She doesn’t move. She just lies there, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle, her head turned away from me. Go help her! my mind screams. Get down there and make her better!
But I know there is no helping Madda now. Deep down inside of me, I feel something break. I don’t know what, but as it does, tears begin to sting my eyes. I squeeze them shut. I won’t cry. Madda would want me to be strong.
One step. Just take one step. That’s all you need to do, I tell myself, one step to get started.
So I do. Scree gives way beneath my feet, sending a cascade of stone and dust toward Madda as I scramble down the cliff. Stop thinking, I tell myself. Stop thinking, don’t think, don’t think, you cannot think! But my mind already is—How long has she been here? How long has she been alone? How long did she suffer? Please, please say she didn’t suffer. Please say that whatever did this to her did it after she was already dead. Please.
I carefully turn her toward me. She stares up at the sky with eyeless sockets. One of her arms lies a man’s length from her body. I collect it and set it where it belongs, and then begin to search for her eyes, scouring the ground, pushing stones out of the way, heaving them across the clearing, kicking at the dust, grappling at the broom leaning out from the cliff face. Where are they?
“Help me!” I scream at the men who are still standing at the top of the cliff, looking down at me. “Come down here and help me!”
I can’t find them. I can’t find Madda’s eyes. I fall to my knees beside her and close her eyelids. She will never see the sky again.
This isn’t Madda, I tell myself. Madda is strong. Her tongue is sharp. She doesn’t suffer fools kindly. This, this doll, broken and cast aside, isn’t her.
But that’s only partly true. This was that person, once. Once was. Won’t be again.
I rest my cheek on hers and cry.
After a time, someone makes their way down the cliff and sets his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Cass.” It’s Cedar. “We need to go.”
I wrench myself away from him. “No, we don’t!” He tries to take my shoulder again, but I shake him off. “Don’t you touch me! Don’t any of you touch me!” I take Madda in my arms and hold her close. “I’m staying here with her!”
Cedar kneels before me. “Madda’s gone. She’s gone, Cass.” He looks over his shoulder, and then off at the forest beyond the clearing. “We have to go. Madda would want you to leave.”
“You don’t know a thing about what she wants!” I hiss.
“Cedar,” Henry Crawford calls from the top of the cliff. “Bring her up.”
“Not until I know who did this!” I shriek at him. When I find the one responsible, I will grind him to dust. “You know. You know who it was. Tell me!”
Cedar takes a few steps back. “Not here,” he whispers.
“Now you’ve seen,” Henry Crawford says. “Time to go.”
“We can’t leave her here like this! We have to do something for her—build her a nest in the trees. Something!”
“No,” Henry Crawford says. “She stays where she is.”
I stand up and set my hands on my hips, like Madda would’ve done. “She deserves a proper place to rest, just like what we did for those men she tended back in the forest. Have you forgotten that already?” How dare he! How dare he suggest we leave Madda’s body here, exposed, for carrion-eaters to pick at! How dare he look sad! She will be alone, so alone here. In the trees she’d have the wind and the rain and the sun. Her bones would bleach. Her skin would dry. She’d be with the stars, the moon. What better place to rest than under the heavens? How can they think of leaving her here? After all she’s done for them?
Henry Crawford draws a deep breath and crosses to me until we stand nose to nose. “We are being watched,” he says. “I’m sorry, but they want her to stay here.” He casts his gaze to the trees. “They’ve claimed her.”
“Who is they?” I say.
“You’re the medicine woman, aren’t you?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Shouldn’t you know?”
The hair on the back of my neck lifts as I scan the tree line. I have no idea what, or who, is watching us, but I realize he’s right. I can feel the eyes again, boring into my soul.
“You tell me,” I demand. “You tell me right now who did this.”
Cedar exchanges worried glances with the other men. They know, and they don’t want to say.
We climb the cliff, and when we reach the top, just as I’m about to demand answers, something behind us screams. I’ve never heard such an unearthly sound. I jump and try to bolt forward, but Henry holds me back.
