Shadows Cast by Stars

pound and grind, Cedar returns with the two older men. They go to join Henry Crawford.

“Well?” I hear him say.

“Found it. Killed the two still alive,” says one of the older men.

“And the searchcraft?” Crawford says.

“Salvageable.”

“Did you mark its position?”

“Cedar did the triangulation. We’ll be able to get to it again. Disabled the tracker and covered it well, so the UA won’t find it unless they stub their toe on it.” He grins.

Cedar glances my way and I drop my gaze back to my work. The last thing I want right now is his attention.

Later, as the men are settling down to sleep, Madda comes and sits beside me. “So,” she says. “It wasn’t what you thought it would be.”

“No.” It wasn’t. It was harder, and scarier, and yet… good, too, in a way that tastes both bitter and sweet.

“I remember the first time I watched someone die. I want to tell you it gets easier, but I’m not sure it does.” She gives me a kind smile. “But it’s necessary, you know. Death-it’s not the end. Something happens afterward.” She points up at the single star that has poked its way through the clouds. “Some say that’s what we become. Others, they say we become part of the wind until the day we’re born again.” She shrugs. “We all get to find out sooner or later.”

“Madda,” I say as I tug my blanket closer. I’m suddenly very cold. “The boundary. You said that there are gaps now. Do you know why?”

She scratches her cheek. “Not exactly. I’ve sensed it for a while, that the boundary isn’t what it used to be, though as far as I know, this is the first time a whole searchcraft has come through. Before, they only managed to drop their soldiers through the gaps. Maybe… maybe it’s just that nothing lasts, you know?”

“But if that’s the case, Madda, shouldn’t we be ready to leave? If it’s not safe here?”

She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Remember when I told you there were things you’d have to say that no one would want to hear? Well, that would be one of them. I’ve said it. No one wants to listen.” She sighs. “They’ll come around, though-soon, I hope. Before it’s too late. But don’t you worry about that now, Cass. You’ve had a long, hard day. Get some sleep.”

I shuffle around, and when I’m mostly comfortable I close my eyes, but it’s some time before Madda’s words leave me. Before it’s too late. Before it’s too late.

What if it’s already too late?

I dream.

I dream of Paul sitting by a fire, staring at the embers. Bran sits across from him, a rifle resting across his knees. I float between them, a wraith called up by the depth of Paul’s vision, or maybe the dream’s merely a manifestation of my mind, a hopeful projection of what I wish was happening.

I touch Bran’s cheek and he shivers. It’s then I know that this is real, that Paul’s called me into his world for some reason. I sit by Bran’s side, rest my head on his shoulder, and watch my brother, wondering why he wants me here. What does he need me to see?

Something shifts in the shadows behind Paul. I’m not the only one he’s summoned. Faces peer out of the darkness, contorted in suffering. They moan and reach for Paul with crippled, wasted hands.

I scream at them to leave him alone, though my voice carries no weight in this place, and neither does my body, for when I try to push the faces away, my hands pass right through them and I stumble into darkness.

It’s all right, Cass, I hear Paul say. I had to try. He shakes his head and I spiral through the darkness until I feel my body jerk awake.

We set out for the boundary around midmorning. I’m not sure why we’re still going. Surely we should take the injured men back to town and see if the searchers attacked there too. But the order is given to move out and that’s what Madda’s doing, so that’s what I do too.

Three men, not two, passed during the night and Henry Crawford decided not to leave until beds had been made for the deceased high in the tops of the cedars where they can see the sky. I feel the dead men now, looking down over our shoulders as we leave them behind.

The men around me sing as we walk. I don’t know what they’re saying, though I can understand the gist of it-a song of mourning. A song that will accompany the deceased on their journey to what comes after. The men sing in their soft, rustling language, a language that I don’t know, though the sound of it makes my head swim. Madda places a hand on my arm and squeezes it from time to time, probably to make sure I’m staying with her.

We walk well into the night, and rise early the next morning to walk again. The day passes without incident, and by late afternoon, we arrive.

The forest just stops. One minute, we’re in the trees, and the next, we’re not. Legend says that a long time ago, the earth just slipped away into the ocean. My father said it was too full of sorrow over the land lost to the earthquakes, so it wanted to die too. Now it sits at the bottom of the ocean, looking up at the stars.

My gut aches at the sight of the ground stripped bare of every living thing. No birds. No trees. No water. Just the red stone running like an artery, bleeding all over the place, red stone as far as I can see.

I press my hand to my mouth, biting down on my knuckle hard to stave off the panic surging inside of me. Cedar pulls my hand away. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “They’re watching you. Want to know what you’re made of, whether they can control you better than Madda. Don’t let them do it.” He lets go of my elbow and walks away without another word.

Men approach from the east. They talk with Henry Crawford, who shouts at us to move out. A path traces the edge of the forest and leads to a makeshift camp, where mildew-stained tents huddle close to a cabin tucked into the tree line.

Madda drops her pack on the ground. “Leave yours too. They won’t need us for a while. We’ve got other business.”

I set my pack down and follow her into the woods. I’m so relieved to be away from the red stone that I’d happily follow her anywhere.

We walk north for a good long while, long enough for the shadows to drape themselves across the trees. Madda doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. Whatever we’re doing needs to be done in silence.

Our path runs uphill to where the forest thins. Madda pauses, scans the mountains, and then turns west. We scramble down an incline of pebbles, and then I see it: a tall, black stone, so polished our reflection ripples across its surface. It stands in a crater where nothing grows.

“What is it?” I whisper. Sparks buzz around my head, drawing closer and closer until I’m afraid to breathe, for fear of inhaling them.

“The source of the boundary,” Madda says. She takes a deep breath. “Gather some firewood, but don’t wander too far. I don’t want to have to go searching for you.”

Windfall litters the edge of the crater and it isn’t long until I’ve collected a fair pile of kindling. Madda’s built a fire next to the monolith. She digs several strips of oolichan out of the pouch at her hip and offers them to me. I shake my head. Hunger has left me. Madda nods and starts taking other things out of the pouch: eagle feathers, twine, a moonstone with a drop of red right in its center, a rattle, a needle, a jar of ink. She sets them in a row, and then crumbles sage onto the fire. “Drink up the smoke,” she says.

I inhale deeply. The smoke winds its way into my lungs.

“Now, take off your shirt.”

I do as she asks, shivering as wind touches my sweaty skin.

“Hold still.” The pungent fumes of whiskey fill my nose as she touches a cloth to a flask and then rubs it on my shoulder. Then she dips the needle into the ink, but pauses. “This isn’t right,” she murmurs to herself, shaking her head for a moment before raising her gaze to meet mine. “I need to ask you a question. Do you want to become my daughter?”

“Your daughter?” I echo.

“Yes. I want to adopt you. The Elders aren’t sure about you, and if you’re my daughter, well, that gives you some protection. You’re without clan, you see. Clan structure is a lot more lax now, not like the old days, but it’ll