I can’t see the stars. A fog has swept in, smelling of salt and kelp, and I’m so soul-sick, my chest aches. The sparks ebb and flow in swarms, washing in and out of my vision on a strange tide.
The men go about their business. A few of them sit around a fire. Someone plays a drum. Faint laughter echoes through the fog. All of it reminds me that I’m alone. I close my eyes and search my mind for Bran, for Paul, even for those damn ravens that never leave me alone-until now.
I’ve never minded being alone, but now I realize there’s a huge difference between being alone and being lonely. No Paul, no Bran, no father, no mother. And now, no Madda. Who will I look to for help? Who will teach me what I need to know?
“Madda,” I whisper to the stars, but I can’t say anything more. How do I say that a piece of my heart broke when I saw her body? How can I walk this path knowing that creatures of the spirit world took her life? Madda, who is so strong. Was so strong. Tears push at my eyelids as, in my mind, Madda’s face turns into my mother’s, and then I’m no longer able to hold them back.
Later, Henry Crawford comes to crouch beside me. “I have work for you,” he says.
My body is so heavy it takes all my strength to stand, but I make myself do it, and then follow Henry to the cabin. I won’t let him see how much I’m hurting, though maybe, he knows.
The cabin is filled with a light so bright that my eyes burn when I step inside. Four men sit on hunks of wood, watching me. None of them speak.
Henry Crawford steps in and stands beside me. “Well?” he says. “You don’t expect her to know what’s going on just by staring at her, do you? Fill her in.” He pulls up a rickety chair and nods at it. “Sit.”
I drop into the chair and lean back, letting it support my spine. I’m so tired.
A rat-faced man frowns at me. “We have a problem, girl.” I force my eyes open. “My name is Cassandra, not Girl.” He blinks at me. “I’m Chris. Chris Johnson.”
I nod. “So? What’s the problem?”
“Plague. At least, we think it’s Plague.” His gaze shifts to the other men. “Got two men quarantined outside in the lean-to. Sick as dogs. Pocks on their face.”
My heart stops beating. Plague among the Others? “Do they have chips?” I ask.
He nods.
“But you’re sure they’re Others?”
Henry Crawford nods once, slowly.
“How can that be?” I ask.
Chris Johnson shrugs. “We don’t know-a new strain, maybe? We found them wandering around outside the boundary this morning. They’ve been in and out of consciousness since we brought them back.”
“Oh god,” I murmur. “So you’ve all been in contact with them?” They nod again. I shake my head. “We all have to be quarantined, then. Why didn’t you stay away?”
Chris shrugs. “We thought they must be from the Corridor at first. Never seen Plague in one of us. We didn’t know…” His voice drifts off as he glances down at his skin. I do too, before I can stop myself. My mouth fills with a sour taste, like I’m about to be sick. How long? How long until we start to show the signs?
“Anyone else been in contact with them?” I say.
“Just us.”
“And now me, too, because I’ve been in contact with you.”
“You’re the healer. If you aren’t protected, none of us are.”
I lean toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sits back. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
A small, balding man who sits in the corner speaks next. “You look tired. You want something to eat?”
Yes, but I shake my head. “Later. Do any of you have symptoms?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Maybe they’re not really sick. Maybe everyone’s made a huge mistake. My skin crawls and I look at my arm again, half expecting the black marks of Plague to be worming their way across my skin, but nothing’s there. “I guess you’d better take me to them.”
Chris steps outside, blows a single blast from the signal horn to let everyone know to stay away, and then leads us out. I notice Henry Crawford’s brought his rifle with him.
The lean-to is directly behind the cabin. Chris enters it first, holding a lantern before him as he beckons me inside. I pause, draw a deep breath, and step across the threshold. Henry Crawford leans against the doorjamb and peers at the men on the floor. Even in the flickering light, I can see they’re in bad shape. Only one of them is conscious.
Everyone’s watching, waiting for me to perform some sort of miracle. Think, I tell myself. Pretend you’re Madda. What would she do?
“Cassandra?” Henry says. “Need something?” “Give me just a second.” I draw a couple of deep breaths, trying to steady the pounding of my heart. “Okay. I need Madda’s medicine kit. It’s with the packs. Ask someone to leave it outside. We don’t want to contaminate anyone else.” Henry nods and disappears, closing the door behind him, sealing us away from the night.
I kneel beside the man who’s still conscious.
“Am I dying?” he says. His voice squeaks like a rusty hinge.
“I don’t know yet.”
“You look awfully young to be a healer.”
“I agree, but you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”
He manages a rattling laugh. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I draw a deep breath and start examining him. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to heal him. I unbutton his shirt. Pockmarks stud his chest. I touch one. Liquid ripples underneath. His forehead burns with fever. I move to the other man. The black spots have burst all over his body. They’re seeping through his clothes, into the earth that he lies on. It’s all I can do not to gag. I know that stink. I smelled it back at the monolith, when Madda sent me on the journey to find the sisiutl.
Just a coincidence, I tell myself. Doesn’t mean a thing.
Or does it?
The door opens and Henry steps in, interrupting my thoughts. “Well?” he says.
I shake my head. I don’t know. “I’ll have a better idea once I try a few things,” I say, but it’s more for the benefit of the conscious man than anything else. Hope works wonders, and when there’s none to be had, sometimes we have to make our own. “You can go back to the cabin if you want.”
“I’ll stay,” Chris says. “You might need someone to get stuff for you.”
“Thanks.” I smile. His thoughtfulness is a welcome surprise. “We’ll need water. Leave a bucket outside and have someone pour water into it. Make sure they don’t touch the bucket.”
Chris and Henry head out. I’m left with the two sick men and a medicine kit full of plants. What am I supposed to do now?
