Blue smoke curls around her head. I scan the air for her shade, but it’s missing. She coughs, and then takes a long, slow drag. “What did you learn?”
“Um,” I stutter, trying to find something to say, all the while sensing that no matter what answer I give her, it’s going to be the wrong thing.
“Um?” She shifts so suddenly her feet leave arcs in the sand. “That’s all you have to say? Um?” She raises an eyebrow and looks ready to laugh in my face.
I clear my throat. “Actually, I’ve been so busy with my studies that I haven’t had time for these.” I set them down next to her. “I thought you might need them back.”
This time she does laugh. “So, you do have a bit of a backbone after all. That’s good.” She grips the cigarette between her lips and pushes herself up off the beach.
“Come inside. I’m thirsty.”
I trail after her. She stops to grind the butt of her cigarette into the dirt and then meanders into the kitchen, clawing her hair away from her eyes. The house’s condition hasn’t improved since my first visit. In fact, it’s even worse. A rotten smell like the odor of unwashed bodies hangs in the air, forcing me to breathe through my mouth so I won’t gag.
Grace uncorks a bottle of murky wine, pours it into two dirty glasses, and hands me one. “Bottoms up,” she says.
I slide the glass onto the counter. “I don’t drink.”
“Oh, really?” She frowns. “I never trust a person who doesn’t drink.” The frown loosens into a catlike smile. “Are you sure you want me to distrust you?” The tone of her voice conveys she’s serious. She leans against the counter, watching, waiting to see what I’ll do, leaning so close that I catch a whiff of her breath. She’s drunk. “Go on,” she says. “It won’t kill you.”
“I know.” My finger traces the stem of the glass. The wine might not kill me, but botulism certainly could. I grapple for an excuse. “It just gives me really bad headaches.”
Grace snorts. “Well, if you drink the whole bottle by yourself, it might. Do you have a problem with alcohol?” She leans on the word problem, and I blush.
“No, I don’t.” My voice trembles. “I mean that only a little bit gives me a headache.”
She drains her glass and pours another. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard that line before.”
“No, really …” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. “I should get going.”
“But you’ve only just arrived.” She laughs. “Come along, my pet. Stay with me a little while. It’s so lonely here when Bran’s away.”
I don’t want to go with her, but I do, because of Bran. This is his mother. I may not like her, but I can treat her with respect, if only for her son’s sake.
She leads me into the library and motions to the sofa. “So, now, I notice that the story of Arthur isn’t in the pile you returned. Might I assume it’s to your liking?”
I nod, though the reason I kept it is because Bran gave it to me, nothing more.
“And what did you think of his legend?” She flops down beside me and lights another cigarette.
“It’s good,” I say as I try to figure out a polite way to waft the smoke away from my face. “An interesting story.”
“Story?” She leans toward me. “It’s much more than a story—truth is hidden beneath those words. That is my history you speak of. What stories do you have? Is your family’s history written down in books?” She exhales and bats at the cigarette smoke. “And why not? Because it isn’t worthy. History has taken no notice of your ancestors’ passing.”
You’re wrong. My blood runs back to Louis Riel. My blood almost changed the fate of a nation, I think, but before I can say a word, someone near the door clears her throat.
Grace jumps, and then snarls, “What do you want?”
Madda’s standing there, frowning. “I think that’s enough,” she says.
Grace takes a quick, desperate drag of her cigarette. “Do you mind? We’re in the middle of a lesson here.”
“Last time I checked, Cassandra was my apprentice, not yours.” Madda locks eyes with Grace. “The only lessons she attends are with me.”
I press myself into the sofa, hoping that it’ll swallow me whole.
“This one knows nothing,” Grace says, dismissively flicking her ashes onto the floor.
“She knows more than you think, but how do you expect her to answer your questions when you’re doing all the talking?” Madda gives me a quick half-smile before returning her attention to Grace.
