Shadows Cast by Stars

turns around, I see he’s changed. One half of his body is covered in black feathers. They’re dull and ragged. Some have fallen out and lie at his feet, leaving white, pebbled bird flesh exposed at his shoulder, his flank. His right arm is a wing. He stands with his shoulders slumped, his back curved, as if at any moment he’ll curl into the fetal position.

I reach out to him, stretching my hand across the circles of light.

Paul raises his head slowly. When he sees me, his lips form the word no, and when I don’t stop trying to reach him, he brings his winged arm across his face and pushes me back. Again. And again. And again. And again.

Leave me alone, he says. Leave me alone. Why won’t you ever leave me alone? Leave me, leave me…

I can’t, Paul, I say. I can’t.

Then I leave you.

And just like that, he’s gone.

I wake to the sound of a flight of geese making their way south. The seasons are beginning to shift.

My back aches from a night curled up in the chair and my head is still fuzzy with sleep, but something has changed. If Paul doesn’t want me in his dreams, that’s one thing, but if he thinks he’s turned me away, he’s mistaken.

I’ve just finished dressing when my father’s truck pulls up outside, laden with firewood. He gets out and starts unloading.

I dash outside to help.

“About time you got out of bed,” he says, laughing at first, until he sees the look on my face. “Everything okay?”

“No.” I feel like I want to hit something. “I met with the Elders yesterday.”

“Oh.” My father scowls. “Why don’t you go put the kettle on? I’ve brought wood for you-figured I wouldn’t use it all myself. Let me get it stacked, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

But putting the kettle on doesn’t do anything to assuage my anger, so a few minutes later I’m outside, helping my father pack alder and fir to the far side of the house. We don’t talk. Not yet. I’m still too angry, and my father? I don’t know. Sad, maybe. There’s something about the way he moves, the way he balances each piece of firewood so carefully on the one below-too carefully, maybe-that tells me something’s not right.

The shriek of the kettle’s whistle calls me inside to make tea. There’s still some blueberry pie left, so I put it on plates and take it out to my father. He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands under the spigot of the rain barrel, thoroughly, thoughtfully, like he used to back in the Corridor, and then sits down on the chopping block. I hand him a cup of tea.

“It’s real,” I say when his eyebrows shoot up in wonder.

He takes a sip and sighs in appreciation. “Real tea. And blueberry pie. Did you make that, too?”

“No. Ms. Adelaide did. She came by yesterday.”

“Did she?”

We continue making small talk, because we’re not ready to change the mood just yet. But we must.

“So,” my father says. He sets his teacup down on the woodpile and spreads his fingers wide over his knees. “What did the Elders say?”

“What do you think? They gave me some excuses about needing time, that this isn’t the first canoe to go missing, that I need to be patient.”

My father draws a deep breath. “Cass, we have to be careful with this. Really careful. It isn’t that they’re doing nothing-they’re doing something. Just not what we want them to do. I want Paul back as much as you do, I promise you that, but…”

“But what, Dad?” My father’s shade, his robin, has appeared at his shoulder, dragging its wing. Wounded, or just pretending to lure a predator away from its young? Which is it? I can’t tell. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“Cass,” he says, “they don’t want to find that canoe. I get the feeling they may know where it is, or, at least, where it was, but… it’s not Paul. They don’t care about him. It’s Bran.” He sits back. “Grace Eagleson has been hounding me every day, begging me to make the Elders listen, because they won’t to her, but I’ve gone to see them twice now. Paul and the other men in the canoe are insignificant-innocent bystanders, if you will. They haven’t come right out and said that, but… think about it, Cass. With Bran gone, where does that leave them?” He balls his hand into a fist. “Without anyone who has a claim to be chief.” He sighs. “There wasn’t much hope in finding them anyhow, Cass. Even if the Elders knew where they went, a single canoe out on that sea? They could be halfway across the ocean by now, if they got caught in the wrong current. I fished out there when I was young. That ocean? She’s unforgiving.”

“So,” I whisper, because I can scarcely believe what I’m hearing, “are you telling me that I shouldn’t try? That I should give up? That you’ve given up?”

“No.” My father fixes me with a steely look. “But we’ve got to be smart about this. You just can’t go running off on a fool’s chase. I’ll help you if I can, but it has to be you, Cass. If I do it, well-let’s just say the Elders aren’t afraid of hurting you. I think Henry knows you’ve got some power, but the rest? They think you’re just some girl. Who knows what they’d try to do to you if I weren’t here. I can’t take that risk.” The steely look begins to fade. He’s fighting tears too. “I’m sorry, Cass. I’m sorry this is the way it is.”

“You could come with me,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I could, but then, once we found them, what would we do then? What would we have to come back to? Besides, there’s always a chance Paul will find his way home. Someone needs to be here for him.”

There’s more to it than that. I don’t know what, but if my father says I have to do this alone, I will. I trust him.

I hug him. He smells like sawdust and tea. “I’m going to go tomorrow, Dad.”

He kisses my cheek. “Then I’ll see you soon.”

The remainder of the day is devoted to preparations. Spirit’s my destination. The journey begins when I pick up Madda’s stone, douse it in salty water, string it on a leather strand, and fasten it around my neck. It feels different than Bran’s spirit stone, cool and soft, nothing like Bran. Nothing like Madda. Maybe that’s because this stone’s mine now, and Bran’s never was.

My next stop is the forest, Madda’s herbal in hand. As I give thanks and sever a bough from the nearest cedar, I remember Madda’s advice about putting wardings at the burial ground. Helen will know where the boundaries are, but on the other hand, maybe I’ll just take my sweet time and see how the Elders feel about that. Then we’ll see who holds the real power.

Two ravens fly overhead. They circle round and land on the limb of an alder.

If I can face the dzoonokwa, I can face anything, I decide. “Shoo!” I yell, and they burst into flight, voicing their raucous opinions as they wheel away.

I dig for wild ginger and scrape moss from a maple tree, thanking each plant for its gifts. Before long, my gathering basket holds rocks and branches, roots and mushrooms. And then, I gather stones. They’ll be for more than marking the boundary of the fire ring. The herbal says to mark the boundaries of now and notnow, of here and spirit, so that when I want to return, they’ll guide me home, just like the breadcrumbs left by Hansel and Gretel, except this trail won’t be gobbled up by ravens. Granite is for the quarters, marking out the directions of the wind. Quartz is for the cross-quarters to provide protection against anything or anyone who would seek to harm me. This time, I will do everything exactly right because I must, I must find what I’m looking for. There is no other option.

As I strike flint against steel, I think of the lost ones, the souls who speak to my brother and drift between worlds. What of them? Maybe there’s a way of helping them after all-if I could only find a way into their twilight. Smoke puffs from the handful of moss in the center of the fire ring as I wonder if Paul’s already found a way there. Maybe that’s why he was so strange before he left. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want me in his dreams anymore.

Smoke circles around me as I finger Madda’s spirit stone, and that’s when I realize I’ve got the means to find Bran and Paul right in my hand. All I need to do is ask the spirit stone the right question, and it’ll give me the answer.