We walk into town. Cicadas rise up before us like gilt-winged heralds, singing of our approach. I carry a book under my arm. Bran ran back to get it for me. He and Paul want to play football, and he was worried I’d be bored.
We pass a garden so beautiful I can’t help but stop and stare. Sunflowers in full bloom reach to the sky. Apples dangle from their trees, green and glossy and waiting to ripen. Cabbage. Tomatoes. Squash. Pole beans dotted with scarlet blossoms, and everywhere, the sound of bees. I haven’t heard a bee sing since I was a little girl. I’ve always had to fertilize our plants by hand, going from flower to flower with a tiny paint brush.
The garden is full of women working, bent backed, their heads bobbing up and down between the rows. I look for Helen, the girl from the store, among them, but she’s not there. A few of the women look up as we pass, and the resentful glares on their faces leave me wanting to tell them I will work, I will work hard. I know that the Old Way takes care of those who toil, but I suspect, even if I spoke the words, they would not hear me.
Bran doesn’t say anything when I start walking again, but he does smile.
When we reach the town, I settle in the shadow of an ancient chestnut tree while Paul and Bran jog across the park, hollering at the boys who sit in the shade on the other side.
Bran immediately takes charge. He divides the players up-Bran and Paul on one team, with the stout, dark-haired boy I first saw at the store captaining the other. The opposing team strips off their shirts and uses them to make goal lines while Bran and Paul talk strategy. I sigh wistfully and open the book. At least I’m spared from seeing Bran without his shirt. His mother’s words still sting my ears. An entangler of men? No, I suppose not.
Something drops on the ground near me and I look up to see the stout boy throwing shirts not far from where I’m sitting. His shade, a muskrat, peeks its head out from behind his shoulder. The boy has a coarse face and his body is heavy with muscle. Strong like bull, smart like rock, my father would say. The boy glances at me, then jogs away.
I don’t like him. He makes me feel the need to curl up into myself like a snail. A sudden headache pulses at my temple, reminding me that I was uprooted and transplanted only a day ago. I’m sensitive and edgy, none of which has anything to do with the muskrat boy. Judging him when I’m in this condition isn’t really fair, but something is pricking my mind in warning, and I can’t ignore that, either.
The game gets under way. Bran tackles a tall, longhaired boy, flinging him to the ground with careless ease, and apologizes as he gives him a hand up a second later.
I turn another page, and a gray feather, almost the same color as Bran’s eyes, slips into my hand. I twirl it between my fingers. A bookmark, or a gift?
The latter, I hope. I wish.
I yawn, and let my eyes close.
I dream.
I dream of a woman, crabbed with age. She cuts my hair. “Sit still,” she says. “Squirm and I’ll end up cutting you.”
I place my hands on the red vinyl seat and do my best not to move, but as my hair drifts around my shoulders in newly shorn wisps, I can’t help myself. It tickles my neck, my ears, my arms. The old woman issues another warning and swats my ear. I try, I try. “I can’t help it,” I say. “It’s beyond my control.”
She takes her shears and snips my earlobe. Blood courses down my neck.
“Now you’ve done it,” she says.
Shouting wakes me. I bolt upright and touch my ear. A sugar ant falls into my hand and without thinking I squish it under my thumb as I seek out the source of the commotion.
Paul stands behind the far goal line, crowing, while Bran performs a celebratory war dance. Some of the boys join in, whooping and hopping as the other team huddles together in conference.
The muskrat boy’s head pops out of the scrum. “Penalty on the play. No touchdown!”
“Says you, lead-foot.” Paul tosses the football to Bran.
The muskrat boy’s face screws into a scowl. “Whatever you say, apple.”
Paul freezes. I can see he’s fighting himself, that he wants to walk away, but he can’t. Apple. Red on the outside, white on the inside. One of the worst insults an Other can throw. The muskrat boy thinks he’s gotten the best of Paul and turns away, and that’s when Paul attacks him, taking him by surprise so they both fall to the ground. Bran jumps in, and by the time I’ve made it to my feet, all the boys are fighting, a swarm of fists and elbows.
A man walking by shouts at them to stop. When he’s ignored, he dashes off and returns with two more men in tow.
I run over and stare, helpless.
“There’ll be no reasoning with them,” the tallest of the three men says to me. A scar runs down his face like a great, angry river. “Better cover your ears.” He puts his fingers to his lips and lets loose a piercing whistle. His two companions cross their arms and wait.
The fight slows, and then stops. Bran emerges from the pile first, dragging a bloody-lipped but grinning Paul after him. The others stand and line up, beaten, bruised, and shamefaced. The worst off is a towheaded boy who cradles his limp right arm in his hand. I can tell it’s dislocated. Paul gives me a look that’s full of warning, demanding that I stay where I am. I hesitate, take a half-step forward, and then stop.
I have tended wounds since I was old enough to stand. My mother was a nurse, and she passed what she knew along to me-or, as much as she could. I can suture a wound as neatly as any physician. I could pop that arm back in place without a thought.
The men take to lecturing the boys, but what they say, I don’t hear. If I do what instinct begs of me, word will spread. Even though I’m only sixteen, the Band will want to know why I’m not working for them, stitching up war wounds. But fate makes the decision for me. The boy’s face turns ashen and he drops to the ground like a felled tree.
I am at his side in an instant, and I know, without looking, that the shadow hovering over me is Bran. “He’s all right,” I say, checking the boy’s breathing. “Bend his knees.” Bran does as I instruct. “His arm’s dislocated. I can put it back.” I glance over my shoulder at the scarred man, waiting for his permission.
He nods. “Do what you can. His name is Adam.”
Adam’s unconsciousness is a blessing. I pick up his lifeless arm, suck in a deep breath, brace myself, and give the limb a mighty tug and twist.
His eyelids flutter open. He looks from Bran to me, turns his head, and vomits.
Bran holds him up, waiting for him to finish, and then slips his belt off and hands it to me.
“You’ve done this before,” I say as I fashion the belt into a makeshift sling.
Bran shrugs.
The scar-faced man points to two of the boys. “Carter, Jesse, take Adam to Madda.”
“Thank you,” Adam says to me as they help him up. He’s blinking back tears. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back my own. Healing hurts. There’s no two ways about it.
When I open my eyes again, I look for Paul. He stands at the edge of the group, kicking at a tuft of grass. Blood still oozes from his lip and his left eye is already swelling shut again. Tomorrow it will be purple. Before I can take a step toward him, he glares and shakes his head.
I stay where I am.
“You the Mercredi girl?” the scar-faced man asks. I nod. “Good work.” He turns his gaze to the boys. “No more football. Get.”
The boys scatter, save for Bran and the muskrat boy. The men stroll off, their leather boots leaving a trail of dust to chase after them.
Bran whistles under his breath. “Not often the Elders say something nice to anyone. I was sure we’d get hauled down to the slurry and put to work.”
“Best place for half-breeds,” the muskrat boy says.
“I think you’d better leave,” Bran says.
“Or what, Eagleson?”
Bran’s smile is cold and feral. The other boy tries to return it, but he blinks first, and stalks away.
The remaining boys head to the lake to soak their war wounds, Paul included. When I move to follow, Bran catches my arm. “I’d like to show you something,” he says.
“But Paul…”
“He’ll be fine,” Bran insists, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “Paul needs some time with them. Without me. He did well against Cedar. They’ll honor that.” His eyes meet mine. “Where’s your book?”
It still lies in the shade, tossed aside. I run to retrieve it. Bran watches. A small, guarded smile crosses his lips, a smile that gives me the feeling that the gray feather was a gift after all.