“Walk slowly,” he says. “If they wanted you, they would have taken you already. They won’t hurt you now.” But his hand trembles.
“What … what is that?” I whisper.
“Dzoonokwa,” Henry says. “A supernatural, from the old stories. The wild woman of the woods.”
“Women,” the other man says. “There’s more than one.”
“What are they?” I ask.
“Later.” Henry Crawford nods at Cedar, who sets off again. “We need to get back before dark. But now you have your answer.”
The screams follow us into the woods, though they grow fainter with time. Only then, when I can’t hear them anymore, do I realize tears are streaming down my face again.
We arrive back at the camp at nightfall. I find the place where Madda and I abandoned our packs, and it hits me that the packs and all they hold are now mine. I sink down beside them, rest my forehead on the stiff, rough canvas. I don’t cry. I feel like I should, like I need to, but I have no more tears. My eyes feel dry and raw and cracked. So, too, does my heart.
No one approaches me, though I feel many gazes resting on my back. What the men think, I don’t know. I don’t care. Staying away from me is the best thing they can do. I want blood.
Cedar dares to approach a short while later. He holds a bowl of stew out to me. “You should eat,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself.” He sets the bowl beside the packs and turns to leave, when I stop him.
“Tell me about the dzoonokwa.”
He pauses midstep. “They’re the wild women of the woods.”
I groan. “Henry already told me that. I’m not in the mood to play games.”
Cedar whirls around and glares at me. “I’m not playing a game,” he snarls. “Dzoonokwa claimed Madda’s soul, and now we’re stuck with some stupid, half-trained half-breed who doesn’t know a damn thing about the spirit world or the creatures of the forest.” He storms off.
I throw the bowl of stew at his back, but I miss and the bowl bounces off into the bracken. I can smell the stew, and only then do I realize how hungry I actually am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I can’t see the stars. A fog has swept in, smelling of salt and kelp, and I’m so soul-sick, my chest aches. The sparks ebb and flow in swarms, washing in and out of my vision on a strange tide.
The men go about their business. A few of them sit around a fire. Someone plays a drum. Faint laughter echoes through the fog. All of it reminds me that I’m alone. I close my eyes and search my mind for Bran, for Paul, even for those damn ravens that never leave me alone—until now.
I’ve never minded being alone, but now I realize there’s a huge difference between being alone and being lonely. No Paul, no Bran, no father, no mother. And now, no Madda. Who will I look to for help? Who will teach me what I need to know?
“Madda,” I whisper to the stars, but I can’t say anything more. How do I say that a piece of my heart broke when I saw her body? How can I walk this path knowing that creatures of the spirit world took her life? Madda, who is so strong. Was so strong. Tears push at my eyelids as, in my mind, Madda’s face turns into my mother’s, and then I’m no longer able to hold them back.
Later, Henry Crawford comes to crouch beside me. “I have work for you,” he says.
My body is so heavy it takes all my strength to stand
, but I make myself do it, and then follow Henry to the cabin. I won’t let him see how much I’m hurting, though maybe, he knows.
The cabin is filled with a light so bright that my eyes burn when I step inside. Four men sit on hunks of wood, watching me. None of them speak.
Henry Crawford steps in and stands beside me. “Well?” he says. “You don’t expect her to know what’s going on just by staring at her, do you? Fill her in.” He pulls up a rickety chair and nods at it. “Sit.”
I drop into the chair and lean back, letting it support my spine. I’m so tired.
A rat-faced man frowns at me. “We have a problem, girl.” I force my eyes open. “My name is Cassandra, not Girl.” He blinks at me. “I’m Chris. Chris Johnson.”
I nod. “So? What’s the problem?”
“Plague. At least, we think it’s Plague.” His gaze shifts to the other men. “Got two men quarantined outside in the lean-to. Sick as dogs. Pocks on their face.”
