Shadows Cast by Stars

by Catherine Knutsson

  Helen touches my arm. “What do you need?”

  I try to convey my gratitude in my smile, hoping she’ll understand, and maybe, forgive. “Water. A fire.”

  She nods and goes to talk to the other women, leaving me alone with the boy and his mother.

  Madda said that if all else fails, look for the source of physical ailment in spirit, and right now, that’s all I think I can do. Madda also said I shouldn’t go into spirit when I’m not well, and goodness knows I don’t want to, but I have no other choice. Maybe there I might be able to see what’s wrong. I hang my head. This is a bad idea, but what am I supposed to do with nettles and mint?

  All I know is that I have no choice. I must heal this boy.

  Helen brings me a bucket of water as the smoke blows past me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to her as the other women mingle around, looking worried and frightened.

  “Not now.” Helen holds her breath. “I can’t. Not now. You can’t either.” She tips her head in the direction the other women. “We’ve all heard about what happened at the boundary. You’re going to do spirit medicine?”

  “Yeah.” I scatter a handful of sweet grass over the fire. It bursts into flames and the air fills with its perfume. “I can’t tell what’s wrong with him physically. I figure a look into spirit might be of some help.”

  She squeezes my hand, taking me by surprise. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I hope my hair hides the blush burning on my cheeks. “The boy—what’s his name?” I ask.

  “Saul,” his mother mutters. “You going into spirit?”

  “Yep,” I say as I draw a big breath. “I don’t know why he’s unconscious. I might be able to find out in the spirit world.”

  “Look for an elk.” She nods at me. “That’s his totem. Bring my boy back.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Smoke swirls around my head. I waft it over my face, over my body, down toward my feet, and around my womb. Silence—the strange, otherworldly silence that accompanies a shift from the here-and-now into spirit, the silence of a passing season, the silence of death dancing, drops around me like a cage. I close my eyes as the sparks approach, and cross …

  … and open my eyes to find myself sitting beside the fire, right beside the boy, still surrounded by Helen and the other women. I’m not in spirit. I close my eyes and try again, and again.

  I fight back tears of frustration. I can’t let him die. I can’t. Madda, help me. Help me help him! I close my eyes, and try again.

  This time when I open my eyes, I’m in spirit, but floating far above the lake. I stretch out, trying to drop from the sky, but I’m suspended there. I can’t move a muscle. Below, I can just make out something crawling along the lakeshore, something that feels … wrong. A fog has risen, a black, poisonous, stinking fog. It slinks along the ground, past the lake, winding its way past willows and stumps.

  A stench rises up to where I hover, that foul, putrid stench I’ve smelled before, but this is the first time I’ve seen it take form. I stretch my wings wide, ready to plummet back to the earth and do battle with it, but before I can, a star drops toward me. A second follows. I hover, transfixed, as stars continue to fall, showering me, scorching my skin. Starlight sears my wings, cuts through my flesh, drives into my soul, and then the heavens shake and all the stars come loose, diamonds slipping through the hands of time, and me slipping with them.

  No! I scream, though all that comes from my mouth is a hiss. No, don’t send me back yet! I need to stay. I need to find Saul!

  But something in this spirit world has made the decision that Saul is not coming back, that I must return without him, and if I don’t do so willingly, it will send me back against my will—the hard way.

  The smell of woodsmoke comes first, followed by onions. They linger on the breath of the person standing over me, shaking me.

  “Cassandra, wake up. Open your eyes.”

  I try, but sunlight burns them and they shut on their own.

  “I mean it. Open your eyes and keep them open.”

  I try again, and this time, have a little better luck. Helen’s face swims before me.

  And then the wailing begins.

  Time slows as I turn my head in infinitesimal degrees toward the boy. I did not find him. He has died while I was gone. He has died.

  The women rush past me to his side as I watch, dumbstruck.

  His mother raises her head and howls, and when she brings her gaze back down, her eyes fix on me. “You! You did this!” She claws her way through the other women, struggling to reach me.

