No words. Just a nod of your head.
“Well then,” your brother says, getting to his feet. “Thank you for bringing a warning. I’m saddened to hear that Shava’s story was all true. I had hoped that somehow—”
“I had hoped so, too, but now I know those were false hopes.”
I tell Chev everything I’ve already told you—the number of kayaks I’d seen launch from Lo’s camp, the rough weather on the sea, and the place I’d seen their boats sheltering from the storm.
A plan is made. Chev decides that Seeri will take Lees away from camp to protect the both of them. He tries to force you to go as well, but you won’t have it. Perhaps he realizes that your skills with a spear are worth having around; perhaps he knows you are too stubborn to ever follow his orders—it doesn’t matter. He lets you stay.
Moments later, all the members of the clan have been assembled under the roof in the meeting place. With the roar of rain and the clatter of sleet against the canopy over our heads, a small voice inside me silently thanks Morsk for his handiwork and the brief relief it offers from the storm.
Everyone listens as Chev outlines his plan. Anyone who wishes to help defend the camp is welcome, but no one will be forced. Those who are injured or otherwise unable to fight are encouraged to stay behind and keep the children out of sight. The rest of us will head to the water and climb the low cliffs that overlook the beach where Lo’s clan is most likely to land. We will take weapons, but Chev warns against using them. “Only defensively,” he says. “These are not strangers. They are our own clan, our own people.”
I flinch at Chev’s words, remembering Lo’s: A false leader, a wedge . . . they go to remove these things. They are coming to remove Chev—to kill him—and to kill you and your family, too.
I hope that Chev is right, and bloodshed can be avoided. But if he is wrong, I am not part of Chev’s clan. He is not my High Elder, and I am not obligated to follow his rules.
The cliffs rise to both the north and south of the beach. Chev decides to position himself on the cliff to the north, where the view is best, allowing only you and me to accompany him. The rest of your clan who have come to fight—sixteen in all—split into two groups. Half follow Morsk up the cliffs to the south while the others guard the paths that lead up to these two lookout points. If someone tries to get to Chev, they will have to fight just to get to the trail.
We each have a spear, but once in position, on this windy, rain-drenched ridge, you and I move wordlessly, collecting a stockpile of large rocks. It’s slow, hard work, but the effort keeps our blood warm. When we’ve collected every rock we can lift, we station ourselves at a break in the low brush that lines the ledge. From here, we can watch for boats approaching the beach far below, but we cannot be seen.
For now, the sea is empty. The gray expanse of water rolls outward to the horizon.
We wait. The temperature drops and the wind increases, blowing hard from the north, right into our faces. Tiny shards of sleet prick the skin of my cheeks.
Hunched beside me, you speak for the first time in a long while. “We met on an early summer day. Today it is winter again.” Your voice is soft and low. Your brother, crouched just a few paces away, doesn’t seem to hear you. These words are for me only. “How is it possible that winter has returned?” you ask.
“Winter hasn’t returned. She isn’t really back. She’s just making a last assault, hoping to hang on.”
“And what will happen? Will winter triumph?” You let your eyes leave the sea for just a moment to glance at my face, maybe to gauge my expression.
“Of course not.” As I answer, my eyes fix on a tiny shadow on the water near the horizon. “By this time tomorrow, she will realize she has been defeated. Summer will return with all its force and winter will be a memory.”
“There!” Chev shouts and points into the distance at the shadow I am watching, now growing and moving in.
They are here.
We remain quiet and hidden as the first of the boats—I count eleven in all—lands on the beach. As the paddlers step out onto solid ground, Chev emerges from hiding and calls out from our vantage point high above them. “What do you want here?”
A stocky, bowlegged boy spins at the sound of Chev’s voice. He lifts his face to search for the source of the sound and I recognize him. This is the boy who was on the beach the day I walked Lo home.
This fleeting recognition robs me of my focus, transports me for just an instant from the present to a moment in the past. But an instant is all it takes.
The boy raises his arm and extends it behind him. This is the boy called Orn. I recognize his stance, his clamped jaw. . . . These scattered thoughts distract me until a spear flies from an atlatl in his hand.