Shadows Cast by Stars

by Catherine Knutsson

  I hold the bundle in my hands. Whatever’s under the cloth is hard and heavy. I peel back the layers to expose a silver barrel, and immediately thrust it back to her. “I can’t have this.”

  She doesn’t hear me. She’s back in the cupboard. “I know I’ve got some bullets in here somewhere,” she growls.

  “Madda,” I say. “Madda, I can’t have this.”

  She’s out of the cupboard and has a hold of my shoulders before I can blink. “Child, you have no choice. We’re going into battle. If you want to come, you come armed.”

  “You don’t understand,” I whisper.

  “Tell me what I don’t understand.” She peers into my eyes. “That your mother shot herself with one of these? I know that. She did it, not you.”

  And that’s that.

  What I remember is this:

  A kitchen table.

  One chair, knocked to the floor.

  The door open.

  A bottle of bleach, empty.

  The apple tree outside.

  Smoke from a smoldering fire.

  Shadows behind it.

  My mother’s arm, blackened by Plague, piercing those shadows.

  Her blood feeding the roots of the apple.

  A letter on the refrigerator, tacked up with the letters C and P.

  It reads: I’m infected. I cleaned the house and burned my clothes. I’m sorry. I love you. I can’t let it take you, too.

  A year later, just after I turn twelve, a scientist in Bangladesh discovers that those of aboriginal descent are immune to Plague. Our blood carries antibodies. Liquid gold.

  I make my father promise he’ll never have a gun in the house again.

  And then the searches begin.

  We gather outside the longhouse, a hundred head strong. My father stands beside me. We are grim-faced and silent. My father’s not going. Someone has to stay behind, tend the crops, prepare for winter, and watch for our return. He’s not the only one—a few of the Elders, most of the women, the children—they’re also staying. The young, the infirmed. This is what the UA does to us: divides us into groups, makes us see who’s expendable, who’s not. Who’s strong, who’s weak. I’ve heard it said that conflict unites a nation, but I don’t believe it, not for one second. All conflict does is break things apart and scatter the pieces so far that it’s impossible to pick them all up again.

  Paul hasn’t been home in days, and when I spot him in the crowd, it’s just as I suspected. He’s walking hand-in-hand with Avalon.

  “Did you know?” I ask my father.

  “About the girl?” He shrugs. “Yeah, he told me. Not who I would have chosen for him, but that’s love for you.” My father nudges me. “Madda’s over there. You should go to her.”

  I kiss my father’s cheek and head off, not knowing what to think. The division has already begun. Does my brother deserve to be happy? Yes, of course he does. But with Avalon? Avalon, who will break his heart? Because she will—she’s said as much herself. I wish I didn’t know this, but I do, right deep in my bones. What will happen to Paul then? Who will tell him that his heartache will pass? Who will watch him slip into himself and disappear into the blackness that has haunted him since he was a little boy?

  Please, let me be wrong. I have never wanted to be so wrong about anything in my life.

  Madda is parked under a pine tree, ordering women around. “No, that doesn’t go there,” she says, scurrying over to snatch a bundle away from a flustered-looking woman. “What if someone takes a bullet? How would I get to it in time?” The woman mutters something and bends back to her work as Madda looks around and rubs her forehead with a grimy hand. She spots me and waves me over. “I need your help,” she says. “Sort through the surgical gear and take out anything that’s not essential. We’ll be traveling light and fast.” She nods at the pile of supplies behind her. “Anything that’s too heavy, stick over there. The men will carry it.” She marches off.

  Avalon finds me wrapping bandages.

  “You’re going too?” she asks.

  I force myself not to snap at her. What she said about Helen hasn’t escaped my memory, and now, with what Madda has revealed, I’m not about to suffer Avalon’s games. “Yes” is all I say, in hopes she’ll just go away.

