easy to think you can stand alone when you’re by yourself, but now, sitting here, feeling their gazes on me, gazes that single me out as a stranger, someone not to be trusted, I realize that maybe that’s not simple after all.
The older women go back to their work, while the younger ones divide the cedar into narrow strips and pound them until they’re pliable. They watch me as Helen passes me the strips and I weave them between the spokes, pulling them snug, pressing them down for a tight weft. It feels good to work with the bark, to know I’m creating something from the tree I wronged yesterday.
“Jada,” Helen says when the last strip she brought is gone. “Would you hand me that dyed cedar? The stuff that’s black? I’m going to teach Cassandra the running raven pattern.”
Jada, the woman who asked who I was, glares at me. “She doesn’t get to learn that. Not yet. Look at that basket. It’s uneven. It’ll probably fall apart the first time someone puts something into it.” She gets up and takes the basket from my hand to inspect it. “My five-year-old son can make a basket better than this.” She throws the basket on the ground, and then, keeping a wicked grin trained on me, steps on it, snapping the spokes in half. “That’s what we think of people who come to our town and take over. Remember that.” She turns on her heel and leaves.
One by one, the other women get up and follow her. I glance at Helen, who has averted her gaze, and then at Ms. Adelaide, who’s intent on her own basket. Did they not hear what she said?
“Just pretend you didn’t hear,” Helen mumbles under her breath. “Don’t say anything.”
I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m too stunned by what just happened.
“Give them some time,” Ms. Adelaide says. “In the past, new people have come to town and done more damage than good. They haven’t forgotten. Just be yourself. They’ll come around. You’ll see.”
Will I? They’ve settled on the other side of the park, right in the blinding hot sun. I want to get up and go over there-to do what, I’m not sure, but Helen stops me.
“Please,” she says. “Just let it go for now.”
It’s the pleading note in her voice, a note that I don’t think is there just for me but for her, too, that keeps me where I am. For a moment Helen’s shade appears behind her, a hummingbird with matted, broken feathers feebly trying to hover in place. I blink and it’s gone.
What would do that to a person’s shade? Madda’s explanation of totems is still fresh in my mind. Is that what I’m seeing, a shade that has been damaged at the hands of others?
The next morning I decide to return Grace’s books. Between Madda’s lessons and the work that still needs to be done at the house, I don’t have time to read them. Besides, the one attempt I made told me what I suspected: These aren’t my stories. The only book I’ve kept is the one Bran gave me, the one that had the gray feather tucked inside of it, though today that feather is woven into one of my braids.
The walk into town seems longer than usual, the books growing heavier with each step, and when I set foot on the main street, they tumble out of my hands. “That’s just great,” I mutter as I crouch and pick them up. The last thing I want is to return them dirty and ruined. That will really impress Bran’s mother.
A group of women walks by as I’m trying to brush the worst of the dust from the covers. I look for Avalon, but she is not among them. Helen is, though, and so is Jada. They carry hoes, shovels, baskets. One pushes a wheelbarrow. They stop to watch me. Not one cracks a smile or offers to help, except Helen. She looks at me, then back at the other girls, hesitating.
“Helen,” Jada says. “Come on.”
Helen gives me an apologetic look as I gather up the books. When I set off again, my cheeks burn with shame. I don’t blame her. I can tell she’s trying to regain her place here, and I can understand that. It’s the other woman, this Jada. I allow myself to glance back, once. A few shades flutter around them-a doe, an otter-but what I really see is anger and jealousy, nothing hinting at the possibility of friendship. Except for Helen. She glances back too, and looks about as lonely as I feel.
I try to pretend it doesn’t matter, and quicken my step.
A few hot minutes later, I turn onto the lane leading to Bran’s house. I wonder what his mother will say when she learns I haven’t read her books, but then, she didn’t ask me if I wanted to read them in the first place, did she? At least I have the excuse that my studies are taking up all my time, though even if they weren’t, Madda’s books are far more interesting than Grace’s. I haven’t read them all yet, but I have glanced through every one: a collection of stories about Madda’s tribe, another on the history of this land, and, the oldest and my favorite, a slim book on Chinese meditation. There are secrets in that little book, Madda said, wonderful secrets, nothing like the dusty, dry tomes I hold in my arms. Grace’s books died a long, slow death ages ago.
I find her sitting on the beach, smoking. She turns her head just a fraction of an inch as I approach. “Well?” she says as she crosses her arms.
“I’ve brought your books back.”
Blue smoke curls around her head. I scan the air for her shade, but it’s missing. She coughs, and then takes a long, slow drag. “What did you learn?”
“Um,” I stutter, trying to find something to say, all the while sensing that no matter what answer I give her, it’s going to be the wrong thing.
“Um?” She shifts so suddenly her feet leave arcs in the sand. “That’s all you have to say? Um?” She raises an eyebrow and looks ready to laugh in my face.
I clear my throat. “Actually, I’ve been so busy with my studies that I haven’t had time for these.” I set them down next to her. “I thought you might need them back.”
This time she does laugh. “So, you do have a bit of a backbone after all. That’s good.” She grips the cigarette between her lips and pushes herself up off the beach.
“Come inside. I’m thirsty.”
I trail after her. She stops to grind the butt of her cigarette into the dirt and then meanders into the kitchen, clawing her hair away from her eyes. The house’s condition hasn’t improved since my first visit. In fact, it’s even worse. A rotten smell like the odor of unwashed bodies hangs in the air, forcing me to breathe through my mouth so I won’t gag.
Grace uncorks a bottle of murky wine, pours it into two dirty glasses, and hands me one. “Bottoms up,” she says.
I slide the glass onto the counter. “I don’t drink.”
“Oh, really?” She frowns. “I never trust a person who doesn’t drink.” The frown loosens into a catlike smile. “Are you sure you want me to distrust you?” The tone of her voice conveys she’s serious. She leans against the counter, watching, waiting to see what I’ll do, leaning so close that I catch a whiff of her breath. She’s drunk. “Go on,” she says. “It won’t kill you.”
“I know.” My finger traces the stem of the glass. The wine might not kill me, but botulism certainly could. I grapple for an excuse. “It just gives me really bad headaches.”
Grace snorts. “Well, if you drink the whole bottle by yourself, it might. Do you have a problem with alcohol?” She leans on the word
“No, I don’t.” My voice trembles. “I mean that only a little bit gives me a headache.”
She drains her glass and pours another. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard that line before.”
“No, really…” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. “I should get going.”
“But you’ve only just arrived.” She laughs. “Come along, my pet. Stay with me a little while. It’s so lonely here when Bran’s away.”
I don’t want to go with her, but I do, because of Bran. This is his mother. I may not like her, but I can treat her with respect, if only for her son’s sake.
She leads me into the library and motions to the sofa. “So, now, I notice that the story of Arthur isn’t in the pile you returned. Might I assume it’s to your liking?”
I nod, though the reason I kept it is because Bran gave it to me, nothing more.
“And what did you think of his legend?” She flops down beside me and lights another cigarette.
“It’s good,” I say as I try to figure out a polite way to waft the smoke away from my face. “An interesting story.”
“Story?” She leans toward me. “It’s much more than a story-truth is hidden beneath those words. That is my history you speak of. What stories do you have? Is your family’s history written down in books?” She exhales and bats at the cigarette smoke. “And why not? Because it isn’t worthy. History has taken no notice of your ancestors’
