“Listen to me.” These words are just a whisper—your whisper, your words—from the dark somewhere behind me. Your mouth is so close, I feel the vibration of your breath on my ear. “You need to get warm. I’m trying to save you. I need you to understand this, Kol. What I’m doing . . . I’m doing this to save your life.”
I try to work through your words, to make sense of what you’re saying. But only some words catch in my mind—warm . . . understand . . . save your life. As I try to arrange these thoughts into some sense of meaning, the edge of the mammoth pelt lifts from my shoulder and something made of pure heat and life slides in beside me.
It’s you.
Your bare skin stretches along the entire length of my back. Somewhere deep inside me, a flame that was fading catches in fresh kindling.
I want to speak—thoughts light up my mind like flashes of lightning in the night sky. I try to form words. “Mya . . .” is all I manage to say.
“It’s necessary,” you say into my ear. “I can’t let you die.”
If I could, I might laugh. I didn’t know how close I was to death until your warmth pulled me back from the edge. Like a wave, heat washes over me. In my mind’s eye I imagine my frozen blood, thawing and cracking like the ice in our bay in the spring. Each spot where your skin touches mine is like a stone dropped into that bay, sending ripples of warmth radiating outward. These ripples expand, reaching my ears, my cheeks, the backs of my closed eyes. After what has felt like hours of constant shivering, my body finally goes still.
Your breath brushes over my neck, and it feels cool.
I no longer see water when I close my eyes. Instead, I see the sun. I feel its embrace.
Sleep pulls hard at me, but I fight it. I have to stay awake. My thoughts are slow and heavy, but I know I have to tell you something of huge importance. Perhaps the most important thing I’ve ever said. I search for the words.
When I remember this later, I will realize that it didn’t make sense. I will turn these memories over in my mind and I will know that I was weak and my thoughts were jumbled and confused.
But at this moment, this one word feels like the answer to every question:
You.
I feel better now that I’ve said it. I let sleep pull me from your arms.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When I wake again you are dressed and sitting at the opening of the cave, staring out through a sheet of rain and sleet. The world outside is beginning to lighten. Could it be first light already? Could you have sat up through the short, summer night, waiting for morning?
“Lo’s clan . . . They’re coming. If they didn’t turn back—”
“You told me,” you say. “I’ve been watching for them.”
I told you? I remember wanting to tell you, but I don’t remember saying the words.
Your pack lies beside you, and you pull out a small wrapped package about the size of your fist. “You should eat,” you say. “I’ll leave this with you—”
“Leave it?”
You turn to face me, your features glowing in the amber light thrown off by the dying coals of the fire.
“I need to go. To warn them—”
“Then I’m going with you.”
“You need more rest—”
“If you intended to leave me, why didn’t you leave while I was still sleeping, rather than wait for sunrise?” Something inside me wants to believe you waited to be sure I was recovered, but I know better.
“It will be hard enough to travel in this weather in the day,” you say. “At night, it would’ve been impossible. You told me the Bosha were waiting out the storm, so I waited, too. But I was watching. If I’d seen them, I would’ve left you to warn my clan.”
Of course you would have, but that doesn’t matter now.
“Well, I’m awake. So I’m going with you.”
Instead of traveling back down to my boat, I follow you through a shower of freezing rain, up a narrow footpath that leads to the peak above us. I look down to the surface of the water and some part of me stirs with the memory of scrambling up the rocks in the dark last night. My bruised hands remind me how slippery and treacherous it was. Yet as difficult as that trail was to climb, the trek farther up strikes me as impossible. Only the smallest cutouts in the rock allow me to place my feet safely as we ascend. “This path is man-made,” I say.
“My brother found that cave when our clan first settled here. We use it as a lookout, to watch the sea to the north.”
“Watching for what?”
“When we first came here, it was you. Well, your clan. We watched for the kayaks of the Manu, not knowing if you would pursue us.”
I’m struck by the sudden realization of how improbable it is that you and I should find ourselves here, together on this morning. The past should have ensured that this day would never come. Your mother and your betrothed both died. Your brother killed a man. You and I should have remained enemies for the rest of our lives. Yet here we are, making this climb together.
My foot slips on loose gravel as I take my next step up the steep path and you spin around quickly and grab my arm to stop me from tumbling. Our eyes meet, but you turn your head, dropping your gaze to the rock underfoot.
Why won’t you look at me? Are you embarrassed about last night? Or did the mention of the history between our clans stir some resentment toward me?
I don’t ask. Today is not a day for talking. With each step, the urgency to reach your family grows. There will be time to talk later. For now, I focus on my footing and ensure you don’t have to help me again.
It isn’t long before we reach the highest point of the cliff and start to descend. The terrain drops down into a pass between two rocky slopes, both of which are streaked with flows of water, runoff from what has again become torrential rain.
The trail is little more than a ledge of hanging boulders and rocks, suspended from the wall on our left. To the right, a drop-off plunges to a ravine filled with rushing water. It is a long way down—at least the height of three men, standing on each other’s shoulders.
