As he did when I surprised him earlier, Urar startles as we all enter, but the sight of Dora, a complete stranger, brings him to his feet. “Urar,” I say, “this is Dora, an elder of the Bosha clan. She brought these sealskins as an offering of regret for the fire. She also asked if she could meet those who were injured.”
The hut is dimly lit—only a single flap is open to let in light—so Urar comes close to Dora and runs his gaze over her features. His is a healer’s gaze. My father and mother, Mya and me—we all stand aside and wait. I can see the discernment in Urar’s eyes, as if he is listening to the Divine, letting her direct his judgment. His eyes stay narrowed as he walks a slow circle around Dora, taking her in, but then they widen and fill with a warm glow. His verdict reached, he gives Dora a small nod.
“This is Pek,” says Urar, motioning.
Dora takes the pile of pelts from Mya’s arms and approaches Pek’s bedside. “May these comfort you,” she says. He sits up in bed and nods, and she drapes a pelt across his legs and tucks a few behind his back.
“And this is Kesh,” says Urar. Dora turns toward Kesh and her eyes fall on Shava, folded on the floor beside him.
“Hello, Dora,” says Shava, getting to her feet.
“Shava . . . I’d heard you and your mother were staying with the Manu. My daughter Anki told me you were visiting with your old friends.”
“Yes. In fact, I’ve become betrothed to Kesh.”
I can’t quite tell if Dora and Shava are truly happy to see each other. Their greeting was certainly not warm, but I’m not sure if they are wary of one another, or if the horror of the circumstances is just too great to allow for pleasantries.
“And you are Kesh?” Dora asks. “I’m so sorry for your suffering.” Like with Pek, she drapes a pelt across his legs. She wraps a second around his shoulders, though it is certainly not cold in this hut, especially crowded with people.
From outside the hut, the steady beat of a drum begins. The musicians are gathering.
“Are you hungry?” my mother asks. “You’re welcome to be our guest at the evening meal.”
The hut falls silent. It’s as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for Dora’s reply. Do they hope she will decline? Would it be too much to ask for the injured to share a meal with a Bosha elder while the scent of smoke still lingers in the air?
“Thank you,” Dora says. “You are so kind to offer, but I need to return to camp. I just wanted to deliver these pelts, and to offer the apologies of the Bosha elders. We didn’t know. . . . That doesn’t excuse what happened, I know, but the elders . . . We didn’t know what Lo and Orn . . . She was trusted—the High Elder. And Orn was my son. My own son . . .” She trails off. Her eyes move to my mother’s face before she wobbles a bit on her feet again. This time, my father is the one to reach out and catch her.
“Please sit,” he says.
“I couldn’t.” But even as she protests she wobbles again, and my father, his hand under her elbow, leads her to a rug beside Pek’s bed. She sits, and as she does, she continues to speak, though her voice is quiet, as if she is speaking to no one in particular. “Lo was such a lost girl. She made terrible mistakes; she and my son led many people the wrong way.”
My father gestures for all of us to sit. Sweeping my eyes over the bare patches of dirt I’d noticed this morning, I scatter the pelts I’m still holding on the floor. Dust swirls in the shaft of light that falls through the partly opened vent overhead. All at once the room grows stiflingly hot. Sweat beads spring up on my lip and the back of my neck.
“When the elders returned before first light this morning, we found the entire clan awake. Even the small children, who of course had stayed behind, were out of their beds, helping clean wounds. The whole camp was in chaos—everything smelled of smoke and blood. I found my daughter Anki. She had stayed behind with the children. I asked about her brother. Where was Orn? It was then that they told us all that had happened.
“They told us about the fire, about what Orn had done here in your camp. They told us about the attack on the Olen’s camp in the south.
“And they told me my son had died.
“No one knew for certain what had happened to Lo, though they suspected that she . . . But it wasn’t until I came here . . . It wasn’t until I saw her in the boat . . .”
She quiets. Her hand goes to her mouth, and I know she is remembering not just the sight of Lo’s body, but of her son’s, too.