“Bring a spear.” You step to the door and draw back the drape enough to reveal a piece of the western sky, tinged blood red. The sun hangs so low, it’s hidden beyond the distant hills, but this is the time of year when the Divine treads slowly across the sky, and the sun refuses to set. “You are aware that something happened five years ago, and our two clans almost went to war. To you, the events of that day are insubstantial—”
“That’s not true—”
“Maybe someone you knew died—”
“Yes,” I say, remembering Tram’s father dressed for the hunt, lying in his grave.
“But that day does not follow you. For you, it stays in the past. But not for me. That day five years ago never leaves me. Its ghosts are always here.” As you speak, your cheeks flush the same intense red as the setting sun. Your eyes widen with excitement. “There’s so much you don’t understand. In a way, I suppose I envied you your ignorance. But you should know the whole story about that day. Ignorance never protected anyone for long.”
What could your betrothed’s death have to do with the death of Tram’s father, or any of the events of that day? Somehow I fear that once I learn the whole story of what happened between our clans five years ago, nothing will ever be the same.
You duck out through the door and I follow. “Some people need to see things to understand them. So let’s go.”
NINETEEN
The world outside is dim and muted—the sky a muted blue, the voices floating from the center of camp a muted hum. We manage to slide around to the trail that winds up and away from camp toward the meadow without catching anyone’s attention. For a fleeting moment, I think of our families—my father, your sister, my mother—how could they not notice our absence? But then I realize that they probably do. Perhaps they have all noted that we are both absent. Perhaps they assume we are together.
I let you lead me up the trail, climbing the long, gradual rise that rolls from the sea toward the vast expanse of treeless fields and meadows that stretch north, all the way to the foot of the Great Ice. The northern sky is cloaked in thick gray clouds and I wonder if ahead it might be raining. The scent of a storm swirls in the breeze—a surprisingly warm breeze that alternates with the chilly northern wind I would expect, and I know that rain is out there somewhere.
You stoop to pick a rock from the path, a smooth round stone like an egg the size of your fist. Crouching, you dig out another, and then a third. I stop, watching your fingers claw at the dry, dusty ground, thinking of the coming rain and how it will bring new life to the wildflowers and support to the bees. The spring was wet but this summer has been dry, and we are due for relief. I glance up at the gray sky, darkening as the sun lowers, and I know the Divine will not make us wait much longer.
Our feet move almost silently across the grass as you turn off the path and head into an open space at the edge of an outcropping of rocks, large jagged boulders that push up out of the ground like the back of a stalking cat. Insects keep a thrumming rhythm all around us, but otherwise, the night is still. You sit on the grass about fifty paces from the line of rocks and look up at me. I guess this is our destination.
Folding my legs beneath me, I kneel on the sparse grass and watch as you arrange the stones you carry in front of you.
“Five years ago . . .” You place the three stones in a line. “Five years ago, my clan was on the verge of breaking. There were arguments, disagreements about what path was best for our people. My father, with the breath of his final days, was advocating for a move south. Because of him, the clan constructed fifteen two-person kayaks. In those days, our clan was not familiar with the sea. We relied almost exclusively on the mammoth herds for food. Our use of kayaks was limited, and only two members of the clan were adept at boat-making. The task was slow, but eventually, fifteen boats were complete.
My father had intended to move the clan—over sixty of us in all—in two groups. But when he died . . .” You fall silent, drawing a line in the dirt between clumps of grass with your finger. “In the end, we took thirteen kayaks and moved twenty-five people. The others—my extended family I’d known all my life—we never saw again.
“But the trip was slow; we didn’t know the way, and we were not strong paddlers. At the end of every day on the sea, exhausted and hungry, we had to find a safe place to camp. We had to find food to eat. That was why, when we landed on your shore, we were so relieved. That was why my people were so anxious to go on a combined hunt. We needed safety, shelter, and food, and you offered us all these things.”
As I listen to your story, a gust of sharp, cool wind flattens the grass and prompts me to tighten the laces at my throat.