  Avalon glances around. She sniffs and tries to pick up one of the backpacks, but it’s clearly an effort for her and she sets it back down right away, even though I can lift it without any problem at all. “I could carry one of these.” She sits down beside me, but makes no effort to help. “Healing isn’t so hard. Maybe,” she says as she gives me a sidelong glance, “you could ask Madda if I can come too.”

  “Maybe,” I say, though I already know Madda’s answer, and therefore won’t bother. It’s then I notice she’s watching someone. Bran. He’s walking across the park, a pack on his back, his eyes full of storm clouds. Avalon can’t take her eyes from him.

  Oh, Paul. If only you could see what I’m seeing now. I couldn’t make him, even if he were here, but when Avalon breaks his heart, I will help him pick up the pieces and glue them back together again.

  We spend the night outside the longhouse, sleeping wherever we can find a spot. Bran is beside me. The afternoon is still in my mind, and it’s all I can do not to touch him. Instead I content myself with watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his mouth relaxes, the thick lashes framing his eyes. I should sleep. But I can’t. I pass the hours braiding a string of cedar bark on which I’ll hang the little pouch with my sisiutl pearls and the feather Bran gave me. When it’s finished, I drape it around my neck and smile. It feels good, though I can’t help thinking that it should be the medicine bag Madda gave me.

  My father is lying a little ways away. He isn’t asleep either. I could ask him what will happen tomorrow, what being at war really means, but I don’t. Tonight he has other things on his mind—one of which is Paul, who vanished earlier in the day and hasn’t yet returned.

  I turn over and find Bran awake, looking at me. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

  “Nothing.” I try to smile, but it doesn’t work.

  “Hmm.” He scoots over and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. The length of his body presses against mine. He’s warm and smells of dirt and wood shavings. I yawn and close my eyes.

  Madda wakes me just as an advance party sets out. The men are black shadows against the purple crush of dawn. I see flashes of their shades, but they’re too far away for me to make out what they are.

  I’m tying a rope around my bedroll when Bran wakes. “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.” He sits up, rubs his eyes, and then fishes something out from under his shirt. “Hold out your hand,” he says.

  I do, and in it he places something cold and smooth. A stone. A green stone hanging on a leather thread. His green stone.

  He smiles shyly. “It’s a spirit stone. Will you wear it for me?”

  I nod, and bend my head so he can bind it around my neck.

  He touches it with one finger. “It looks like it belongs there.” He’s about to say something else when his attention catches on something in the distance. “Oh no.”

  I turn to see what he’s looking at. His mother is standing on the other side of the park, wringing her hands. She spots Bran and comes streaking over, knocking aside anyone who gets in her way, tripping over sleeping men. “Too soon!” she cries when she reaches us. “It’s too soon, and with so many things left undone!”

  Bran grimaces as she throws herself into his chest and sobs. She stinks of whiskey. Bran mouths Help at me, but what am I supposed to do? I glance over at Madda, who just shrugs. The few eyes that look our way dart off just as quickly. They’ve seen this before, and there’s nothing to be done. Grace Eagleson is a drunk. That’s just the way it is.

  “Come on, Mother,” Bran says, brushing her tangled hair from her eyes. “Let me take you home.”

  “Oh, my love,” she whispers as her gaze falls on the stone at my throat. Bran doesn’t notice
. He just takes her hand, slips it into the nook of his elbow, and leads her away.

  I watch. That’s all I can do: watch them leave.

  And hope that Bran comes back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Band business is slow business. Madda and I sit under a pine, listening to the men debate this, that, and the other, taking so much time that an onlooker might believe they were preparing for a horseshoe tournament, not a war. They’re lucky that time doesn’t spoil, because they’re wasting it in huge quantities.

  Something behind the longhouse catches Madda’s attention. I look to see Paul standing there, a pack on his back, a rifle in his hands. He looks around as if the sunlight is blinding him.

  Madda nudges me. “Go on,” she says. “Might be a while before you get to see him again.”

  Paul is still standing in the same spot when I draw near. “Hi,” I say, tipping my head to one side. “You okay?”