The slabs we cross are wet and slick with sleet. Once—then a second time—you stumble, but you right yourself before I have the chance to come to your aid. You plod on, without even a glance back at me.
My stomach tightens. If one of us were to get hurt—if one of us were unable to keep walking—the other would have to leave them here, alone on these cold, wet rocks. We don’t discuss the danger, but our progress slows as we take more care to place our feet.
Gradually, the trail descends to the floor of the ravine, until we are walking alongside the rapids. In places, the trail and the river merge, and we have to scramble over boulders surrounded by rushing water.
Finally, the trail winds down to the base of the cliff. It levels and broadens, becoming a corridor that cuts through two wide swaths of trees.
Through the gray rain, I spot a valley that opens at the foot of the path. This is a view I recognize. We hurry now that the ground is flatter. The trees end abruptly, yielding to a clearing. Below us stands a circle of huts—your camp.
In your meeting place, the elders of your clan are gathered under the roof. They sit in a tight circle, speaking in hushed tones. Are they planning their defense? Morsk is among them, and when he sees me he gets to his feet, but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he gives me a long, critical stare, his eyes full of contempt. He watches me as I follow you to Chev’s door.
I’m not sure if Morsk is reacting to his broken betrothal to Seeri, or to the threat of an attack on your clan. Maybe, like you, he feels that nothing good has ever come from contact with the Manu.
We find Chev in his hut with Yano and Ela, who stop their chanted prayers when we enter. From the look in Chev’s eyes, I’d say he has been awake all night, waiting for you. Those tired eyes shift to me, and for a rare moment I think I can read your brother’s expression. His usual stoic facade breaks. He was not expecting me.
“Where did you find him?” he as
ks you.
“He was out on the water last night, half dead with cold and exhaustion—”
“Last night?”
“At the height of the storm. He came to warn us.”
Your brother turns to me and I can see he’s sizing me up, weighing all he knows of me to decide if he should trust me.
I’d been your clan’s hero once, when I killed the cat. That was not long ago. But since then, I’d defended Lo when it was revealed that she was plotting to kill him. Could he wonder if I might be conspiring with her? If I am here to give you false information?
His attention slides from my face to yours. He doesn’t speak, but he is asking you. This will be your decision to make.
No words. Just a nod of your head.
“Well then,” your brother says, getting to his feet. “Thank you for bringing a warning. I’m saddened to hear that Shava’s story was all true. I had hoped that somehow—”
“I had hoped so, too, but now I know those were false hopes.”
I tell Chev everything I’ve already told you—the number of kayaks I’d seen launch from Lo’s camp, the rough weather on the sea, and the place I’d seen their boats sheltering from the storm.
A plan is made. Chev decides that Seeri will take Lees away from camp to protect the both of them. He tries to force you to go as well, but you won’t have it. Perhaps he realizes that your skills with a spear are worth having around; perhaps he knows you are too stubborn to ever follow his orders—it doesn’t matter. He lets you stay.
Moments later, all the members of the clan have been assembled under the roof in the meeting place. With the roar of rain and the clatter of sleet against the canopy over our heads, a small voice inside me silently thanks Morsk for his handiwork and the brief relief it offers from the storm.
Everyone listens as Chev outlines his plan. Anyone who wishes to help defend the camp is welcome, but no one will be forced. Those who are injured or otherwise unable to fight are encouraged to stay behind and keep the children out of sight. The rest of us will head to the water and climb the low cliffs that overlook the beach where Lo’s clan is most likely to land. We will take weapons, but Chev warns against using them. “Only defensively,” he says. “These are not strangers. They are our own clan, our own people.”
I flinch at Chev’s words, remembering Lo’s: A false leader, a wedge . . . they go to remove these things. They are coming to remove Chev—to kill him—and to kill you and your family, too.
I hope that Chev is right, and bloodshed can be avoided. But if he is wrong, I am not part of Chev’s clan. He is not my High Elder, and I am not obligated to follow his rules.
The cliffs rise to both the north and south of the beach. Chev decides to position himself on the cliff to the north, where the view is best, allowing only you and me to accompany him. The rest of your clan who have come to fight—sixteen in all—split into two groups. Half follow Morsk up the cliffs to the south while the others guard the paths that lead up to these two lookout points. If someone tries to get to Chev, they will have to fight just to get to the trail.
We each have a spear, but once in position, on this windy, rain-drenched ridge, you and I move wordlessly, collecting a stockpile of large rocks. It’s slow, hard work, but the effort keeps our blood warm. When we’ve collected every rock we can lift, we station ourselves at a break in the low brush that lines the ledge. From here, we can watch for boats approaching the beach far below, but we cannot be seen.
For now, the sea is empty. The gray expanse of water rolls outward to the horizon.
We wait. The temperature drops and the wind increases, blowing hard from the north, right into our faces. Tiny shards of sleet prick the skin of my cheeks.
Hunched beside me, you speak for the first time in a long while. “We met on an early summer day. Today it is winter again.” Your voice is soft and low. Your brother, crouched just a few paces away, doesn’t seem to hear you. These words are for me only. “How is it possible that winter has returned?” you ask.