  Helen steps between us and I almost push her aside. I want to feel this woman’s pain. I want her to beat me, to hurt me. I failed, but Helen takes the woman’s flailing hands and holds them. “She tried,” I hear her say. “She tried.”

  The woman snarls and pushes Helen away. She seizes my arm and twists it, trying to wrench it from its socket. I feel a searing pain as the newly healed skin on my shoulder rips. She shoves me to the ground and leaps on me. I don’t struggle. I let her push my face into the dirt and hold it there.

  “You die too!” she screams, slamming a knee into my kidney. “You go with him!”

  All right. I will. There’s nothing left for me here. I am the reaper of lives, not a healer. They’re better off without me.

  I want her to do it.

  The woman laughs. The sound is high, distraught with lunacy, and then, someone pulls her off me.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man says.

  I know this voice of salvation. Cedar.

  I lie in the dirt while the woman stares at me, blinking. Tears slip down her cheeks. “You’re just a girl,” she says, as if she’s seen me for the first time. “Just a girl.” Her head bows as she walks back to her son, drops down, and gathers his limp body in her arms.

  Cedar helps me up. Blood has stained my shirt, but I no longer feel the pain in my shoulder. I don’t feel anything at all.

  “Are you okay?” he asks as he glowers at the other women. “Jealous cows. Didn’t lift a finger to help her, did you? Just let her get beat down, and whose responsibility was Saul? Not hers. She crossed into spirit even though she almost died a week ago, and you blame her? Who was supposed to be looking after Saul? Why aren’t you beating that person?” He brushes dirt from my face.

  “It’s okay,” I mumble. “It’s just a bad situation.”

  Helen hands me my medicine kit. “I think you better go,” she says as the mother begins to howl again. “She’ll be all right, but still, I think you’d better go. But I know, Cass. I know you tried. I saw.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I sit in the prow of Cedar’s rowboat, staring at my palm. A burn the shape of a star is there. What does that mean? It’s like the lines are blurred between the spirit world and this one, but why? And that fog—what was that? How could I have any hope of succeeding when faced with something like that?

  Maybe I wasn’t meant to succeed. Maybe this was something beyond me. My job is to heal. If something— something more than me—decided Saul wasn’t to be healed, then maybe I couldn’t have done anything anyhow.

  But that doesn’t feel right either. That fog—it’s wrong. It’s … polluted. Evil.

  The sun warms the air around me, but I don’t feel it. A chill has seeped into my soul and it’s from more than the lingering effects of spirit. Helen. Who told Helen about Madda? It should have been me, and it wasn’t, and the fact that I completely forgot all about her is eating at me as much as losing the boy and the fog and the fact that I wasn’t any help at all.

  Cedar doesn’t say a word during the crossing, and when I get out of his boat and stand on the dock, he just rows away. It’s just as well. There are no words for what happened this afternoon.

  I climb the hill to the house, dragging a bucket of water along with me, and when I’m sure I’m alone— really alone—I strip down and wash my skin carefully, as if I was preparing a body for burial. Ashes to ashes,
dust from my skin. I dab water onto my poor shoulder, ripped and bleeding. It stings like fury, but I’m glad. Maybe some pain will drive sensation back into my heart.

  I dress in a plain white nightgown, climb the stairs to my room, slip into bed, and wish for sleep.

  But it doesn’t come. The memory of Saul, as pale as wax, lying under that tree, washes through my mind. His mother follows, angry and red-faced, staring at me with her accusing eyes. I try to call to mind those I love to replace her. Madda, so I can ask her why she left me before I was prepared to take her place. Bran. Paul. The point to my star.

  But only tears come, so I cry myself to sleep.

  • • •

  I dream.

  I dream I am walking in another time, another place. Bran and Paul are here. I can feel their presence, but I can’t see them. I search and I search, and nothing. Paul has shut me out. He doesn’t want me to follow, and I can only imagine what terrors he and Bran face.

  I shut my eyes and try again.

  The house is dark. I rise and tiptoe downstairs. My father stands outside on the balcony, staring at the stars.

