We keep close to our house at the lake and spend days sitting on the sundeck, thinking of Paul. There are so many things we should be doing-the list is endless-but neither of us can figure out how to start without Paul. The ship Bran was on was a large ocean-going vessel. There’s no way we could follow a ship like that, a ship that can cross waters our little skiffs aren’t built to weather.
My father thinks they must have a base-even a ship like that needs to put in to shore for supplies from time to time, but where? The coastline north of here is two thousand miles of inlets and fjords and islands, crisscrossed with treacherous currents and riptides that terrify even the most seasoned mariners. We will find him, my father says, but not just yet. With autumn approaching, with the storm season on the horizon, now it just isn’t the right time. We must turn our attention to surviving the winter so there will be someone to mount a rescue in the spring.
While we talk about this, we listen to the dancing and singing celebrating the return of Bran’s father on the other side of the lake. It goes on for four days. A celebration like that is an event that will be talked about for years, but how can my father and I celebrate?
Every day, a man arrives, asking us to attend the night’s fire. On day five, he says that my attendance is required. I am medicine woman now. I have responsibilities. And, he adds just before he leaves, the Elders will not take no for an answer.
So we go. The fire roars. The drums throb. The celebration continues.
My father and I sit at the edge of the circle, watching, outsiders for a whole new reason: We’re the only ones whose cup does not floweth over, though we’re doing our best. Helen sits beside me. I’m glad she’s there.
The men start to dance, slowly at first, weaving and hopping around the fire. Tongues of flame flicker over them. I blink, and when I open my eyes again, I don’t see men. I see ravens streaked with blood, and it’s then I know that spirit isn’t done with us yet.
Bran dances beside his father. He alone is not a raven. I can see his kingfisher and something else just behind it, but I can’t say what. I could close my eyes and pass into spirit to find out, but for tonight, I’m staying grounded on earth. I’m done with the spirit world for now. I’ve got nothing left to sacrifice.
Bran turns and smiles at me. He steps from the dance and holds out a hand. “Come,” he says. “Come dance with me.”
I shake my head. Once, a long time ago, he told me he wouldn’t dance until his father returned. Now I will not dance until my brother is at my side again. Bran looks hurt, but I think he understands. He goes back to dancing, at least. My grief is not his. I will not share.
The dancers spin through the firelight, hopping and jumping so fast that when the first rock flies, no one notices. But then, a man close to me is struck. He stops, glances around, and goes back to dancing, but then another, and another, until rocks are raining down all around us. The drums fall silent. People scream and run for cover. Bran crouches beside me, protecting me from the worst, but not one stone touches us, and when I peer through the rain of stone, I know why.
The dzoonokwa have gathered.
They have come for me.
The dzoonokwa shriek and drive anyone who tries to flee back to the fire. When a man approaches them with a gun, the nearest dzoonokwa snatches him up and tosses him into the darkness as if he weighs no more than the rocks they’ve been throwing.
A little girl presses herself behind me. I let her, though there’s no point hiding now.
“What do they want?” a woman screams. “What do they want?”
“The wardings!” someone else says. “Why have they come through the wardings?”
Henry Crawford’s gaze finds mine. His face is almost expressionless-almost. His scar twitches. He’s got no one to blame but himself for what’s happened. Maybe now he’ll recognize that I’m not just a girl. No one is just anything.
Bran squeezes my hand. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “Dzoonokwa’s got bad eyesight. If we don’t move, they might not notice us.”
But I do move. I take a step toward them. Bran grabs at me, but I will not be stopped. “I know you,” I say. The people around me murmur as I walk right up to the nearest dzoonokwa. “What do you want from me?”
The dzoonokwa points at me, and then Bran. She closes the gap between us, and reaches out. I don’t move a hair. I don’t even breathe as she pulls Madda’s moon-stone out from underneath my shirt, gently pressing it into my chest before gesturing at Bran again.
“What does she want?” Bran whispers.
“Your spirit stone, I think.” My heart sinks.
“But I gave it to you,” Bran says. “You have it, don’t you?”
“I lost it.” I can’t look at him. “I didn’t want to tell you.”
“No,” Bran says. “No, it’s here. I can feel it.” He whirls around. “Who’s got it? I know someone here has it. You’d better cough it up right now before I let the dzoonokwa search for it.”
The dzoonokwa mutter among themselves as Bran walks from person to person, staring at each one before moving on to the next. He finally stops in front of his mother. “Mother? You’ve got it, don’t you?”
Now she’s the one who won’t look at him.
“Give it to me.”
The dzoonokwa go wild, screaming at the sky as Grace clutches her chest. “No!” she says. “You’ll just give it back to her! She doesn’t deserve it. I need it for the one who will wake your past…”
“Mother,” he says, “give it to me, or I’ll let them take it from you.” As I hold my breath, Bran takes his mother’s hand and forces it into her pocket. When he pulls her hand out, it holds his spirit stone. “You had no right,” Bran growls.
“They gave it to me,” Grace says, her eyes wildly turning to Henry Crawford. “It binds you to the land, Bran. You shouldn’t have given it away.”
“I didn’t.” He curls his fingers around the stone. “I was sharing it.” He turns on his heel and pushes his way back to me. “Now what?” He leans closer to the dzoonokwa. “Don’t you think we’ve been through enough?”
