really know.” She pulls something from her pocket. “Before I forget-this is for you.”
I take the little cloth pouch from her outstretched hand.
She nods at it. “Open it. See what’s inside.”
Inside are the thirteen tiny pearls that the sisiutl gave me. I force myself to touch them.
“You’re right to be scared,” Madda says. “They’re strong with spirit. They’ll guard you. Next time you see that raven, you wave those pearls at him. He’ll be leaving you alone. Raven and Sisiutl have never been friends. Put them in that pouch I gave you.” She scratches her head. “Where is that pouch, anyway? I thought I told you to wear it.”
“I did. I was,” I say. My gaze flickers to the lake.
“Ah.” Madda wrinkles her brow in thought, and I realize she thinks I lost the pouch the night of the sisiutl attack. “That’s an even exchange, I guess. One thing for another. Well, you’re good with your hands. Probably best you make yourself one anyhow.” She reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze. “Tomorrow. After lunch. Don’t forget.”
I wrap my fingers around the pearls and clutch them tightly as Madda leaves the room. I have no pouch to put them in. That pouch, the one Madda gave me, is sitting at the bottom of the lake, where I should be right now.
I’m beginning to think the raven that’s been dogging me is actually Paul. It’s there, perched on the railing of the sun-deck every time I wander into the sitting room. It follows me when I make my way down the hill to feed the chickens. I hear the whoosh of its wings outside my window every night. It haunts me, and makes me worry for my brother.
I’ve only seen him a couple times since the night of the attack. Last night, he crept into my room and sat on the floor while he thought I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. Tension hangs between us. That’s what woke me.
He’s afraid of me.
And, if he really is that raven, I’m a little afraid of him, too.
My father rouses me early. “Get up,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”
There’s magic in the air today. I can see it in the rosy glow of the early-morning sun and smell it drifting on the wind.
I dress quickly. The scabs on my stomach crack when I lift my arms, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling that reminds me of nature’s power to remedy wrongs. Breathing doesn’t hurt, finally, and I feel so good I bet I’d be able to fly if I tried.
Paul and my father are outside, waiting for me. Paul drops his eyes to the ground as I wind my hair into a braid. I hate this distance between us, but how can I fix it when I don’t know why it’s there?
“Hey,” I say, edging up to him and giving him a nudge. “Haven’t seen you around much.”
He shrugs and turns his dark eyes to my father, who gives each of us a forked willow branch. “Gonna teach you to witch,” he says as he takes another branch from the back pocket of his jeans. “Figured we need a well. I’m tired of hauling water up the hill.” He holds the tines of the branch in his hands. “Gently,” he says as we copy him. “Let the willow talk to you.”
I close my eyes and allow breath to slip in and out of my lungs. The air around me hums. I feel open, a channel for the earth. The willow branch vibrates in my hands and when I open my eyes, I see the tip is bobbling up and down.
“That’s good,” my father says, nodding in encouragement. “Now, walk with it. When it points at the ground and doesn’t move, you know you’ve found water.”
I start off slowly at first, a step forward, a step to the side. The willow branch bounces and trembles, bending in impossible directions as it seeks out water far below the ground. Everything else fades away.
The branch continues to jerk back and forth as I make my way up the hill toward the back of the house, and then, all at once, it points straight down at the ground.
“Dad,” I call. “I think I found something.”
He comes racing up the hill. “Looks good,” he says, holding out his own willow branch. It mirrors mine. My father pats my shoulder and drives his branch into the ground. “Good spot for the well-close to the house, but not too close. How far down do you think we’ll have to dig?” he asks as he narrows his eyes.
I recognize that look-he already knows the answer, but wants to know if I’m a natural at this. It’s the same look he gave me when he taught me to fire a rifle.
I close my eyes. “Not far down,” I hear myself say. In my mind, I see myself burrow into the earth like a root, a twisting, winding root searching for water among the rocks and the bones and the ghosts of dead things. And then I see the water-a deep, dark pool like the one in the spirit lands. It’s fed by three streams. “About twenty feet down,” I say. “There’s a pool down there.”
My father whistles under his breath. “Well, that’s lucky. Sounds like an artesian spring. Huh. Surprising no one tapped it before.” He smiles. “If there’s enough pressure, we might even be able to pipe it into the house. Wouldn’t that be something!” He takes the willow branch from my hand. “Good work. Let’s go see how Paul is making out, huh?”
We go back down to the house, but Paul is gone. His willow branch lies on the ground, twisted in half. My father sighs as he bends to pick it up, and shakes his head.
I stare at the forest. I’m pretty sure that’s where Paul’s gone.
Why, for once, couldn’t this gift have gone to Paul? He needs it more than I do, and if I could, I would give it to him. I would give him anything he asked for. But I can’t, and no amount of wishing is ever going to change that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The road is thick with shadows, and chickadees dart back and forth, chattering as they hunt for bugs. I pause to watch them. The basket on my arm suddenly feels very heavy, even though all it holds is Madda’s herbal. But it’s my gathering basket, and a good apprentice, says Madda, never goes anywhere without one. You never know when you might spot something valuable, she says.
I’m looking for something that I can use to hold the sisiutl’s pearls when I spy a clump of wild ginger growing along the side of the road. Its ugly brown flowers poke out of the ground like alien creatures emerging from the primordial stew.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I dig the plant with my hands, inhaling the strong, dank scent of earth mingling with the tang of ginger. The plant comes free of the soil with ease and as I tuck it into the basket, nestling it under a layer of fern blades to protect it from drying out, I hear the ratcheting of a bicycle coming up the road.
It’s Cedar. He stops a few feet from me. “What’re you doing?” he asks.
“Digging ginger.”
He sniffs the air. “I can smell it.” He smiles.
I notice he’s missing one of his front teeth. I’m pretty sure he had it last time I saw him. “What happened to your tooth?”
“Oh, that.” He rubs his jaw with an absentminded laziness. “Happened after the gathering. You know.” He shrugs. “Where are you going?”
“Madda’s.” I walk past him, hoping he’ll just leave me alone and continue on his way. He doesn’t. Gravel crunches as he turns the bike around and then there he is, pedaling next to me.
“How did you like the gathering?” he asks.
I give him a sidelong glance. Does he know about the sisiutl? “Why?”