Grace’s eyes shift to me. They widen a little, as if seeing me for the first time. We sit like that for what seems like several minutes—Grace looking at me, Madda looking at Grace, and me wishing I was anywhere but stuck on the sofa in this library.
Finally Madda clears her throat again. “Grace, I’ve got a matter I need to discuss with you. Band business. Cassandra, would you wait for me outside?”
I force myself to take slow, even steps as I cross the room and slip into the hall, but when the library door doesn’t close all the way, I creep back to listen.
“How do you know she’s not the one?” Madda asks.
“She’s a half-breed. She said it herself.” Grace coughs. “Bran can do better. He will do better.”
“She might be a half-breed, but she’s also touched by spirit. I would have thought that would be enough for you.”
“I’m looking for pure blood. That’s what Bran needs to step into his inheritance—a woman whose lineage I can be sure of. Spirit has nothing to do with it. I am rebuilding what should never have been lost. I’d think you’d understand, considering you trade in myth and legend. The old myths are being reborn. You know that as well as I do.”
That’s when the door slams shut. When I press my ear to it, all I can make out is the murmur of their voices. I sigh, and go outside to wonder what it is that Bran is supposed to inherit, and why I’m not good enough to be part of the equation.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Well, that was a bloody waste of an afternoon,” Madda says as she comes storming out of the house. “Why I have to be the go-between for the Elders with that woman is beyond me. Come on, Cassandra. Keep up.”
I trot after her as she pounds her feet into the earth and fumes, leaving me to wish I could ask her what was going on without revealing I had been listening in. She glances back at me. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” More than enough.
She stops, glances at me, looks as if she’s about to set off again, but then shakes her head and takes a seat on a fallen log. She pats the spot beside her. “Look, you have to know Grace has had a bad go of things. When she first came here, she had a really hard time fitting in. Arthur wasn’t supposed to marry some white woman, especially not one like Grace, and it wasn’t long before she started talking about all this legend stuff. Arthur came and asked me to do some healing work with her. I can’t tell you what came of that, but I can say there’s a reason why Grace is as she is. She isn’t harmless, that’s for sure, but she doesn’t always mean to be unkind, either.”
“But what does that have to do with Bran? What’s he supposed to inherit?” I ask.
“Ah.” Madda closes her eyes and turns her face to the sun. At first I think she won’t answer me. I try to wait patiently, but my vision has begun to blur, just a little at the corners, like a starry night pushing its way through my eyes. I attempt to blink it away, and when that fails, my hands start to twitch. The need to set them in soil is overwhelming, so I take the only thing available—a section of my hair—and braid it. When that braid’s done, I begin another. What will I do when I run out? I don’t know. I only hope Madda begins to speak before then.
“I suppose,” Madda says at last, “that you’ll find out sooner or later. Grace believes Bran is the reincarnation of some dead king from her homeland. She thinks he’s destined to become a greater leader than his father, that he’ll save our people or something like that.”
I know the legend she’s talking a
bout. I know because it’s in the book Bran gave me, marked by that gray feather. The once and future king, the one who is supposed to come again during the world’s greatest need. “Does Bran,” I say slowly, releasing the braid in my hand, “believe he’s this king?”
Madda purses her lips. “Not that he’s ever said. It’s not the sort of thing anyone would want to talk about, you know. Bad luck, for one thing, and for another, no quicker way to get branded as crazy than to start spouting that you’re some dead king come to life again. It’s not that people around here don’t believe a person can live more than once, but everyone’s got to make their own way in the world—no free passes. If Bran wants to lead the Band, he’s got to prove himself. The trouble is, his mother doesn’t believe that, and she’s made problems for Bran more than once.”
“Problems?” I look up at Madda. “Like what?”
