by Amber Argyle
She glanced at the carcass and her eyes seemed to close involuntarily, a look of relief washing over her.
“You could just say thank you,” Otec growled, then fed some more wood to the fire. His gaze passed over Matka—she was still staring at the carcass, her body tense.
He sighed. “When we were little, my mother would tell us to say aloud what we wanted to dream about. It worked, some of the time. At least, my nightmares went away.”
For the first time, Matka seemed to soften a fraction. “Holla said the same thing.” She studied Otec warily. “You’re a lot like her, you know.” Coming from her, it sounded more like an accusation than a compliment.
He and his sister certainly looked alike, but then all his family had wild blond hair and pale features. “She never stops talking,” he said, shaking his head. “I try my best never to get started.” He picked sticks and pieces of leaves out of his socks.
Matka studied him. “No, not in that way. Obviously, neither of you have any patience for injustice. But it’s more than that. It’s like you’re . . . innocent. Like the world has never shown you its darkness.”
He tossed in another log, pretending he didn’t understand. “It’s dark now.”
“It’s like you think this is what life is. These mountains, this valley, these people. That family loves you and home is a safe place.” Her voice sounded void of any feeling, but Otec knew better.
“It wasn’t for you?” he asked, unable to imagine anything different.
Matka sighed, and it was as if her prickly exterior hardened back up. “This place—it is sharp and soft, the kind that takes your breath away and lets you close your eyes without fear. Where I’m from, there is only sharpness, the kind that cuts deep.
“There are things you don’t know, clanman,” she went on. “And those things could get you killed. I won’t deny I’m glad she is dead, but she will be back. And it will be worse—for both of us.”
“What does that mean?” Otec glanced at the dead owl again—Matka already believed in fairies, so perhaps she was the superstitious sort.
“Next time, don’t help me.” Matka rolled over and pulled the furs over her head. She murmured in a language he could not understand, and he imagined she was asking for dreams.
Otec let Matka sleep in the next morning. He figured she probably hadn’t had much rest the night before—he certainly hadn’t, not after that bit with the owl. Instead, he’d found a block of wood and begun carving.
As soon as it was light, he’d taken the owl’s carcass and buried it, then set a heavy rock on top of the loose soil. Just in case.
By the time Matka finally stirred, Otec tucked the half-finished carving out of sight and handed her a breakfast of bread with ham, sheep cheese, and raspberry jam.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and asked brusquely, “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because you need your rest if we’re going to make it to the waterfall today.” Otec set about eating.
“Where is it?” Fear tinged her voice as she stared at the spot where the owl had died.
“I buried it.”
Seeming relieved, Matka started stretching her muscles. Her face was overtaken with endearing little winces as her joints popped and cracked. Wishing he hadn’t noticed, Otec finished eating and began packing up their camp. Matka clumsily tried to roll up her own furs. He knelt next to her and showed her how to disperse the a flint and striker, packets of food, a small axe, extra socks, as well as some personal items so they didn’t create a pocket and slip out later. He tied off the ends so nothing fell out and helped her settle the roll on her shoulders so it wouldn’t pinch or rub her raw. She watched him like he was a strange creature she couldn’t figure out.
Otec felt her eyes on him as he started up the mountain, noting landmarks as he went. He naturally fell into his rhythm—breathe in, wind blows, breathe out, steps fall. Listen, watch, learn. But he couldn’t forget Matka and her watching eyes.
They reached the sheer cliff face. “I’ll go first then toss the rope back down to you,” Otec said. “Settle the loop around your chest and tighten it up.”
Folding her arms, Matka turned toward him. “I insist we go around.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No matter which way we go, there’s a cliff involved. This is the easiest one to manage.”
“Well, figure something else out.”
Otec might have become angry with her, but he noticed the trembling in her hands. She must be afraid of heights like he was afraid of crowds. He looked into her eyes. “I won’t let you fall.”
“Do you swear it?” Matka asked softly, her eyes cast down as if she were ashamed, which he thought silly. Everyone had fears. It was how you dealt with them that mattered.
“Yes, I do.”
She let out a long sigh. “All right.”
He fitted his fingers in a crevice in the rock and started making his way up. The fear, the danger—it made him feel alive. Like more than just a shepherd. More than just one of twelve children in an overflowing house. Here, he was finally free.
Only when he reached the top did he allow himself to look down. Matka stared up at him, her short black hair falling across her eyes. He gave her a reassuring smile she probably couldn’t make out and tied the rope securely around a tree. He tossed it down to her, somewhat dismayed when it only fell about three-quarters of the way.
Matka folded her arms around her rather sparse bosom and glared up at him. “What am I supposed to do now?”
He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Go get it.”
“You promised me!”
Trying not to let his frustration get the best of him, he rubbed his forehead. “How is it you can use swords but can’t climb five lengths to a bit of rope?”
“What?” she shouted.
“Matka, this is the only way up the mountain. If you’ve changed your mind, we can always return to the Shyle.”