  The wood is warm under my bare feet, and I hardly make a sound as I steal outside and rest my head on his shoulder.

  He gently tugs my hair. “Difficult times are ahead for you, Cass.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  He wraps an arm around me, taking care not to touch my shoulder. “This isn’t what I had hoped for you or Paul.”

  “I know, Dad. It isn’t your fault. No one could have known any of this would happen.”

  He draws a deep breath. “I know. But still …”

  “Don’t worry, Dad.” My hand finds his. “We’ll find Paul. Don’t know how, but we’ll find him.”

  He kisses my forehead. “We will. But we won’t do much finding if you’re falling down exhausted. Go to bed, starshine, and get some rest. You’re going to need it, because tomorrow, I’m taking you to Madda’s …” He pauses, dropping his chin to his chest. “Your place. It’s your place now.”

  My place. The words ring hollow. My place. I have no place, I want to say, but I don’t. I just turn to go back to bed, but then change my mind. “Dad,” I say slowly, “do you know who told Helen? About Madda?”

  He scrubs his chin. “I did. She’s still staying with Ms. Adelaide. Figured you weren’t in any shape to, and I didn’t want it coming from the Band men.”

  “Oh, Dad. Thank you.”

  He ruffles my hair. “She’ll still want to talk to you about it, you know.”

  I do. And I will.

  But right now, all I wish for are words strong enough, words deep enough, to tell my father how thankful I am, how lucky I am that he’s my dad.

  We leave for Madda’s at noon. I carry a basket of clothing, nothing else. Everything I need is already there waiting for me.

  My father doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

  When we finally arrive at the cottage’s gate, I half expect Madda to poke her head out from the blackberries, shears in hand, to wave us in. I know she’s dead. I know this in my heart and I know it in my bones, but I still can’t quite believe it. My brain has stubbornly decided that it will rule me, and what it says goes. Madda is not dead. She’s just off in the forest, or working on the blackberries, or puttering around the cottage, and any minute now, she’ll stroll over to the truck and ask why I look like I’ve seen a ghost.

  “Best get it over with and go in, don’t you think?” my father says, though he’s not anxious to get out of the truck either.

  Still, one of us has to make the first move, and since I’m the one who will be living here, I guess the task falls to me. I slide out and push the gate open. Blackberry canes have come loose from the arbor and have twisted over the walk to the cottage.

  “Good thing Madda has a machete. I’ll go get it,” my father says with a quick smile—too quick—before he rushes off to collect it from the woodpile.

  When he returns, I pace while he hacks the canes back. Each stroke is a reminder that I don’t belong here. This is not my place, and each step down the path reinforces that Madda is not coming back. Ever.

  The air is soon sweet with the scent of the ripening blackberries. How long until autumn? I wonder as I look at the canes my father has hacked down. I can’t afford to be this wasteful. I should have found a better way— tied them back, maybe, or picked the berries first, even though most of them are still hard and red. Will they still ripen? They must be good for something, mustn’t they?

  My father sees the panic that’s spreading through my body. He stops and wipes the sweat from his brow. “You don’t need to live here, you know. Madda would understand. She’d be disappointed, but she would understand.”

  I want to ask him why. Why me? She could have chosen anyone, so why me? If I left now, would I be free of all of this? No one would miss me here. Hell, they don’t even want me here. Someone else could do this. Someone else could take my place.

  But that’s not true. Madda did choose me. That meant she had faith in me. Leaving, even if I had somewhere to go, would be dishonoring that faith. I’ll find a way.

  A raven lands on the apex of the roof and glares down at me. I glare back and inch toward the door.

  “Almost there,” my father says. “Just one more step.”

  My hand falls on the handle and with a held breath, I turn it. The door swings open. “Okay,” I say.

  “Good girl.” My father pauses to wipe his brow again. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  I stare into the darkness. Time to face the ghosts that lurk within. “No,” I say. “But maybe come for dinner tonight?”

  “Sure,” he says. “That sounds good.”