“Like demanding the Elders make him chief in his father’s stead. That’s why I went to see her today. Henry Crawford’s the chief here now. I don’t care for him much, though he’s the best of the bunch. However, he’s not about to let some kid push him out of the way. Bran is a good soul—kind, smart, fair. Special, really. He tries to do the right thing, no matter what. He’ll make a good chief one day, but he has a lot to learn before that time, like the fact that compromise isn’t necessarily a bad thing. And besides, no one,” Madda says, nudging me, “should grow up too quickly. You included.” She yawns. “Speaking of which, don’t you go changing to fit with Grace’s crazy ideas. She’s been waiting a long time for some girl to arrive, the one she thinks will awaken the old stories within Bran.”
“So that’s why she hates me? Because I can’t do what she wants?”
Madda smiles a very sad smile. “She doesn’t hate you, Cassandra. If she hates anyone, it’s herself. She thought she was the one who could do all this awakening, and I don’t think she’s ever forgiven herself that she couldn’t. But that doesn’t mean you should just go along with whatever she wants. Why did you stay in there? Why didn’t you leave?”
“I don’t know. I thought it would be rude, I guess.”
“Rude? What Grace did was rude, Cass. You getting up and leaving is you taking care of yourself, and if you’re going to be my apprentice, if you’re going to be a healer, you have to learn that taking someone else’s crap because you’re afraid of hurting their feelings isn’t just wrong— it’s dangerous.”
She pushes herself up and we set off, walking in silence until we reach the cottage. Then, Madda instructs me to sit at the table and stare into a bowl of water while she works outside. Helen still hasn’t returned, and I find myself thinking about her. What is wrong with her shade? What could have done that to her? I wish I could ask Madda, but I’m supposed to be focusing. I try, over and over again. It’s hard to concentrate with the sound of Madda’s shears snipping as she does battle with her garden, a battle I’m pretty sure she’ll never win. The blackberries are determined, and every day they edge closer to the cottage. I wonder what’s so wrong with just letting them take over. As long as a person can avoid the thorns, what’s the harm if they climb up the walls and over the roof? An image of Madda doing just that pops into my mind, and I laugh.
“I hear that,” Madda hollers. “Get back to work! Nothing that you’re doing right now should be funny!”
“Sorry,” I say as I force my gaze back to the water that just sits there in the plain, chipped bowl, looking like water and nothing else at all. I try to keep my eyes on it, but they keep wandering away as Grace’s words echo through my mind. Half-breed, half-breed, half-breed.
I slump in the chair and wonder what Bran thinks about all of this. I could ask him, but would he answer? Would I, if I were the one carrying around such a burden? If he asked me about totems and shades and the spirit world, would I tell him how I can see people’s souls? How sometimes I’m here and then, I’m not?
I don’t even have to think about the answer. Yes, I would. I would tell Bran anything he wanted to know.
Madda marches into the house, bringing the scent of sun-warmed earth with her. “Well?” she demands. “See anything?”
I glare at the water. “Nothing.”
Madda grunts, picks the bowl up, and dumps the water out the window. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Good. You weren’t supposed to see anything. It’s just an exercise in concentration. You’ve got a busy mind, girl. Gotta learn to get it under control, just like a cowboy taming a wild horse.”
I groan in frustration.
“Oh, none of that,” Madda says. She pulls two mugs from a cupboard and sets them on the table before filling them with sun-tea. “Gotta earn your stripes, you know? Besides, you haven’t exactly had success on your own, have you?”
“No.”
“Oh, stop being so sullen, for god’s sake.”
I draw a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“And stop saying sorry.” She sits down and scratches her head. “You’re just going to have to trust me. This isn’t an easy process, especially with someone like you who’s been fiddlefarting along on your own. Oh, don’t worry.” She holds up a hand. “I know you’ve done the best you could, and that’s why going back to basics is hard for you. Hard on me, too, you know. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an apprentice. The last one …” She pushes her chair away from the table and I can tell what she’s about to say next is really important. “Well, the less said about that, the better. What counts is now.” Madda stares out at the garden where the wind ripples the purple heads of the lavender.
