Shadows Cast by Stars

And then what? The sisiutl told me to dance. It wanted me to do it, and it had to have known what would happen, even if I didn’t.

Why would it want me to cause an earthquake?

But it’s not just the earthquake, if “just” is even the right word at a time like this. It’s what happened after. I haven’t seen Chris Johnson. My heart hopes he’s off hunting too, but something tells me he’s not, that he’s back there at the boundary, left behind. Was it the fire or the earthquake that took him? Doesn’t matter, I guess. Both, I think, were my fault.

The men watch me. They’ve seen what I can do, and any lingering doubts why Madda chose me as her apprentice have been erased. I walk with greater care. I’m afraid of my own feet, and I almost laugh. How ridiculous is that? And yet… what if it was me? Why would I be given the power to cause earthquakes? What’s the trigger? Anger? I remember being angry, but if it is anger, what if I can’t control my temper? What if this power uses me, rather than me using it? What if I start something and can’t make it stop?

One by one, I look at the men, making note of the faces. Who is missing? Who was lost in the fire?

The two men in the lean-to. The two men with Plague. Is that why the sisiutl had me dance? To destroy them before they… what? Before they destroyed me? No. Why would a supernatural need me, if that’s all it was? They were dying anyway.

But the smell… the smell that made me gag when I entered the lean-to. I encountered it again in the spirit world, a stench so intense that it almost had form. It followed the shadowman like his very own shade. Is that it?

I’m not sure, but I’d like it to be. Then all of this would be his fault, because if I caused that earthquake, if I caused that fire, if I set the world shaking by just dancing, what does that make me…

I remember Madda saying I was special, but special isn’t the right word. Freak might be closer to the truth. And a danger-to everyone-if I don’t figure out what this all means.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Madda once said that there is a duality in everything. We need water, but too much will kill us. Fire warms our bodies, but too much? My aching shoulder is proof of that. Too much food can be just as bad as too little. Too much sun? Too much wind? Too much rain? Life is about balance, she said, about walking that thin line between what is right and what is wrong. How will I know which is which? How will I know if this next footstep is the one that will set off another earthquake? If my next breath will cause a hurricane and destroy us all?

I don’t. So for now, I keep on walking. Carefully.

The men have set their packs at the roots of a great maple. I spot Madda’s among them and ease myself down beside it, carefully unwrapping the bandage wound around my right shoulder. I go slowly, the bandage crackling as dried blood breaks apart. It doesn’t hurt, more or less, until I get to the final layer. What was once skin has adhered to the linen of the bandage. I stare at my shoulder, wishing I didn’t have to do what I’m about to do. I can already tell that Madda’s tattoo is gone. The skin has been burned clean away. My hand creeps up my neck, slowly, testing the remaining skin. The wound from the sisiutl is gone now too, but not because of the fire- because it’s simply not there. I squeeze my eyes shut. First the earthquake and now disappearing wounds?

Henry Crawford walks by and sees me trying to pull the bandage from my shoulder. “That’s gonna hurt.” He crouches beside me. “Do you want me to do it?”

I nod. My voice has disappeared.

“All right. It’s gonna bleed. You got something to stanch it with?”

I show him the handful of sphagnum clenched in my fist.

“Good enough. Take a deep breath. On the count of three, let it out and I’ll pull. Ready?”

My forehead is damp with the cold sweat of fear, but I do as he asks. “Ready.”

“One, two… three.”

I scream as pain seers my body. Fire, fire, it’s eating me alive, my body, my eyes, my brain…

Henry takes my hand and presses it to my shoulder, sending a shower of sparks through my mind, like cinders lifting on an updraft. The spirit world wants me. It wants me to cross over, and this pain is paving the path. Henry Crawford leaves, unnerved, as I try to blink the sparks away.

Slowly the pain subsides, leaving me with a thirst in my throat, a thirst that probably would have been quenched by Cedar’s whiskey. But instead of going to get it, I remember something else. My hands find my throat. Bran’s stone, and the pouch holding the sisiutl pearls. They’re both gone.

“Please,” I say to the next man passing by. “Who pulled me out of the fire?”

The man tilts his head toward Henry Crawford.

I make my way across the clearing, ignoring roots, the sparks, the humming in my ears, the insistent burning of my shoulder. “Please,” I say to Henry Crawford. “Please, in the fire… when you found me…” I can’t catch my breath. “Please,” I try to say again, but it’s nothing but air. Henry Crawford’s face puckers into a puzzled frown. I tap my throat, my chest, pull my collar back to expose the notch of my neck. Bran’s spirit stone. Please, tell me you have it. Tell me it’s safe.

Henry retrieves something from his pocket and presses it into my hand-the cloth pouch, stained with soot. I roll it between my fingers, feeling the sisiutl’s pearls inside, and then look at Henry. “My necklace? The one with the green stone?”

“You were holding that in your hand,” he says. “That’s the only reason it survived. Everything else was destroyed when the cabin collapsed.”

“Oh.” I run a finger over the hollow of my throat. My gut aches as my pulse collides with my finger. The spirit stone is gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I dream.

I dream I am sitting on the edge of the ocean, staring out at open water, looking for my brother, for Bran, but all I see is the sisiutl. Its head rises above the seafoam as it swims toward the shore. All at once, the ocean draws back, rushing away as if repulsed by the sisiutl, and I draw back too, for I’ve never seen it without water surrounding its body. Folded close to its back are a set of wings, glistening like mica, and as the sun beams down on it, I am forced to shade my eyes. This is no eel, no sea serpent. This is a creature of ages.

Drop your hands, the sisiutl says in a voice that’s as deep as the ocean, as thin as air. Drop your hands and look at yourself.

My arms fall to my sides as I force my eyes open and stare at nothing.

We set out at daybreak. Cedar carries one end of my stretcher, a man named Joe Potter the other. I am permitted to walk for short intervals until my breath comes in shallow gasps and then they force me back onto the stretcher.

Ravens wheel above us, but they don’t follow. They’re content to watch from a distance.

A whistle breaks the silence and we draw to a halt. Six men, armed to the teeth, emerge from the ferns.

Stop! I try to yell to the men, but my words don’t carry. Henry gives Cedar a quick glance. He nods, and my stretcher is picked up and moved out of earshot so I can’t do any damage. I want to laugh, but I only choke. Damage. What damage can I do, compared to what Henry is doing at this very moment? He’s shaking hands with one of the men, spreading contagion as if it’s nothing to him, as if he’s forgotten our history. Smallpox. Tuberculosis. Addiction. All brought into our communities by outsiders. I clench my hands. I will not allow this.

“Settle down,” Cedar says, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady me. I’m so angry I’m trembling. “Cass,” he says again, more deliberately this time, “get a handle on yourself.”

“No,” I say as I struggle against him. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he get what Henry’s doing?

But then…

I realize. The earthquake. The last time I was this angry, I caused an earthquake. All of a sudden I can’t make myself calm enough. I hold my breath, bite my tongue, grab on to the sides of the stretcher so tightly that my