She paced back and forth a few times, mumbling things to herself he couldn’t make out. Finally, she started climbing up the cliff face, moving faster than he thought prudent, but he dared not comment and distract her.
When she finally reached the rope, Otec let out the breath he’d been holding. “Now what?” she called, her voice shaking.
“Put the loop over your head and under your arms.”
“But then I’ll have to let go!” She looked down, and her tan skin lost its richness.
“Don’t look down,” Otec said belatedly. She buried her face in the mountain. He lay on his stomach, his face peeking over the side. “Matka.” She didn’t move. “Matka, look at me. Let me help you through this.”
When he’d finally decided she was stuck and he would have to go down and get her, she finally glanced up at him. “You have to stop thinking about what can go wrong and focus on what will go right.”
She wet her lips. “I’m not sure how.”
“What do you want, Matka?”
She blinked up at him, seeming at a loss for words.
“Focus on what you want and don’t look back.”
She stared at him, her gaze hardening with determination. He nodded encouragingly. “Set your feet, release your weakest hand, grip the rope, and put your arm and head through it.”
Fixating on the rope, she did as he asked. “I’ve got it.”
“Good. Now, I’m going to stand and help pull you up, but you’ve still got to climb.” He stood, wrapped the rope around his middle, and started pulling.
“Wait! Wait!” He peered over the edge to see Matka hanging onto the cliff with all her strength. “I’m not ready,” she called to him.
Otec set his jaw, considering what to do. He could try pulling her up on his own, but where the cliff and rope met, there would be a lot of friction. If the rope broke, she would fall to her death.
“I think . . . I think I’m stuck,” her thin voice carried up to him.
He found a bit of an outcropping and braced himself on it. “Matka.�
�� She didn’t move. “Matka, look at me. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She was trembling. “I could die.”
Otec shook his head. “No. I have the rope. If you fall, I’ll catch you. Don’t you trust me?”
“I hardly know you,” she reminded him.
“Remember what I said, Matka?” She took a deep breath and looked up at him. “Where do you want to go?”
“Up,” she said so softly he could barely hear her. He nodded encouragingly. “Focus on that. Trust me. Trust yourself.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Otec waited for what felt like forever, forcing himself to remain silent and not push her. Finally, she started climbing. He watched her, keeping the rope taunt. Several times she had to stop, shake out her arms, and calm her breathing.
Finally, when Matka was close enough, he reached down and clasped her outstretched hand. Bracing himself against the rocky cliff, he hauled her the rest of the way up. She landed on top of him and quickly rolled off, but he felt the impression of her body—solid and strong, much stronger than she thought she was.
She lay beside Otec, their shoulders touching and their breaths coming in ragged gasps. “I did it,” she finally managed, and a grin spread across her face.
She closed her eyes, and he took the opportunity to study her. She was so different than the girls of the clan lands. Her dark lashes spread along the tops of her cheeks like the feathers of a raven’s wings. And with the dappled light filtering through the trees, he realized her hair wasn’t black as he’d first supposed, but a very dark brown. Matka was pretty, he realized—not classically so, but then he wasn’t considered particularly handsome, either.
“Otec, why are you being kind?” she asked, still not opening her eyes. “You gain nothing by it.”
“You’re not used to kindness, are you?”
“Not without a reason,” she said after a pause.
Otec couldn’t imagine what kind of life she’d had, to make her so suspicious. “My people speak of the Balance. Like what you mentioned last night—there is light and dark in the world. Mother always says to stay as far into the light as we can manage.”
“That’s strange,” Matka said, “since the clan lands are under the Goddess of Winter’s domain, and her side of the Balance is darkness.”
“Which only means we have to strive harder to stay in the light.”
Her eyes opened and she turned to him. For a moment, Otec was lost in the dark depths of her gaze. She cleared her throat uncomfortably and sat up, some fir needles in her hair. Still a little lost in her, he reached up and pulled them out. She started and turned toward him as if to bat his hand away, but then seemed to relax.
Though short, her hair was so soft. “Got it,” he said, his voice husky.
Matka stood suddenly and brushed the dust off her clothes, then worked at the knot still binding the rope to her chest. “How much farther?”
Otec forced himself to look away. What was he doing? She was a Highwoman, leaving in just three days. “Before nightfall.” He untied the rope from the tree with vigor and was grateful when she managed to untie the rope at her chest.
Keeping far back, she peered over the edge. “Um . . . how are we going to get back down?”
“Down is always easier than up.” He stepped around her and headed up the mountain at an angle. “If we move fast, we’ll make it before nightfall.”
Otec knew the waterfall was close when the vegetation began to change. Ferns trimmed in autumn gold and russet crammed themselves between the roots of the massive trees. Moss clung to every tree and rock. The air turned heavy and smelled of minerals.
Finally, he and Matka crossed the swift-running river and walked alongside it. More than once, Otec stopped to help her over a slippery spot or up a short cliff blocking their way. It was slow going, as she insisted on stopping to inspect and gather leaves. At one point, she sat down and hugged her knees to her chest, wonder on her face.