My heart stops beating. Plague among the Others? “Do they have chips?” I ask.
He nods.
“But you’re sure they’re Others?”
Henry Crawford nods once, slowly.
“How can that be?” I ask.
Chris Johnson shrugs. “We don’t know—a new strain, maybe? We found them wandering around outside the boundary this morning. They’ve been in and out of consciousness since we brought them back.”
“Oh god,” I murmur. “So you’ve all been in contact with them?” They nod again. I shake my head. “We all have to be quarantined, then. Why didn’t you stay away?”
Chris shrugs. “We thought they must be from the Corridor at first. Never seen Plague in one of us. We didn’t know …” His voice drifts off as he glances down at his skin. I do too, before I can stop myself. My mouth fills with a sour taste, like I’m about to be sick. How long? How long until we start to show the signs?
“Anyone else been in contact with them?” I say.
“Just us.”
“And now me, too, because I’ve been in contact with you.”
“You’re the healer. If you aren’t protected, none of us are.”
I lean toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sits back. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
A small, balding man who sits in the corner speaks next. “You look tired. You want something to eat?”
Yes, but I shake my head. “Later. Do any of you have symptoms?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Maybe they’re not really sick. Maybe everyone’s made a huge mistake. My skin crawls and I look at my arm again, half expecting the black marks of Plague to be worming their way across my skin, but nothing’s there. “I guess you’d better take me to them.”
Chris steps outside, blows a single blast from the signal horn to let everyone know to stay away, and then leads us out. I notice Henry Crawford’s brought his rifle with him.
The lean-to is directly behind the cabin. Chris enters it first, holding a lantern before him as he beckons me inside. I pause, draw a deep breath, and step across the threshold. Henry Crawford leans against the doorjamb and peers at the men on the floor. Even in the flickering light, I can see they’re in bad shape. Only one of them is conscious.
Everyone’s watching, waiting for me to perform some sort of miracle. Think, I tell myself. Pretend you’re Madda. What would she do?
“Cassandra?” Henry says. “Need something?” “Give me just a second.” I draw a couple of deep breaths, trying to steady the pounding of my heart. “Okay. I need Madda’s medicine kit. It’s with the packs. Ask someone to leave it outside. We don’t want to contaminate anyone else.” Henry nods and disappears, closing the door behind him, sealing us away from the night.
I kneel beside the man who’s still conscious.
“Am I dying?” he says. His voice squeaks like a rusty hinge.
“I don’t know yet.”
“You look awfully young to be a healer.”
“I agree, but you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”
He manages a rattling laugh. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I draw a deep breath and start examining him. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to heal him. I unbutton his shirt. Pockmarks stud his chest. I touch one. Liquid ripples underneath. His forehead burns with fever. I move to the other man. The black spots have burst all over his body. They’re seeping through his clothes, into the earth that he lies on. It’s all I can do not to gag. I know that stink. I smelled it back at the monolith, when Madda sent me on the journey to find the sisiutl.
Just a coincidence, I tell myself. Doesn’t mean a thing.
Or does it?
The door opens and Henry steps in, interrupting my thoughts. “Well?” he says.
I shake my head. I don’t know. “I’ll have a better idea once I try a few things,” I say, but it’s more for the benefit of the conscious man than anything else. Hope works wonders, and when there’s none to be had, sometimes we have to make our own. “You can go back to the cabin if you want.”
“I’ll stay,” Chris says. “You might need someone to get stuff for you.”
“Thanks.” I smile. His thoughtfulness is a welcome surprise. “We’ll need water. Leave a bucket outside and have someone pour water into it. Make sure they don’t touch the bucket.”
Chris and Henry head out. I’m left with the two sick men and a medicine kit full of plants. What am I supposed to do now?
I lift the lid and scan the contents. Devil’s club. St. John’s wort. Mint. Lavender. No silver bullet. No secret antidote. No magic potion. Nothing that will eradicate Plague. Others just haven’t had to worry about it, and now, because of that, we’re all contaminated. We may all die a slow, painful death, just like these men. Or we could do what my mother did, and end it right now.