Minutes pass, and still Madda stares outside. She looks lost, and that’s when I begin to worry. I clear my throat, and then reach out and touch her hand. “Madda? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Just thinking. The last one, well, I didn’t do such a good job. We’ll just have to do it right this time.” Her words come out full of breath, like she’s not talking to me anymore. She blinks, and then rubs her eyes, and she’s back in the room. “So, patience. Patience for me, patience for you. Nothing good happens quickly. When it seems things are taking too long, remind yourself of that.”
“Right.” I yawn. It’s been a long day. My eyes feel dry and itchy. “So, what’s next?”
“Next is to start walking the spirit paths, but I need you to promise me something.” She clenches her hands into fists and then releases them, spreading her fingers wide on the tabletop. “I need you to promise not to go into the spirit world until we’ve worked through a few things. You can probably tell spirit runs a little different here on the Island, hey?”
“That’s a bit of an understatement.”
Madda chuckles. “Yes. Yes, it is. That’s the boundary at work.”
“But, Madda,” I say as I push my mug away from me, “sometimes I have no choice.” I think about when I touched the petroglyph on the rock by my house, about how it almost drew me under, and about the sparks that overwhelm me whenever spirit comes to call. “Sometimes spirit comes for me.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” She reaches behind her, takes a book down from the shelf, and pushes it across the table to me. “I don’t mean to scare you, but there are powerful creatures in the spirit world, and not all of them are nice. Right now, you don’t have any control there, and if you cross, they’ll be able to use you as they want.” A frown pinches her brow. “We might not have a lot here in this world, but one of the most precious things we do have is the right to choose how we live, and part of that is choosing the paths we walk on. If you choose to walk on over to spirit, that’s one thing, but how often have you done that?”
A lump forms in my throat. “Not often.”
“That’s what I thought.” She pats the book before me. “I want you to read this. I had planned on giving it to you when you were a little further along in your studies, but some things can’t wait.”
I pick up the book. It’s old and worn and the
cover is missing. The title page reads: Medicine Country: A Guide to Healing. “But I know how to heal,” I say.
“No.” Madda shakes her head. “You know how to fix. There’s a difference. It talks about it in there, but what I really need you to read is the chapter on grounding, on attaching yourself to the earth so that nothing can break you free. The book has some exercises, too. Try them on your own, and when you come back, you can tell me about them.” She rubs her eyes and I realize that she’s tired too. “Time for you to go. I need to spend a little time with my own spirit guides tonight. Lots to think about. Lots to consider.” She tries to smile. “You’re going to make a very good healer. Just take your time. Time is one thing we have an abundance of right now.”
“Okay.” I tuck the book under my arm and move to get up, but change my mind. “Madda,” I say slowly, “something happened with Helen.”
“Oh, the basket-making incident? Yeah, I heard about that. She wants to apologize, but she’s afraid, you know?”
I nod. “Did something happen to Helen?”
Madda draws a deep breath. “Yes. Something did.”
“Something bad?”
Madda nods again. “Something very bad. Look, Cassandra, I can’t tell you. Right now, Helen and you are friends, and if I tell you, that’ll change—not that you’ll think any different of her, but you will pity her, and Helen, well, she doesn’t want that. She just wants a friend. She needs a friend. One day, she’ll tell you; I’m pretty sure of that. But for right now? Let it be. You’ve got enough to think about, and Helen, she does too. Trust me, all right?”
“Okay.” This time I do get up. “Though, would you mind telling Helen I’m not mad? That there’s nothing to apologize for?”
Madda smiles. “Sure. I will.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” she says. “That’ll be good.”
When I reach the end of the path that leads away from the cottage, I look back. Madda’s still sitting at the table, her head cradled by her arms. I hope it’s just fatigue, but I suspect something’s troubling Madda, and I have a funny feeling that something is me.
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