“Winter hasn’t returned. She isn’t really back. She’s just making a last assault, hoping to hang on.”
“And what will happen? Will winter triumph?” You let your eyes leave the sea for just a moment to glance at my face, maybe to gauge my expression.
“Of course not.” As I answer, my eyes fix on a tiny shadow on the water near the horizon. “By this time tomorrow, she will realize she has been defeated. Summer will return with all its force and winter will be a memory.”
“There!” Chev shouts and points into the distance at the shadow I am watching, now growing and moving in.
They are here.
We remain quiet and hidden as the first of the boats—I count eleven in all—lands on the beach. As the paddlers step out onto solid ground, Chev emerges from hiding and calls out from our vantage point high above them. “What do you want here?”
A stocky, bowlegged boy spins at the sound of Chev’s voice. He lifts his face to search for the source of the sound and I recognize him. This is the boy who was on the beach the day I walked Lo home.
This fleeting recognition robs me of my focus, transports me for just an instant from the present to a moment in the past. But an instant is all it takes.
The boy raises his arm and extends it behind him. This is the boy called Orn. I recognize his stance, his clamped jaw. . . . These scattered thoughts distract me until a spear flies from an atlatl in his hand.
Its flight is fast and true, and it pierces Chev’s parka just below his collarbone. Rainwater tinged red with blood streams down his chest.
Chev lets out a small sound—more gasp than moan—and collapses to his knees at my feet.
On the beach below, Lo’s clanspeople scramble for cover as rocks rain down on them from the southern cliff. Like an anthill kicked by the toe of a boot, measured order is replaced by frantic motion. Screams rise—people may be hurt—but I hardly notice. All my attention is focused on Chev.
Crouching beside him, I place one hand on his chest and one on his back, then gently ease his weight backward until he is sitting on the ground. His eyes flash wide, staring blankly over his suddenly pale cheeks. I bend close to him, squinting at the place where the spearhead penetrated the hide of his parka, but with the rain still falling, it’s impossible to distinguish how heavily he is bleeding. I don’t dare remove the spear. Instead, I press both hands against the wound.
“We need to get him to the healers,” I say. Dark red liquid leaks between my fingers before diluting to a pale pink stream that collects in a pool in his lap. “I can’t tell how hard he’s bleeding. . . .”
I look up to ask you for help getting Chev to his feet, but you are not watching me. You don’t appear to be listening to me, either. All your attention is on your spear. You snatch it from the grass at your feet and raise it to your shoulder.
Chev sees you, too. He reaches forward and grabs the hem of your pant leg. “No.” Both of us startle at the strength of Chev’s voice. Despite the haze that begins to cloud his eyes, his voice is clear. “He’s of our clan. He’s Dora’s son—”
“He just tried to kill you—”
“He tried, but he failed. That doesn’t make it right for you to kill him.”
Your face hardens. You will not listen, I think. You will not obey your brother. But then you let the spear slide from your shoulder, roll to the edge of your fingers, drop from your hand. It splashes in a puddle and thick mud splatters my face.
As I drag the back of my hand across my chin, you drop to your knees and reach around your brother’s waist. An embrace? Before I can process your actions, you spring to your feet. “Fighters from my clan are posted at the foot of this cliff, guarding the trail that leads up here. I’ll send help,” you say, “but I have to get down there. I have to help protect my people.” Before I can answer, you turn on your heels and fly down the trail to the beach.
“My knife,” Chev breathes. “She took it—the blade I keep in my belt.”
I grab your spear from the mud, wiping it clean in the crook of my elbow so that I can get a firm grip. I realize there’s no question—I must follow you. But I can’t leave your brother here to bleed to death. And I don’t know how long your clanspeople can hold back Lo’s followers and keep them from reaching this cliff.
I’ll get Chev out of here. I’ll get him into the healers’ hands, and then I’ll be by your side, fighting.
“Can you stand?” My eyes sweep over your brother’s face. He rests on the wet ground, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes closed. “Chev?”
I lunge forward, repeating your brother’s name, but he gives no response.
This is it, I think. He’s slipped away. The worst has happened.
But I’m wrong. The worst hasn’t happened. Not yet.
A noise from behind me—a rustling of branches, a foot catching on a stone or root, a missed step.
I turn and look up into the face of the bowlegged boy who threw the spear that hit Chev. He is so young—he cannot be older than Kesh. A trickle of blood runs from a gash above his right eye. One of your clanspeople guarding the trail must have wounded him as he fought his way past.
Orn . . . Dora’s son.
This is my last thought—Dora’s son—when a heavy club swings down and hits me square in the temple, sending me sprawling into the mud.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The blow knocks me onto my stomach, the sudden, icy black taste of mud in my mouth. I orient myself quickly—to my right lies Chev, his eyes wide, his face the pale gray of mist—to my left lies the hasty, random pile of stones you and I gathered. I stretch out my left arm and my fingers coil around the perfect one—a heavy rock three times the size of my fist. I grasp it awkwardly, its sharp edges digging into my palm, as I thrust myself onto my back.
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