  “I guess,” he says, though he doesn’t look it.

  “Hmm.” I turn and look back at the Elders. They’re laughing about something. “I missed you,” I say slowly, doing my best to sound casual. “Did you spend the night at Avalon’s house?”

  I don’t have to look at Paul to know that was the wrong question. “What, exactly, is it that you want to know, Cass? If I was screwing her? What, should I have invited you along so you could tell me how to do it?”

  “Paul!” I gasp.

  “What?” He turns to me, and in his eyes I see something I haven’t seen in a long time. Anger, and hatred, and something darker, something without a name. This isn’t about me. I just happen to be the thing that’s closest, the thing that’s easiest to strike out at, but that doesn’t lessen the sting of his words at all. “I don’t need your help, Cass. Don’t you get it? I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything as Paul storms off. Just as tears start to well in my eyes, Paul stops, turns around, and walks back to me. “Look,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  I’m sorry too, I want to say, but he’s already stalking off to join the rest of the Band. Neither of us can undo what he’s said. We both know it.

  I stare at my hands, thinking of when we were little, when we knew each other so well that we could finish each other’s sentences. Now I don’t know what Paul wants. I thought I did. I thought he wanted me to help him.

  But I was wrong.

  I was so, so wrong.

  It’s midmorning before we get under way.

  Bran meets up with us as we head out, falling into place at the back of the group so I can’t talk to him. He looks awful. His eyes are bloodshot and he walks bent, as if his pack is twice as heavy as it actually is. Paul falls into step beside him.

  I focus on the road ahead of me. Paul and Bran are together. That will have to suffice for now.

  Madda seems to know something’s wrong and decides to quiz me while we walk, as if that will help take my mind off things—“How much borage do you need to lift a mood?” “Digitalis—what dosage is lethal?” “Primrose— how do you distill the oil?”—on and on until I have no idea where we are or what time it is.

  The green spirit stone bumps against my chest, keeping time as I walk—one, two, buckle my shoe; three, four, close the door. My pack is unnaturally heavy, as if someone filled it with stones when I wasn’t looking. The straps dig into my shoulders, worming their way down to bone, severing flesh from sinew, eating me alive….

  Madda snaps her fingers under my nose. “Don’t you dare do that now,” she says. “Not when there’s people around.” She leans in close. “When we get back, we’re going to sort this out. Don’t let me forget.”

  I nod as I blink myself back to the world of the living. Laughter echoes in my mind—not the laughter of a person, but of the raven. I almost had you, it says. Never forget that you belong to me….

  We reach the estuary around noon. The group divides into two. Half take to the enormous war canoes that were once ancient cedars. They’ll go to the point on the water where the boundary is thinnest, the point where my family crossed. The rest of us, including Madda and me, will head south toward the land boundary, where waves ravaged the Island long ago and nothing now grows.

  Bran and Paul are herded into a canoe before I have time to say good-bye. Bran stares at me and touches his hand to his heart. I draw the spirit stone out from under my shirt and press it to my lips. My brother rolls his eyes.

  Then, with a shout, the men plunge their paddles into the water and the canoes shoot away, chased by a herd of shades, all vying to keep up.

  “Come on,” Madda says, taking my shoulder and steering me away from the shore. “You’ll see them again soon enough.”

  We find ourselves in the middle of the remaining men. Weapons can be fashioned, food can be caught, but healers are rare, and out here in the lands left behind, we are as precious to the Band as the blood in our veins is to the people of the Corridors.

  Our path snakes through dark woods. Nature has reclaimed this place, burrowing her roots through the burned-out shells of houses, ripping through asphalt. No one speaks, but it’s not from a need for stealth. Our silence is an offering to the spirits that live here, a sign of respect, a way to say that we will not stay.