I lift the lid and scan the contents. Devil’s club. St. John’s wort. Mint. Lavender. No silver bullet. No secret antidote. No magic potion. Nothing that will eradicate Plague. Others just haven’t had to worry about it, and now, because of that, we’re all contaminated. We may all die a slow, painful death, just like these men. Or we could do what my mother did, and end it right now.
That’s just grief talking, I say to myself as I take a pinch of each herb and begin to mash them together in a bowl, working them with the knob of antler Madda once used. St. John’s wort for the pocks, lavender and mint to calm and soothe the mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself. First things first. See to the men. Do what you can. Worry about what comes after later.
Chris returns with the water and I add a little, mashing the herbs into a fragrant paste.
“That smells good,” he says. “Reminds me of what my grandmother used to rub on my chest whenever I got a cold as a kid.”
The unconscious man starts coughing and the sweet tang of St. John’s wort is replaced by the stench of excrement. Chris gags as I draw my shirt up over my mouth. “Here,” I say, offering him the mortar. “Breathe this in.”
He does and hands it back to me. “Thanks.”
I spread the paste over the conscious man’s sores and spoon a little water mixed with willow powder into his mouth, but his gaze is already glassing over. Soon, he won’t see anything anymore.
That leaves me only one option-to cross and see if I can find answers in the spirit world. The medicine kit contains sticks of sweet grass and sage, so I light them. Smoke drifts through the cabin as I close my eyes. Sparks pulse at the edge of my mind. I let them come.
I see a raven. He cocks his head, glancing at me, and hops away. Come along, he croaks. Follow me. I can show you what you want to see.
I take a step forward and realize my feet are not feet, but talons. Wings beat at my back and my tongue is that of a serpent. I stare at it, cross-eyed, in wonder.
Now that you know, you can shift, the raven says, dancing his jig across the path. That’s sisiutl’s gift. Come. You must come now.
He leads me into a thick forest, where I see a shadowy figure of a man on a path. So, the raven says as he lands on my shoulder to whisper in my ear, you thought I was a trickster.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs as only a raven can.
The figure starts down the path, moving away from me.
“Do I follow?” I ask the raven.
Do what you feel is right.
The man begins to run as I draw near, forcing me into a run too. Thorns reach toward me, tearing at my skin, tangling in my hair. Thunder stirs the air and the sky breaks with lightning. The forest gives way to the twilight-lit lake. Gray fingers of rock reach out into it and on the end of one finger is the man. He’s waiting for me.
I know who you are, he says.
Lightning flashes, exposing skin that is seeping and raw. Is this one of the infected men?
Why don’t you come closer and find out? The man takes a step toward me.
“Get back,” I growl.
The raven flutters down beside me. You think he’ll listen to you? he cackles.
What have I forgotten? Something is clawing at my mind, trying to remind me that there’s something I need to know, something I can do to save myself, but I can’t think of what it is.
I’ll offer you a deal, the man says. Lightning flashes again, this time exposing a man’s face laced with scars. He smiles, baring a mouth full of fangs, and then blows a mouthful of breath at me.
It’s such a strange thing to do that I don’t react at first, not until the smell hits me-that terrible, rotten stench, sweet and sickly and noxious. My stomach flips as I pinch my nose shut, but the smell is in my mouth, in my throat, in my lungs. This was a bad idea-a terrible, terrible idea. I want back into my body, into the hut with the diseased men. I want away from this being who would devour my soul.
You’re right to fear me, he says. You don’t know the paths of the spirit world. I do. I’ve walked here for ages, waiting for you. He smiles. I have your brother.
“You lie,” I say.
The raven hops up and down. Oh-ho, I didn’t expect that!
Do I have your attention now? the man says.
“You do.”
Good. I want you in exchange for your brother.
“Who are you, exactly?” I narrow my eyes. This exchange is not in good faith. I can feel it.
Does it matter? I have him. You don’t. Simple as that.
Something in the water catches my eye. There, in the center of the lake, the sisiutl rises from the depths. Is it coming for me or the man? The raven cackles and lifts into the air. Use your power, he says. Make the earth dance to your drum.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I wonder as the man crouches low to the ground, exposing a great dorsal fin rising from his back. He’s primed to strike. And yet, something is making him wait. Why hasn’t he attacked me already? He’s said I’m weak, that I don’t know the ways of the spirit world, so why is he stalling?
The sisiutl stares at me with its obsidian eyes. Dance, it says. Then, with a smack of its great head-tail, ripples race across the lake, right to where I stand.
I lift one foot and set it down, and then the other, more firmly. The earth shudders. I do it again, with greater certainty, and the shudder becomes a tremor. The tremors radiate out from me, running through the earth, sending rock and plant and tree rippling as if they are borne upon waves. Again and again, I dance and jig, lifting my feet higher and higher, crowing as I jump at the sky and drop back down, the earth trembling and quaking beneath me. This is my answer. This man has my brother, and I will come for him. Oh, I will come for him and his captor will pay!
And then sparks fly at my eyes and I’m back in my body. The hut is alive with fire. Screams fill my ears. Mine? I don’t know. Someone drags me out and a blanket is thrown over top of me. The earth shakes. Trees shudder and groan as they topple. Men run across the red earth, trying to escape.
The hut and lean-to collapse in a burst of flames, like bones of a long-dead animal trampled underfoot.
That’s enough, I think, and the shaking stops.
I can smell the horrible scent of singed hair and I hope it’s not my own. I touch my face. It’s been spared, but a fierce claw of pain is coming from my right shoulder. I don’t touch it. I don’t want to know what’s there.
Someone picks me up. Pain rips through my body, burning down veins and arteries, turning nerves to ash. I hear someone scream. Me. It’s me. I scream and scream as I am burned to dust.
“Hold on,” a voice commands. “Hold on to me, and don’t you let go.”