Shadows Cast by Stars

I crouch and plunge my arms into the water. The wound site where Madda removed the chip aches, and as I stare at the black spidery stitches, the impulse to cut them from my skin overwhelms me. It’s too soon, I know, so I leave them alone, but they’re such a strong reminder of what was once there. How could I have let anyone plant a chip under my skin?

Gravel crunches on the hill. I don’t have to look to know it’s Paul. He squats down beside me and holds his arm out next to mine. His stitches are already gone. Even in the flickering light of his candle, I can see the edges of the incision have separated, exposing pink flesh beneath the dry, crusted blood.

“You shouldn’t have taken them out,” I say. “That’s going to be an ugly scar.”

Paul pulls his sleeve down to cover the wound. “I know,” he says almost triumphantly, then wanders away.

• • •

Something wakes me. I sit up, straining to listen to the silence around me, but there’s nothing to hear. Still, something is amiss.

I rise and dress, and slip downstairs. It’s early. Night hangs heavily over the forest. Down by the boathouse, a fire burns. A solitary figure stands beside it.

Paul.

I pull on my shoes and go outside to join him.

He crouches by the fire, feeding slivers of cedar bark to the flames. He doesn’t look at me.

“You’re up early,” I say.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He must have had another vision, but with the memory of last time still fresh in my mind, I just poke the fire with a twig instead, stirring up sparks. “Hungry?”

“Nope.” He stands, unfurling his long, thin arms, stretching toward the sky. He’s barefoot.

“Where are your shoes?” I ask.

“In the house. Got to toughen myself up if I want to run with the Band.”

“By going barefoot?”

“They’ll never hear me coming.” He drifts away, and he’s right. As he leaves, he doesn’t make a sound.

I sit by the fire, watching the sun rise, wondering if Paul will return. He compares himself to me, Paul does. He beats himself up that he can’t weather his visions like I can, even though, by comparison, mine aren’t nearly as bad. His, though-his are terrible, but if I could, I would trade in a heartbeat.

I just wish we understood why. Why have we been given these gifts that we don’t know how to use? I think of the shades that I see, following people around, and wonder, why do I see them? There must be a reason, but what that reason is, I don’t know. And Paul-why does he dream of the future? Is it so he can change it? If that’s the case, the future would be wise to send Paul visions that make sense, because every time, it’s not until afterward, when it’s too late, that we understand.

Not long after the sun has risen above the trees and turned the lake to gold, my father comes down to join me at the fire, bringing along a bowl and some flour and a little oil for bannock. We wrap dough around willow branches and stick it over the coals, and though it’s nothing more than a flour paste, something about cooking it over open flame turns it into the best-tasting treat I can imagine.

“Should I call Paul?” I ask as I pull the bannock from the fire.

My father stares up toward the house, which still sits in darkness. “Leave him be,” he says. “He’ll come back when he’s hungry enough.”

But he doesn’t-not after we’ve cleaned up, not after my father goes back to hammering the old house back together, not after I turn the chickens out to scratch and begin to mark off the corners of a garden plot. I can hear him, though, the thump of the pickax in the soil as Paul digs the pit for the outhouse, swearing up a storm as he does battle with the rocks and the roots.

Finally, around noon, he reappears, covered in red, iron-rich soil. I’m back in the kitchen, mopping the floors again.

“Guess you should have worn your shoes after all.” His feet are filthy, and I raise an eyebrow at them.

He wiggles his toes. “A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

“That won’t be the case if you step on my clean floors.”

“Yours?” He inches a toe toward the threshold.

I brandish my mop like a sword. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He shrugs. “You win. Going to get cleaned up before Bran gets here? You’re a mess too.”

I hand him a bucket of filthy water. “Since when do you care about my appearance?”

“Since Bran Eagleson came to call. You know who his father is.”

“Who he is?” I straighten up and shake my head. “He’s been gone two years. Two years, Paul. Do you really think he’s still alive after all that time?”

Paul’s smile falters. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.” He brushes his hair away from his eyes, and the smile returns. “Come on. The house is clean enough. Do you want me to heat up some water for you?”

“Thanks, but no.” Sweat rolls down my forehead, stinging my eyes. “I’ll bathe in the lake.”

“Then you’d better hurry. No matter who his father is, Bran Eagleson doesn’t get to see that much of my sister.”

“Hah. Funny.” I toss a rag at him.

Paul ducks outside. The rag hits the wall instead, and harmlessly drops to the floor.

The lake is wreathed by heathered mountains. A glacier, which supplies this land with water, is the sole exception. It stretches between peaks, a brilliant expanse of white amid all the green. How it survived when the other glaciers of the continent died their rapid death is a mystery, but then, the Island is steeped in mystery. One of the mountains up there is called Forbidden Plateau. My mother told me its story. They say long ago a group of women and children took refuge there during a war, but when their men came back to get them, they were gone, never to be found again. I stare at the mountains, trying to find the forbidden one, but they all look forbidden to me.

Heat radiates from the dock as I slip off my shoes and stroll to the end, where I sit and test the water with a toe. It’s icy cold, but I plunge my feet in anyhow, smiling as minnows come to investigate my toes. Then, in a bright flash, the minnows vanish.

Below, a shadow glides through the water.

I jerk my feet up. The shadow is huge, easily twice as long as I am. It drifts under the dock, unhurried, emerging on the other side and circling back again before slipping out toward the center of the lake.

Too big for a trout. Too big for an otter. Too big for anything logical.

Water does strange things, I think. It plays tricks on the eye.

But I’m not convinced. I run back to the boathouse, picking up my shoes as I pass them, and end up crouching on the shore to wash, staring out at the lake.

Myth doesn’t live in lakes or descend from stars, I tell myself, and even though logic says the shadow isn’t a monster, logic has never been my strong suit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Paul and I wait in the shade of the boathouse, staring out at the lake, waiting for Bran. Paul is whittling a piece of wood. I’m trying to figure out a way to make a necklace out of a piece of weathered glass I found on the lakeshore and the ribbon I brought from the Corridor, though that’s only to give me something to do while I debate whether to tell Paul about the shadow in the lake. It’s one thing to see something irrational, but to actually articulate it? Just the thought makes me feel stupid.

Bran’s canoe sidles up to the end of the dock just as the sun reaches its apex. Paul pulls on his shoes and runs down to meet him.

“Oh sure, put your shoes on now,” I grumble as I fasten the ribbon around my neck and make my way down