  We stop well after nightfall. Madda is summoned to a meeting with the Elders, leaving me to sit beside our packs and wait. For the first time, I notice Cedar. He’s knee-deep in ferns, looking for a place on the forest floor to sleep. The other men do the same, but all of us keep an ear turned to what’s going on with Madda and the Elders. They argue late into the night. I can’t make out their words, but the tone of their voices makes it clear that Madda’s not happy about something and the men don’t want to listen to her.

  I clutch my knees to my chest and think of Bran and Paul. Where are they sleeping tonight? Are they together? Are they safe? For a moment I consider closing my eyes and reaching out to whatever seized me on the road. Perhaps the raven might tell me what I want to know. But I change my mind. It’s been only half a day since I saw them leave in the canoes. What could have happened to them in that time? Not a whole lot.

  Madda stomps back just as sleep is settling over me. I blink myself awake.

  “Bloody pig-headed men,” she fumes as she pulls her bedroll out from the top of her pack.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she grumbles. “Just go to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  But now that I’m awake, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I watch the midnight sky, where stars appear, one by one. The big bear, and the little one, chasing each other through time. The Milky Way, a wash of white. Serpens, his sinuous form bending through the darkness. Paul taught me the names of these constellations. I wonder, Is he looking at them too? Is he caught in their light, or in their shadows? Stars, he once told me, don’t cast shadows, but how can that be? Everything has a dark side. Everywhere I look, I see outlines of trees, people, animals, and their shades, the hidden halves of their souls. All except me. I’m not vain enough to believe I’m so special that I don’t need a shade, but … where is mine? Why can’t I see that part of myself that connects me to the world of spirit? Maybe I’m damaged, I think, just like Grace Eagleson said the first time I met her.

  “You’re thinking too loud,” Madda says as she rolls over. “Stop it. You’re keeping me awake.”

  “Sorry.” I force myself to close my eyes. “Where are we going, Madda?”

  “The boundary.” Her voice is raspy and sounds tired. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, but I feel like there’s something else going on that no one’s telling me.”

  “Honey, that’s life.” She draws her blanket up over her shoulders and closes her eyes. “Get used to it.”

  I dream.

  I dream that the sky is alive, that the stars are anemones in the ocean and they’re waving back and forth while waves wash over them
. I try to touch one. Its sticky tentacles grip my fingers, and when I pull back, it doesn’t release me. I’m trapped, halfway to heaven, halfway to earth.

  It starts to rain sometime during the night. I wake shivering. It might be summer, but under the trees the world is cold.

  We pack our sodden blankets and eat hard, dry strips of oolichan. The oily smell makes me gag, but I force the fish down my throat. Madda pushes a canteen of water at me and I take a long swallow. Water mixes with the fish oil until all I can taste is wet dog, and then I really do gag.

  Someone pauses beside me. Cedar. “You’re wet,” he says.

  “So?”

  He hands me a blanket. “I’m used to this. You aren’t. Put the blanket over your pack. It’ll help.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “But we did get rain in the Corridor, you know.”

  “Nothing like the rain here,” he says with a shrug.

  “That’s true.” This rain is thick and healthy, if cold. I drape the blanket around my shoulders. It feels like a peace offering, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

  Cedar takes a seat beside me—close enough to talk, but not so close that I’m uncomfortable.

  “Did you like it there?” he asks.

  “What? The Corridor?” I consider his question. Had he asked me this when I first arrived, my answer would have been very different, but now I can’t believe I ever saw my future there. What was it I was going to be? What hope for my future have I forgotten? “Life was different there—easier, I guess. But not by much.” I shrug.

  “Hmm.” He shifts his rifle from one shoulder to the other and looks like he’s going to ask another question just as Henry Crawford shouts that it’s time to move out. Cedar goes to take his place near the head of the line.

  I’m struggling with my pack when he makes his way back toward me.

  “You ever seen a searchcraft before?” he says.

  “Once. Why?”

  “If we see them, stay close to a man. They look for women first, but then, you’re a half-breed. Your blood’s diluted. Maybe that’ll make a difference.” He stalks off, his muskrat scampering at his shoulder, leaving me to wonder what that was all about.