Otec glanced back to see the valley spread out before them—sharp hills that jutted up against rugged mountains blanketed in primeval forest. Eventually that forest was eaten up by glaciers and gray rock.
Realizing Matka was itching to draw the scene, he said, “The view is better by the waterfall.” She grudgingly moved on.
Eventually, they could see the waterfall, plunging down into a rocky pool. The river widened as they approached the small, deep pool at the base, the water so clear they could see every detail of the mossy rocks at the bottom.
Otec found his favorite spot between a pair of larch trees. The ground felt soft and springy with a thick layer of larch needles, and the trees themselves would be a good wind block. He cleared the ground so he could start a fire, then looked up to find Matka already surrounded by a variety of plants. She was busily sketching each one in minute detail.
“Can you find me the plant with the flower you were telling me about?” she asked.
“I think so.”
She didn’t seem to hear Otec’s reply as her charcoal-darkened fingers flew over the vellum. He watched her, feeling a kinship with another person who transformed something mundane into something beautiful.
After setting up the kindling for the fire, he went to the waterfall and found the plant. He brought it back for Matka, who took it eagerly and flipped the leaves over in her hands. She broke the stem with a pop, sniffing the juices. Then she licked them. Her face fell. “This isn’t it.”
Otec shifted from one foot to another. “I’m sorry we didn’t find the plant you wanted.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Let’s just say I’m not as eager as my . . . employer. I have many more samples to take back with me. I haven’t seen any of these in the lowlands.”
He couldn’t believe how changed this girl was from a couple of days ago. She just needed to get away from Jore and that eerie owl. Otec headed out to lay his snares in front of a few promising-looking warrens.
When he came back, Matka was surrounded by parchment held down by rocks. On each piece were two sketches, one of the overall plant, another a highly detailed version of the leaves. In between these sketches were bundles of leaves held together with a bit of twine. But she wasn’t looking at any of them. Her gaze shifted between the verdant valley bedecked in crimson and yellow, the white-capped purple mountains in the distance, and the vellum upon which she was sketching them.
Otec stepped closer to her, careful not to disturb her drawings.
“Do you see it?” she asked softly. “The way the setting sun and the dark mountain create a jagged line of shadow and light. The way the light streams into the valley in wide beams. When I first started drawing, there was so much color I could see its opposite any time I closed my eyes. But then those colors—emerald, crimson, purple, yellow—all of them shift to black as the shadows grow deeper.”
At the longing and sadness in her voice, Otec realized his mother was right. There was something soft beneath Matka’s hard exterior. He crouched beside her. “What is it?”
She stayed quiet for several seconds, and he thought she wouldn’t tell him. That her hard shell would spring back up, blocking her off as surely as if she’d erected walls around herself. But then her shoulders sagged. “I do not want to go back.”
He carefully moved a few of her drawings, marveling at how real she’d made them look. “Back to Svassheim?” He figured the less he said, the more she might.
“Back home.”
Needing something to do with his hands, Otec took out the small piece of wood he’d been working on and began carving. “Neither do I.”
Matka gave a little gasp. “What? Why wouldn’t you want to be among the Shyle? They are the most generous people I have ever met.”
He wished he hadn’t said anything. “The clans place value on women who create life and the men who protect it. And my family is the best of all of them. The strongest, the fastest, the brightest.”
He sighed. “And then there’s me.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment. “You’re wrong.” She let out a long breath. “All my life, I’ve been taught that my people are better, stronger, faster. And that gave us the right to take from others, to force them to become like us.”
Otec frowned. He hadn’t known the highmen were like that.
“But I have spent two years among . . . different people. And they are not crude and ignorant.” Matka dropped her voice. “And neither are you.”
“I guess you don’t have to.”
She met his gaze. “Have to what?”
He shrugged. “I mean, no one is forcing you to go home. You speak Clannish remarkably well. Send Jore back with your notes, and let someone else finish the book. Stay here.” Otec’s voice rose with conviction. He liked the idea of her staying—this woman who was so strong, and yet so broken.
“It’s not that easy,” she replied, staring at one of her drawings.
“Why?”
She pursed her lips. “There are things you don’t know, Otec.”
Matka must have some kind of past, he decided. He’d finished carving the shape; now it was time to add the details. “Mother would let you stay. You could have a life here. But whether you want it bad enough to sacrifice whatever it is that’s holding you back, that’s your choice.”
He turned to find Matka watching him carving with a burning intensity in her gaze. “What are you doing?”
His ears flared red again. He hadn’t wanted her to see, not yet. “It’s nothing.”
But her quick fingers snatched the carving from his hand. She gasped softly. “It’s the elice blossom.” She turned it over in her hands. “You even got the square stem right!”
“It’s not finished yet,” Otec mumbled.
It was as if she hadn’t heard him. “The proportions are perfect. And it’s so delicate. When did you start this?”
His heart warmed with pride. “Yesterday.”
“But you only saw my drawing once.”
“I notice details. Always have.” He reached into his pocket and took out her drawing of Shyleholm, sorry it was a little crumpled. He held toward her out without meeting her gaze. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”