That’s just grief talking, I say to myself as I take a pinch of each herb and begin to mash them together in a bowl, working them with the knob of antler Madda once used. St. John’s wort for the pocks, lavender and mint to calm and soothe the mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself. First things first. See to the men. Do what you can. Worry about what comes after later.
Chris returns with the water and I add a little, mashing the herbs into a fragrant paste.
“That smells good,” he says. “Reminds me of what my grandmother used to rub on my chest whenever I got a cold as a kid.”
The unconscious man starts coughing and the sweet tang of St. John’s wort is replaced by the stench of excrement. Chris gags as I draw my shirt up over my mouth. “Here,” I say, offering him the mortar. “Breathe this in.”
He does and hands it back to me. “Thanks.”
I spread the paste over the conscious man’s sores and spoon a little water mixed with willow powder into his mouth, but his gaze is already glassing over. Soon, he won’t see anything anymore.
That leaves me only one option—to cross and see if I can find answers in the spirit world. The medicine kit contains sticks of sweet grass and sage, so I light them. Smoke drifts through the cabin as I close my eyes. Sparks pulse at the edge of my mind. I let them come.
I see a raven. He cocks his head, glancing at me, and hops away. Come along, he croaks. Follow me. I can show you what you want to see.
I take a step forward and realize my feet are not feet, but talons. Wings beat at my back and my tongue is that of a serpent. I stare at it, cross-eyed, in wonder.
Now that you know, you can shift, the raven says, dancing his jig across the path. That’s sisiutl’s gift. Come. You must come now.
He leads me into a thick forest, where I see a shadowy figure of a man on a path. So, the raven says as he lands on my shoulder to whisper in my ear, you thought I was a trickster.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs as only a raven can.
The figure starts down the path, moving away from me.
“Do I follow?” I ask the raven.
Do what you feel i
s right.
The man begins to run as I draw near, forcing me into a run too. Thorns reach toward me, tearing at my skin, tangling in my hair. Thunder stirs the air and the sky breaks with lightning. The forest gives way to the twilight-lit lake. Gray fingers of rock reach out into it and on the end of one finger is the man. He’s waiting for me.
I know who you are, he says.
Lightning flashes, exposing skin that is seeping and raw. Is this one of the infected men?
Why don’t you come closer and find out? The man takes a step toward me.
“Get back,” I growl.
The raven flutters down beside me. You think he’ll listen to you? he cackles.
What have I forgotten? Something is clawing at my mind, trying to remind me that there’s something I need to know, something I can do to save myself, but I can’t think of what it is.
I’ll offer you a deal, the man says. Lightning flashes again, this time exposing a man’s face laced with scars. He smiles, baring a mouth full of fangs, and then blows a mouthful of breath at me.
It’s such a strange thing to do that I don’t react at first, not until the smell hits me—that terrible, rotten stench, sweet and sickly and noxious. My stomach flips as I pinch my nose shut, but the smell is in my mouth, in my throat, in my lungs. This was a bad idea—a terrible, terrible idea. I want back into my body, into the hut with the diseased men. I want away from this being who would devour my soul.
You’re right to fear me, he says. You don’t know the paths of the spirit world. I do. I’ve walked here for ages, waiting for you. He smiles. I have your brother.
“You lie,” I say.
The raven hops up and down. Oh-ho, I didn’t expect that!
Do I have your attention now? the man says.
“You do.”
Good. I want you in exchange for your brother.
“Who are you, exactly?” I narrow my eyes. This exchange is not in good faith. I can feel it.
Does it matter? I have him. You don’t. Simple as that.
Something in the water catches my eye. There, in the center of the lake, the sisiutl rises from the depths. Is it coming for me or the man? The raven cackles and lifts into the air. Use your power, he says. Make the earth dance to your drum.
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