Shadows Cast by Stars

“That’s part of it.” Madda inspects the vine. “This is a tough plant. On one hand, we’ve got to honor that. It’s a survivor. But that doesn’t mean it gets to go wherever it wants. You’re right-ivy kills other plants if it’s allowed to take over. Like me and my blackberries-they taste good, but they aren’t native to this land. They were introduced here by white men, and they need to be managed carefully, or soon all that’s left are blackberries. Spirit work is a little like that too. You got to take care of yourself-tend your own weeds, in a matter of speaking. It’s easy to go too deep, to go too far, when you’re trying to help a person, and all that does is weaken you. A healer has to be strong, and not just in the ways of spirit. Strong in the body, strong in the mind. So that’s why I’ve got you out here, working in the garden. Dirt,” she says, picking up a handful and rubbing it between our fingers, “isn’t just dirt. It’s us. Healthy soil makes healthy plants. Unhealthy soil? Only the weeds will grow in that.” She straightens up, groaning, and points at the basket. “That’s yours for now on. Take it wherever you go. Gather what you find, whatever you think might be useful, even if you don’t know why. Things come to us for a reason-never look a gift horse in the mouth.” She starts to turn away but changes her mind. “You’re free to go. Come back tomorrow morning, and don’t forget your list. Oh, and I think there’s something Helen wants to ask you.” She winks at Helen, and heads inside the cottage.

Helen smiles at me. “Tomorrow afternoon, some of the women are getting together to make baskets. Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” I say, returning Helen’s smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Helen nods, but in a way that makes me think she was expecting me to say no. “Good,” she says, almost to herself. “Tomorrow.”

“How did it go?” my father asks when I walk in the door.

I drop the basket, now full of rocks and flowers-all of which I’ve said thanks for-and the list of birds and berries and rocks, on the counter. “Don’t ask.”

My father eyes the basket, but doesn’t say another word.

Later, as we sit by the fire under the stars, I want him to ask. I want to talk, but I’m so afraid. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m not the person Madda thinks I am.

Maybe I can’t help Paul.

And if I can’t, what then?

I don’t know, but just the thought of that possibility turns my stomach to stone.

The next morning I return with the paper Madda gave me. Both sides are covered with notes. She takes it, inspects it, and hands it back. “Not bad,” she says with an appreciative nod. “Wind, stones, good. What, then, does something need to be considered alive?”

“I guess it depends on a person’s perspective,” I say, adding quickly, “but if you ask me, it just needs to exist. Everything has a piece of spirit in it.”

“Good. Very good.” Madda fills her kettle and sets it over the cook stove. “So, why is that, then? Why does a rock have a piece of spirit?”

I take my time answering. It’s a good question. Why does a rock have a piece of spirit? “Because,” I say slowly, “spirit is part of existence?”

“Sort of.” Madda sits down with a huff and examines her hands. “You ever hear people speaking of auras?”

I nod.

“Well, it’s sort of like that. Everyone has a signature, an aura. Scientists, they call it an ‘energy field.’ What I was taught-and I haven’t heard a better explanation yet-is that each of us has a little piece of the old times, when supernaturals were with us, when the animals walked and talked like people. Somewhere along the line, the supernaturals got a little tired of all our bickering and squabbling, so they created the division between our world and what we now call the spirit world, and headed off for a little peace and quiet, but they didn’t cut us off completely.” She stops to clear her throat. “A few, like you, like me, can still travel to the spirit world. Most people, though, just have that little piece of spirit in them. Not everyone, mind you. Some people have given their spirit away, to greed or crime, to addiction, or to just something as simple as forgetting that us and the earth are one. And that’s when you see a person get really sick. If your spirit’s healthy, if you walk in harmony with the world, then you’re healthy too. That’s one of our jobs as healers, to bring that piece of spirit back.” She taps the table. “But as far as we’re concerned, this table here has as much spirit as you and me. Anyone who says otherwise just hasn’t looked well enough.”

“When I see shades then,” I say slowly, “is that what I’m seeing? That bit of spirit?”

“Shades?” Madda frowns.

“Totems.”

“You can see totems?”

I nod.

“Without going into the spirit world?”

I nod again. I don’t tell her that I can’t see hers. It’s there, hovering just above her shoulder, but it’s out of focus, like a shadow trapped behind mist. Madda gets up and lifts the kettle from the cook top, setting it to one side before taking the teapot down from a shelf. She knows I’m trying to make out her shade, but she doesn’t say a word. Neither of us does.

“So,” she says when she turns back to me.

I hold my breath. Is she going to ask me what her totem is? What will I do then? Will she doubt my ability when I tell her I don’t know?

Madda smiles. It’s as if she can read my thoughts. “So,” she says again, “do you want honey in your tea?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

She laughs and turns back to the teapot, but not before I see a shadow pass through her eyes, a shadow that seems to have eyes of its own.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Helen’s been working at the orchards all morning. She returns just as Madda and I set out a quick lunch of greens and salmon jerky. Madda gobbles her food, and then pushes herself away from the table. She looks tired, and somehow distant, like her mind is far away and troubled. “Off you go,” she says once Helen and I have finished eating. “I’m going to go for a walk in the woods. Cassandra, take the morning off tomorrow. Come by after lunch. I’ll have work for you then.” She attempts a smile, but her lips barely move.

Helen casts her a worried look as she picks up a basket of cedar bark and bulrushes sitting by the door. “You sure, Madda? I can stay, if you want.”

Madda just waves us away before wandering out the back door.

Helen sighs as we head out.

I glance back, but Madda’s nowhere in sight. “Is she like that often?”

Helen purses her lips, as if trying to decide whether to tell me. “Sometimes,” she ends up saying, “though it’s been more often lately. I wish I knew what was troubling her. She used to tell me when I was younger, but not anymore.”

I nod. I understand how that feels.

The sun is hot and heavy on the town’s dirt-packed streets. No one’s about. Helen and I turn from the lane and make our way to the chestnut tree in the park, where a group of women have gathered. Most are closer to Madda’s age than ours, but a few are younger. I look for Avalon among them, but she isn’t there. All the heads are dark, coppery brown or black or sleek like sable. At the far side of the group is Ms. Adelaide. She flashes me a grin.

“Who’s this?” a woman asks Helen when we get close enough.

“This is Cassandra,” Helen says, turning to smile at me.

“Hi.” I wave.

The woman peers at me as if I’ve grown an extra limb. “What’s she doing here?”

“I invited her.” Helen sits down beside Ms. Adelaide and takes out a strip of cedar bark. I sit down too, because already I can tell that this isn’t going well. Helen hands me a bundle of rushes, and I quickly arrange them into spokes for a basket, hoping these women see I’m capable, that I could be one of them, if only given a chance. It’s