  I turn then and notice he’s on the verge of tears, but he ducks his head, sets the machete on the doorstep, and trots down the path before they can slip from his eyes.

  I don’t know how long I stand there in the doorway. Long enough for my shadow to stretch out across the floor. Long enough for my legs to begin aching.

  Finally I force myself to step inside and set my basket down on the table. Everything is just as Madda left it. Herbs are strewn on the workbench. Bundles of bandages spill out of a box. A sweater is draped across a stool. Two pairs of old shoes sit by the hearth. A walking stick. An empty glass, complete with fingerprints. A half-eaten biscuit. A hairbrush. This is what remains of Madda.

  “Stop thinking,” I mutter as I roll up my sleeves and pick up the bucket by the door. If I work, I won’t think.

  The rest of the day is devoted to cleaning. Tomorrow, I’ll go to Ms. Adelaide’s and talk to Helen. I’ll understand if she doesn’t want to live here anymore, but I’ll ask her just the same. And then, once I’ve done that, I’ll figure out how to persuade the Band to send out a search for my brother and Bran. I’ll lead it, if I have to.

  I scrub the little kitchen with its polished enamel sink and tiled floor. Dust motes float in the air as I sweep the floors. Night approaches, so I build a small fire in the cookstove. Madda’s garden is full of squash and corn, and I’ll feed my father some of both.

  My arms ache, but it’s a good ache, the ache of hard work. My face is smudged with dirt and so are my hands, but oddly enough, I’m also happy—so happy that when my father arrives, he looks shocked for a moment, as if he doesn’t recognize me. We eat in silence, each of us offering careful smiles, because I think we’re both afraid to break the mood.

  Later, after my father has left, I open every door and window in the house to invite the night inside. Evening air permeates the cottage. I pull a chair close to the fire, pretending that I’m not tired yet, but I am. I just can’t bring myself to go into Madda’s bedroom. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.

  But the chair by the fire is comfy and warm. Good enough for now.

  More than good enough for now.

  • • •

  I startle awake. Moonlight paves the floor and the fire has died.

  Something isn’t right.
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br />   I scramble to a window and peer out at the forest.

  I can’t make out a thing, but I am certain, beyond doubt, that someone, something, is watching me. Every hair on my body stands at attention.

  Nothing moves. There is no sound. Even the crickets have ceased their singing.

  I steal through the house as quietly as I can, shutting the windows, barring them in place, locking the doors. Tomorrow, I will dig through Madda’s notes and set up every warding I can find.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  First thing in the morning, I start making plans: Get the Elders together. Talk to them. Figure out how to find Bran and Paul. And make them take me along. It all seems manageable. I’m medicine woman here now—I must have some say!—until I think of Saul. My first duty as medicine woman ended in tragedy, and the Elders will have heard of that by now.

  Doesn’t matter, I tell myself, but suddenly I’m overwhelmed with a desire to do anything but walk into town and face the Elders. It feels like Madda’s here, working in the garden or grinding herbs at the table. I can’t see her, but when I close my eyes, I can sense her. Help me, Madda. Give me the strength to face those men. Help me convince them that we need to do something, that Paul and Bran are still alive, and they need our help.

  But that’s not what she wants.

  What she wants is for me to go into her room.

  I fight it, but no matter what I do, I keep finding myself standing at her bedroom door, hand on the doorknob. Three times I turn away, but on the fourth, I grit my teeth and make myself open the door.

  Time has stopped in here. The bedcovers are rumpled. A robe lies on the floor. Underwear dangles from the arm of a wicker-backed chair. The wardrobe stands open, its arms wide, ready to receive me. The windowsill is jammed with books. I run my hand over the spines, leaving tracks in the dust as time begins to beat again. A cardigan has fallen behind them and I pick it up. It smells of earth and roses—just like Madda. This is how I will remember her.

  I shake the cardigan, loosing a layer of dust, and a letter flies from one of the pockets, skittering across the floor. The envelope is made of thick, homemade paper, speckled with rose petals and lavender. My name is scratched across it in Madda’s spidery hand.