The closest dzoonokwa steps toward us and ushers us forward. I take Bran’s hand. “Don’t let go. It’ll be all right,” I say.
But when we follow the dzoonokwa into the darkness, I hear someone laugh. Not a man, or a woman, but a raven, laughing at me.
We walk all night. All but one of the dzoonokwa fade away into the forest, but I know they haven’t left us. I catch glimpses of them from time to time. They watch us with their bloodshot eyes, and their voices accompany our footsteps. Hoo, hoo. That’s what they say. I wish I knew what it meant.
Bran and I stumble along, tripping over roots as fatigue presses down on us. We are permitted to stop at intervals to catch our breath or take a sip of water when we encounter a stream, but never long enough to rest. Our stomachs grumble, for we’ve had nothing to eat. At morning’s first light, one of the dzoonokwa offers us a freshly caught rabbit, its body still warm. I push it back. The sharing of food is a sacred act, and I know I may have offended these creatures, but what would be worse? Biting into fresh, bloody meat that drew breath only a few seconds ago and vomiting, or just pretending I’m not hungry?
The dzoonokwa doesn’t seem to care either way. She tears the rabbit in two and chews it up, bones and all. Fee-fi-fo-fum. Will these creatures crush our bones to make their bread? I doubt it. They’ve kept us alive so far. They need us for something. That much I’ve figured out, but for what? And what happens when we’ve performed whatever task they need-what then?
“Don’t think,” Bran says, touching my arm. “Just keep going.”
And so we walk. I catch sight of the sun late in the afternoon, streaming down through the needles of a hemlock, and I can tell from its position we’re heading south. South, and east. My skin prickles. Unless I’m very much mistaken, we’re heading toward the monolith. The place where they took Madda and tore her limb from limb.
Bran, walking with his hand on my shoulder, gives me a questioning look.
“Just tired,” I whisper as a dzoonokwa’s gaze falls on me.
Bran cocks one eyebrow. He knows I’m not telling the whole truth, but there are some things that should not be said aloud. That we’re heading toward the monolith, the site of Madda’s murder, a place that reeks of a power that almost overwhelmed me? Those are things I’ll keep to myself.
The second night, we’re permitted to sleep. They keep watch over us, tall sentinels in the dark, and when I close my eyes, I can hear them slowly whispering to one another, the soft, lowing Hoo hoo, that, strangely, is as beguiling as a lullaby. Bran sleeps with his arms wrapped around me. I feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against my back, and though I fight sleep, it draws me down anyhow.
Dawn still clings to the cedars as the dzoonokwa force us to wake, rise, and push on. My gut aches from hunger, and my head is fuzzy with fatigue. The dzoonokwa set a grueling pace, leaving Bran and me struggling to keep up. We don’t want to find out what will happen if we fall behind.
I sense the monolith long before we reach its clearing. The spirit stone at my throat begins to vibrate and I hear the monolith’s hum in my mind. It knows we’re coming.
Bran walks as close to me as he can. “I feel strange,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say. “The veil between the worlds is thin here. Hold on to me. I’ll keep you from passing over.” I’m not sure when I became so certain of myself, but Bran nods and slips his hand into mine. If he believes in me, then I’ll have to find a way to believe in myself.
We step from the forest into the clearing, where two dzoonokwa block our path, motioning for us to stop. Bran glances at me and chews on his lip as we wait.
I’ve forgotten how still the land is here. The humming from the monolith is one thing-I’m not even sure it’s really sound. I think I hear it only in my mind. Everything else is silent, as if the land has ceased to live. There is no birdsong. Wind doesn’t touch the trees. Even the subtle, near-silent pulse of the earth is absent. Bran senses it too. His shoulders are set and full of tension.
A howl breaks the silence in two. It’s answered by the dzoonokwa guarding us, and then they gather, emerging from the forest, circling the clearing as Bran and I clasp hands and stare. I lose count at thirty. Thirty? How can it be that so many of these creatures exist here, unseen by the rest of the world?
“You see them too, right?” I whisper to Bran, just to be sure.
“Yeah, I see them,” he whispers back.
Okay, then. I’m not losing my mind. That’s something, at least.
The last dzoonokwa to step from the forest is taller than the rest, and holds Madda’s partially decayed face in her hands. She turns the skull this way and that, as if using it to see. My gut churns, but I will not let myself be sick. I don’t know what these creatures intend, but I have power in my own right, and I will not give it away by being weak.
Madda’s eyeless skull stares at me, for I know that eyes are not all we use to see.
Our guards push us forward. We stumble down the scree before finding our feet, and turn back to face their circle. The dzoonokwa don’t follow. They stand in their ring, edging the clearing. The tallest points at the monolith, so we make our way to it, the black center in the middle of their shadow ring.
“Now what do we do?” Bran asks. He peers into the monolith. His face stares back.
“I’m not sure,” I say as I touch Madda’s spirit stone. “I think this must have something to do with it. Hold yours up.”
He pulls his spirit stone from his pocket and thrusts it out toward the monolith. The dzoonokwa begin to shriek. Bran flinches and presses his hands to his ears, almost dropping the spirit stone in the process. “Why are they doing that?” he yells.
“I don’t know,” I scream over the din, “but I think you were doing the right thing!” I lift my spirit stone closer to the monolith. Bran copies me, and then all at once, light shatters my vision and all goes dark.