Shadows Cast by Stars

gathered into a wind chime. That’s when I hear Bran’s footsteps rounding the corner of the house, and from the way they fall on the wood of the sundeck, I know, just from their rhythm, that he’s upset.

“I should have been there.” His voice is breathy, as if the words hurt his throat.

Should he have? I look up at him. For sixteen years I’ve survived without Bran Eagleson. I stand, slowly, and lift my shirt to expose the scar on my belly before Bran can look away. “Look at this, Bran. Look. I don’t need a protector. I am capable of taking care of myself, and if you can’t handle that, then you should leave.” I let my shirt fall back into place and sit back down. Did I really just say that?

“You want me to leave?” he asks. Surprise colors his voice.

“No.” I sit back down and begin to work on the wind chime again, just so I won’t have to look at him. If I did, I would want to fix his hurt, his confusion, but that’s not for me. This, Bran needs to figure out on his own, though nothing says I can’t help him along a bit. “I want you to stay, but only if we’re equals. Not if you think I need your protection, that I’m your responsibility all the time.”

He drops down beside me. Our shoulders touch. “That might be hard for me. I’ve spent most of my life taking care of my mother. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Yes, you do.” I take his hand and trace the calluses on his palm. “You’ll see.”

“Okay,” he says. And then, he leans in and kisses me. His lips are warm and taste like salt.

That’s when Paul rounds the corner. “Oh hell,” he says as Bran and I lean away from each other. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Paul mutters, backing away, pretending not to look at us.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Come back.”

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, and then walks over to Bran and punches him hard in the shoulder. “That,” he says, “is for kissing my sister. Just to keep things on the straight and narrow.”

Bran laughs and gets up, then punches Paul back. “So, where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere.” Paul eyes the welts on my legs. “I heard what happened. I’m going to remove more than Cedar’s tooth the next time I see him. You with that fool? I laughed in his face.” He smiles one of his brilliant smiles. “I think I’ll kill him for you.”

I don’t know what to say. The words sound so light, so carefree, and yet I believe him.

“Well, it’s hot.” Paul rubs his hands together. “Swim, anyone?”

Bran nudges me.

I shake my head. “Not for me, but I’ll come watch.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Bran’s voice is soft, as if he’s suddenly a long ways away. He, too, is remembering.

Paul jumps up and is gone, racing down the slope, his raven shade chasing behind.

“He seems happy,” Bran says. I nod. Happier than I’ve seen him in ages.

A kingfisher flutters at Bran’s shoulder and for a moment, I don’t know whether it’s real or his shade. Its plumage is sleek, shining, glossy. Not a hint of disease, not a hint of anything other than health.

I close my eyes and smile into the sun.

“What are you grinning at?” Bran pokes me in the side.

“Nothing. Everything.”

He kisses my nose, and then offers me a hand up. I take it, and together we walk down to the end of the dock. Paul is already in the water, swimming away from us.

It is a pleasant place, our little slice of Eden. We live beyond the world of noise and plastic, of searches and power cuts and microchips and disease. Here on the Island, we till our gardens, wander paths created by deer. We have forgotten what runs in our blood, have forgotten the Corridor altogether.

Forgetting is such an easy thing.

A week later, Madda finally gives me a day off. There are a million things I’d like to do with my free time, but the necessities of life need to be dealt with-the first being laundry. My father is already down the hill, heating water in our biggest pot, while I wander about the house, picking up dirty socks and underwear, pants stained red from the dirt, shirts stinking of sweat. My father makes a neat pile in the corner of his room. Paul? His clothes are strewn everywhere, forcing me to hunt for them. This makes me grin, because that’s just the way Paul is. That’s the way he’s always been: messy, dirt on his knees, pants pockets full of rocks and sticks, and when I pick up his only pair of jeans, that’s what I think I’ve found at first, a pocket full of rocks and sticks.

But it’s not. Beneath the jeans are rocks and sticks and feathers joined together by lengths of twine. Sea- shells, too, and wood carved into images of thunderbird and raven. Symbols are painted on the rocks. I stretch the lengths of twine and stare at the objects fastened to them. I know what these are. These are the missing wardings.

Paul took down the wardings? Paul? But why? And why did he hide them where I’d find them? Because he wanted me to know. He must have. If he didn’t, he would have hidden them better.

Paul, just what have you done?

It takes me a while to summon up the courage to talk to him. Things have been better between us lately, and I hate the thought of ruining that. For days I put it off, finding one excuse or another, but today Madda forced my hand. We started to make new wardings this morning, binding stones and shells together with rope, while she chanted and anointed them with smoke. The wardings, she said, are to keep bad spirits where they belong- in the burial ground.

What bad spirits? I wanted to ask, but I was afraid. So was she, and I haven’t seen Madda afraid of anything since the night of the gathering.

But Paul knows. He’s always had a way with the dead.

I find him out back, digging the hole that will become our well. Twenty feet down might not be particularly deep, but when it’s straight through time-packed clay, well, it’s damn hard work. I bring him sun tea, hoping that an offering will start things off on the right track.

He smiles as he takes the glass and drains its contents in one long draft. I pour another. “I’ve been missing you,” I say.

“I’ve been around.”

“I know. Just, things seem a bit weird right now.”

He wipes his brow and shrugs. “Lots happening.”

“Uh-huh.” I sit at the edge of the hole, letting my legs dangle. “So, I found something.”

“Did you?” He starts digging again.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No, not really.” A clod of clay flies out of the hole, landing with a thud beside me. “You should probably move if you don’t want to get hit.”

“Paul,” I say, not moving an inch, “what’s going on? Why did you take the wardings?”

He stops and glares up at me. “Because they’re not meant to be there.” He slams his shovel into the ground. “You think just because you’re Madda’s apprentice that you know everything that’s going on, that you’re the only one who walks the spirit paths, but I do too, Cass, and they ask things of me as well.”

“So they asked you to take down the wardings?” I don’t understand. “Who’s they?”

Paul bites his lip, as if deciding whether to tell me or not. I hold my breath, waiting. “The people in the woods. They’re trapped there by the wardings. They wanted to be free, and for once I could do something about it. So I did.” He starts digging again. “Why don’t you go running to Madda and tell her what I’ve done. Isn’t that what you want to do?”

“No, Paul,” I say as I step away from him. “That’s not what I want at all.” I just want you back, I think.

I just want my brother back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bran and I are pulling weeds from between bean plants in the garden. Bees buzz around us, flitting from flower to tiny purple flower while, above, the wind stirs the trees, sending a cascade of needles raining over the lake. Bran sits back on his haunches and swipes at the beads of sweat running down his