.”
My cheeks go hot. Behind Madda, Helen gives me a sympathetic look. “Because,” I say as I grapple for words, “of what the ivy does? It takes over and chokes out the other plants?”
“That’s part of it.” Madda inspects the vine. “This is a tough plant. On one hand, we’ve got to honor that. It’s a survivor. But that doesn’t mean it gets to go wherever it wants. You’re right—ivy kills other plants if it’s allowed to take over. Like me and my blackberries—they taste good, but they aren’t native to this land. They were introduced here by white men, and they need to be managed carefully, or soon all that’s left are blackberries. Spirit work is a little like that too. You got to take care of yourself—tend your own weeds, in a matter of speaking. It’s easy to go too deep, to go too far, when you’re trying to help a person, and all that does is weaken you. A healer has to be strong, and not just in the ways of spirit. Strong in the body, strong in the mind. So that’s why I’ve got you out here, working in the garden. Dirt,” she says, picking up a handful and rubbing it between our fingers, “isn’t just dirt. It’s us. Healthy soil makes healthy plants. Unhealthy soil? Only the weeds will grow in that.” She straightens up, groaning, and points at the basket. “That’s yours for now on. Take it wherever you go. Gather what you find, whatever you think might be useful, even if you don’t know why. Things come to us for a reason—never look a gift horse in the mouth.” She starts to turn away but changes her mind. “You’re free to go. Come back tomorrow morning, and don’t forget your list. Oh, and I think there’s something Helen wants to ask you.” She winks at Helen, and heads inside the cottage.
Helen smiles at me. “Tomorrow afternoon, some of the women are getting together to make baskets. Do you want to come?”
“Sure,” I say, returning Helen’s smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
Helen nods, but in a way that makes me think she was expecting me to say no. “Good,” she says, almost to herself. “Tomorrow.”
“How did it go?” my father asks when I walk in the door.
I drop the basket, now full of rocks and flowers—all of which I’ve said thanks for—and the list of birds and berries and rocks, on the counter. “Don’t ask.”
My father eyes the basket, but doesn’t say another word.
Later, as we sit by the fire under the stars, I want him to ask. I want to talk, but I’m so afraid. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m not the person Madda thinks I am.
Maybe I can’t help Paul.
And if I can’t, what then?
I don’t know, but just the thought of that possibility turns my stomach to stone.
The next morning I return with the paper Madda gave me. Both sides are covered with notes. She takes it, inspects it, and hands it back. “Not bad,” she says with an appreciative nod. “Wind, stones, good. What, then, does something need to be considered alive?”
“I guess it depends on a person’s perspective,” I say, adding quickly, “but if you ask me, it just needs to exist. Everything has a piece of spirit in it.”
“Good. Very good.” Madda fills her kettle and sets it over the cook stove. “So, why is that, then? Why does a rock have a piece of spirit?”
I take my time answering. It’s a good question. Why does a rock
have a piece of spirit? “Because,” I say slowly, “spirit is part of existence?”
“Sort of.” Madda sits down with a huff and examines her hands. “You ever hear people speaking of auras?”
I nod.
“Well, it’s sort of like that. Everyone has a signature, an aura. Scientists, they call it an ‘energy field.’ What I was taught—and I haven’t heard a better explanation yet—is that each of us has a little piece of the old times, when supernaturals were with us, when the animals walked and talked like people. Somewhere along the line, the supernaturals got a little tired of all our bickering and squabbling, so they created the division between our world and what we now call the spirit world, and headed off for a little peace and quiet, but they didn’t cut us off completely.” She stops to clear her throat. “A few, like you, like me, can still travel to the spirit world. Most people, though, just have that little piece of spirit in them. Not everyone, mind you. Some people have given their spirit away, to greed or crime, to addiction, or to just something as simple as forgetting that us and the earth are one. And that’s when you see a person get really sick. If your spirit’s healthy, if you walk in harmony with the world, then you’re healthy too. That’s one of our jobs as healers, to bring that piece of spirit back.” She taps the table. “But as far as we’re concerned, this table here has as much spirit as you and me. Anyone who says otherwise just hasn’t looked well enough.”
“When I see shades then,” I say slowly, “is that what I’m seeing? That bit of spirit?”
“Shades?” Madda frowns.
“Totems.”
“You can see totems?”
I nod.
“Without going into the spirit world?”
I nod again. I don’t tell her that I can’t see hers. It’s there, hovering just above her shoulder, but it’s out of focus, like a shadow trapped behind mist. Madda gets up and lifts the kettle from the cook top, setting it to one side before taking the teapot down from a shelf. She knows I’m trying to make out her shade, but she doesn’t say a word. Neither of us does.
“So,” she says when she turns back to me.
I hold my breath. Is she going to ask me what her totem is? What will I do then? Will she doubt my ability when I tell her I don’t know?
Madda smiles. It’s as if she can read my thoughts. “So,” she says again, “do you want honey in your tea?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
She laughs and turns back to the teapot, but not before I see a shadow pass through her eyes, a shadow that seems to have eyes of its own.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Helen’s been working at the orchards all morning. She returns just as Madda and I set out a quick lunch of greens and salmon jerky. Madda gobbles her food, and then pushes herself away from the table. She looks tired, and somehow distant, like her mind is far away and troubled. “Off you go,” she says once Helen and I have finished eating. “I’m going to go for a walk in the woods. Cassandra, take the morning off tomorrow. Come by after lunch. I’ll have work for you then.” She attempts a smile, but her lips barely move.
Helen casts her a worried look as she picks up a basket of cedar bark and bulrushes sitting by the door. “You sure, Madda? I can stay, if you want.”
Madda just waves us away before wandering out the back door.
Helen sighs as we head out.
