Shadows Cast by Stars

in my body has gone rigid.

“Let’s just say”-Avalon gets up and peers out the window, smiling to herself-“that Helen isn’t as innocent as you think she is. Ask Cedar about it sometime. I’m sure he’d love to tell you.” She opens the door. “You know, we should hang out more. You, me, Bran, and Paul. Just the four of us.”

I stop weaving and stare at her. Right. Just the four of us. “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll talk to Paul about it.”

“Paul. He’s a pretty sensitive guy, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. Just what is she getting at?

“I worry about him. He feels things too deeply. Takes things too personally. People like that, well, it’s not hard to hurt them.”

“Paul’s stronger than you think,” I say carefully. “You’d be surprised just how strong.”

Avalon looks at me for a long moment. Neither of us has said what we mean, but I think we understand each other perfectly. “Well,” she says with a lazy smile, “looks like Madda’s going to be longer than I expected. I’m glad I got to spend a little time with you. It’s hard to get you alone, you know.” She hops off her perch and heads out, but not before stopping to pick a daisy. I watch her as she twirls it between her fingers, and then, pulls the petals from it, one by one, tossing them over her shoulder as she strolls down the path. He loves me, he loves me not. An innocent game, if played by anyone else, but Avalon is no innocent. If I didn’t know that before, I certainly do now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Madda’s attempt at discretion hasn’t worked. Some-one’s been talking-two someones, with the names of Avalon and Cedar, no doubt-and the whole town’s buzzing about the missing markers. Judging from the way people look at me as I walk down the street, I know there’s been more talk than that.

“That damned Cedar,” Madda mutters to herself. “Never could keep his mouth shut. Just hold your head high,” Madda says, loudly enough for the people nearby to here. “Not your fault people are stupid enough not to know a lie when they hear one.”

We’ve been summoned to a meeting with the Elders. Madda tried to get me out of it, but they insisted, and I can tell she’s not happy about it.

I follow her past the watchmen totem poles and the forbidding stare of the thunderbird. My palms are sweating.

Madda stops and sets a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let them see your fear,” she whispers. “Just be you. Tell the truth and everything will be fine.”

I nod as we set off again. Dust motes catch in the light drifting through the smoke hole, casting the great room in a pleasantly hazy glow. Nothing remains of the gathering, none of the madness that gripped Madda, not even the ashes from the fire, but I can feel the songs in the air, the words that bring the old stories alive, turning myth into reality. The supernaturals press at me, wanting to take root in my body, wanting me to dance them back into this world, but I don’t let them. This isn’t the time or the place, and little by little, they back away, waiting their turn to be called forth.

Madda opens a door and we step into the meeting room, where the Elders wait for us. All men. That’s the first thing I notice, and though Madda prepared me for this, seeing them here, staring me down, sets my heart fluttering. Henry Crawford sits at the end of a narrow table, leaning back in his chair. The others I don’t know. Henry nods at me, and then looks down the line of men.

I glance around for a place to sit, but there is none. Madda stands at my side, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable too. This isn’t a casual chat. It’s the first time these men will test my resolve, and we all know this meeting will establish the dynamic between us from here on in. Right now, it’s not so important. I’m an apprentice and will be for some time. But later, when Madda passes on? I pray that’ll happen years from now. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever really be ready to face these men alone.

“So, you gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna tell us what happened?” This comes from a man with fat jowls and gray hair. He leans forward and glowers like a great, fat toad.

Madda nudges me. I take a step forward and glance back at her. The truth is, I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to say because I’m not sure what they’re asking about. Do they want to know about the sisiutl, or the incident at the burial ground?

“Something wrong with her, Madda?” another man says.

“Nope. You’re just going to have to be a bit more specific. Speak plain, you old fools.” She says this in an offhand, friendly manner, but there’s a hint of warning about it, as if she’s reminding them that we’re here for their benefit, not the other way around.

Henry Crawford speaks up next. “So, do you wanna tell us what you were doing on the burial ground, then?”

My gaze flickers to Madda. They already know I was with Cedar and they already know his version of the story. So why do they want my take? What could I possibly tell them that they don’t already think they know? The words I choose are important, that much I can tell. “I didn’t know it was a burial ground,” I decide to say. Keep it vague.

The men exchange looks. I can’t tell if what I’ve said is the wrong thing or not, but I do sense that I’m on trial and they’re my jury, and all the reasons I have for hating the Band come flooding back to me. What right do they have to judge me? Who says they’re any wiser than I am? Who’s elected them? Not me. I never asked for any of this.

Madda must sense I’m about to explode because she rests a hand on my shoulder again. “Tell them the rest, Cassandra.”

I draw a deep breath. “I was on my way to see Madda. Cedar offered me a ride on his bike, and I said no-a couple of times-and I got scared because he wouldn’t leave me alone. So I ran.”

Henry Crawford nods, but he’s the only one who seems to believe me. The rest have skeptical looks on their faces.

“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?” the jowled man says. “That’s a pretty strong accusation.”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” I say, drawing myself up tall so I don’t feel so scared. “I’m telling you what happened, just like you asked.” I can hear my tone start to get lippy, and I know that’s dangerous territory. These men have the power to make my life a living hell, and, by proxy, my family’s, but when I see the corner of Madda’s mouth quiver like she’s resisting the temptation to smile, I know I’m doing okay.

“Teach her the wardings,” Henry Crawford says to Madda.

And that’s that. I’m not sure what’s happened, for as Madda steers me from the room, I’m left bewildered. They brought me all the way down here just to tell Madda that?

Before we’re out of earshot, the men start talking. “Stupid half-breed” is the first thing I hear. Followed by: “Idiot kid.” “Pot-stirrer.” “My son wouldn’t lie.” “Slut.”

Madda walks faster, towing me along, but not fast enough. All I want to do is run back into that room to give them a piece of my mind, but Madda tightens her grip on my arm. “Let them think what they want,” she mutters. “They’re fools. The people who count will always know you for who you are. For the truth of you.” She halts and turns me so we’re looking each other right in the eye. “You know that, right? You know who you are? You know they’re just a bunch of spineless, scared men?”

I nod. I do know, but that doesn’t mean their words don’t pierce me like glass. I want to know what Cedar said. I want to know what his father believes, because I’ll set him right. I’ll show him who his son really is.

“Just don’t forget who’s on your side. They haven’t done battle with a sisiutl, have they? Although it’s just as well that they don’t know about that, considering what just happened. No telling what they’d do if they knew your true power. Then they’d have real reason to be scared.”

Maybe she’s trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t help. Not one bit.

Bran is the last to know. It always works that way.

I’m sitting on the sundeck, staring out at the lake, watching for the sisiutl. I should be weeding, or mending my father’s work shirt, or kneading bread, but I’ve found a length of rope. It’s been some time since I’ve made something, and I can’t stop myself. My hands are twisting and knotting, forming the rope and the stones I’ve