Boats.
Far away toward the line that separates surface from sky they glide along, hardly more distinct than the shadows of seabirds or the breaks in waves, but yet distinct enough. Three in all: I can make out the point at the front of each boat, cutting through the spray, and the rhythm of the strokes that propel them forward almost in time with us. Almost, but not quite in time. A beat or so slower, they gradually fall behind. I turn in my seat to watch them recede, wondering what clan might have boats out on these waters—halfway between your camp and mine. Could it be that Chev sent rowers to follow us to ensure our safety? It seems unlikely, considering five of his clansmen are escorting us home.
Could these be the spies Chev wondered about, on the morning Roon discovered the clan on our western shore? I remember your brother’s speculation as you hurried to leave our camp.
By the time they disappear, I suspect, as Chev did, that these were not spies but something else—Spirits sent by the Divine—perhaps to aid or even impede us. Not knowing which, and not wanting to cause a stir, I keep my thoughts to myself and say nothing. Before long, my eyes tiring from the sight of water rolling out in every direction, I decide they were never there at all, but rode the waves only in my mind.
The sun slides west and the wind picks up. Other than these small signs, everything suggests that time has stopped. Surrounded by circles—the circle of the paddles, the circle of the waves—I wonder if the day itself has closed into a circle, an endless loop rather than a line leading to an end.
But then the coast turns westward and the trees that have lined the land for most of the day abruptly stop. The snowcapped peaks of the eastern mountains seem to spring from out of nowhere, and my father calls out and stretches his arms in front of him as if to embrace them.
We’ve made it home.
On the other side of those peaks are the meltwater streams, the wildflower fields, and the windswept grasses. The paddles quicken and we pick up speed, pulling closer and closer to shore. We round the point that juts out over the sea at the foot of the tallest peaks, and we are officially in our bay. Nothing—not fatigue, not my throbbing wounds, not the prickly memory of the Spirit paddlers I’d seen along the way—can diminish the joy I feel at the sight of our land.
Yet once the boats have landed—once I’m climbing out of the canoe, stretching the cramps out of my legs—I notice something feels off. At this time of day I would expect to find Aunt Ama’s family fishing or gathering shellfish, but no one is out on the water or on the shore. It’s still, far more still than it should be. Gulls circle overhead, their squawks calling attention to the otherwise complete quiet. I drag my heavy feet up the steep bank to dry land, following close behind Pek. I think he and I both spot it at the same time—something out of place on our familiar strip of rocks and sand—a kayak.
Of course, there’s nothing strange about a kayak, but this boat is not one that I recognize. It lies on its side, displaying a hull that is longer and more narrow than the hulls of the boats my aunt’s family constructs. The sides are deeper, the bottom flatter.
This boat was not built by anyone I know.
This boat brought strangers to our shore.
THIRTEEN
My mother does not appear to notice anything out of place—she’s too distracted by her social obligations to the oarsmen.
“The midday meal has already been eaten, I’m sure,” she says, stumbling out of the canoe, not willing to wait for someone to help her. She must be as anxious as I am to feel our own land under her feet again. “But come with me. I’ll make sure that you are well fed and rested before you return home.” My brothers and I drag the boats up and ground them on the rocks not far from the strange kayak. As we do, Roon lets out a yelp.
“This boat! I’ve seen this boat before!” Standing on our beach now, with the sun high in its arc overhead, Roon points to a thin wisp of smoke rising from the far western edge of our bay. Before I can ask him what he’s thinking, he dashes up the trail and disappears from my view.
Pek throws me a glance full of caution and questions before hurrying after Roon.
Kesh shrugs. “And I thought the adventure was over.”
As we climb the trail behind Roon and Pek, music reaches my ears. A drumbeat and a voice. “The song of friendship,” says Kesh. I recognize the voice of the singer—my father’s brother, Reeth, one of the elders of the clan.
We reach the circle of huts and there she is—the person who brought the boat. Sitting on the ground in the center of the gathering place, directly beside my uncle and his wife, is a girl with a long braid on either side of her face, her dark, deep-set eyes presiding over round cheeks and a wide smile. Hers is a face I know well—a face I grew up with.