I glance back, but Madda’s nowhere in sight. “Is she like that often?”
Helen purses her lips, as if trying to decide whether to tell me. “Sometimes,” she ends up saying, “though it’s been more often lately. I wish I knew what was troubling her. She used to tell me when I was younger, but not anymore.”
I nod. I understand how that feels.
The sun is hot and heavy on the town’s dirt-packed streets. No one’s about. Helen and I turn from the lane and make our way to the chestnut tree in the park, where a group of women have gathered. Most are closer to Madda’s age than ours, but a few are younger. I look for Avalon among them, but she isn’t there. All the heads are dark, coppery brown or black or sleek like sable. At the far side of the group is Ms. Adelaide. She flashes me a grin.
“Who’s this?” a woman asks Helen when we get close enough.
“This is Cassandra,” Helen says, turning to smile at me.
“Hi.” I wave.
The woman peers at me as if I’ve grown an extra limb. “What’s she doing here?”
“I invited her.” Helen sits down beside Ms. Adelaide and takes out a strip of cedar bark. I sit down too, because already I can tell that this isn’t going well. Helen hands me a bundle of rushes, and I quickly arrange them into spokes for a basket, hoping these women see I’m capable, that I could be one of them, if only given a chance. It’s easy to think you can stand alone when you’re by yourself, but now, sitting here, feeling their gazes on me, gazes that single me out as a stranger, someone not to be trusted, I realize that maybe that’s not simple after all.
The older women go back to their work, while the younger ones divide the cedar into narrow strips and pound them until they’re pliable. They watch me as Helen passes me the strips and I weave them between the spokes, pulling them snug, pressing them down for a tight weft. It feels good to work with the bark, to know I’m creating something from the tree I wronged yesterday.
“Jada,” Helen says when the last strip she brought is gone. “Would you hand me that dyed cedar? The stuff that’s black? I’m going to teach Cassandra the running raven pattern.”
Jada, the woman who asked who I was, glares at me. “She doesn’t get to learn that. Not yet. Look at that basket. It’s uneven. It’ll probably fall apart the first time someone puts something into it.” She gets up and takes the basket from my hand to inspect it. “My five-year-old son can make a basket better than this.” She throws the basket on the ground, and then, keeping a wicked grin trained on me, steps on it, snapping the spokes in half. “That’s what we think of people who come to our town and take over. Remember that.” She turns on her heel and leaves.
One by one, the other women get up and follow her. I glance at Helen, who has averted her gaze, and then at Ms. Adelaide, who’s intent on her own basket. Did they not hear what she said?
“Just pretend you didn’t hear,” Helen mumbles under her breath. “Don’t say anything.”
I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m too stunned by what just happened.
“Give them some time,” Ms. Adelaide says. “In the past, new people have come to town and done more damage than good. They haven’t forgotten. Just be yourself. They’ll come around. You’ll see.”
Will I? They’ve settled on the other side of the park, right in the blinding hot sun. I want to get up and go over there—to do what, I’m not sure, but Helen stops me.
“Please,” she says. “Just let it go for now.”
It’s the pleading note in her voice, a note that I don’t think is there just for me but for her, too, that keeps me where I am. For a moment Helen’s shade appears behind her, a hummingbird with matted, broken feathers feebly trying to hover in place. I blink and it’s gone.
What would do that to a person’s shade? Madda’s explanation of totems is still fresh in my mind. Is that what I’m seeing, a shade that has been damaged at the hands of others?
Helen, what have they done to you?
The next morning I decide to return Grace’s books. Between Madda’s lessons and the work that still needs to be done at the house, I don’t have time to read them. Besides, the one attempt I made told me what I suspected: These aren’t my stories. The only book I’ve kept is the one Bran gave me, the one that had the gray feather tucked inside of it, though today that feather is woven into one of my braids.
The walk into town seems longer than usual, the books growing heavier with each step, and when I set foot on the main street, they tumble out of my hands. “That’s just great,” I mutter as I crouch and pick them up. The last thing I want is to return them dirty and ruined. That will real
ly impress Bran’s mother.
A group of women walks by as I’m trying to brush the worst of the dust from the covers. I look for Avalon, but she is not among them. Helen is, though, and so is Jada. They carry hoes, shovels, baskets. One pushes a wheelbarrow. They stop to watch me. Not one cracks a smile or offers to help, except Helen. She looks at me, then back at the other girls, hesitating.
“Helen,” Jada says. “Come on.”
Helen gives me an apologetic look as I gather up the books. When I set off again, my cheeks burn with shame. I don’t blame her. I can tell she’s trying to regain her place here, and I can understand that. It’s the other woman, this Jada. I allow myself to glance back, once. A few shades flutter around them—a doe, an otter—but what I really see is anger and jealousy, nothing hinting at the possibility of friendship. Except for Helen. She glances back too, and looks about as lonely as I feel.
I try to pretend it doesn’t matter, and quicken my step.
A few hot minutes later, I turn onto the lane leading to Bran’s house. I wonder what his mother will say when she learns I haven’t read her books, but then, she didn’t ask me if I wanted to read them in the first place, did she? At least I have the excuse that my studies are taking up all my time, though even if they weren’t, Madda’s books are far more interesting than Grace’s. I haven’t read them all yet, but I have glanced through every one: a collection of stories about Madda’s tribe, another on the history of this land, and, the oldest and my favorite, a slim book on Chinese meditation. There are secrets in that little book, Madda said, wonderful secrets, nothing like the dusty, dry tomes I hold in my arms. Grace’s books died a long, slow death ages ago.
I find her sitting on the beach, smoking. She turns her head just a fraction of an inch as I approach. “Well?” she says as she crosses her arms.
“I’ve brought your books back.”
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