Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(67)

If I had stayed—if I’d taken Lees’s place and agreed to marry Morsk—would Chev still be alive? This question has haunted my thoughts since I found him on the ground, his throat slashed with his own knife. If we’d never gone to the island I feel he would be alive, but I can’t forget who’s really to blame for his death. I can’t let my guilt confuse me.

Still, I feel the loss of my brother covering me like a shadow. The sun hits my face, but it has no warmth.

When I first glimpse the bay that opens beside the Manu’s camp, my heart begins to thrash inside my chest as if it is trying to escape. I imagine the questions we will face from both clans camped on that bay—the Bosha on the western shore and the Manu on the east.

We do not linger at the Bosha camp. I climb from the kayak to speak briefly with the elders, but I say little. I will let Thern and Pada explain to their own clan the events that led to Dora and Anki’s deaths. The events that led to Chev’s death. As the elders learn that Chev was killed, I see their reactions—grief and fear. I hear the questions they murmur to Thern and Pada as I go—will the Olen still accept them back? Will Chev’s sister honor his promise?

I climb back into the boat, my heart pounding with hope. Hope that I was right to trust in Pada and Thern’s word. Hope that my brother was right to take the Bosha back.

My heart has finally calmed by the time we reach the shore of the Manu camp, but then it grows heavy like a stone in my chest when I see the clan come to meet us on the beach. I imagine someone must have spotted our boats on the opposite shore and word must have spread that Kol and Pek, gone two days, have returned.

If there’s a buzz in the crowd, it quiets as soon as Kol climbs out of the canoe and throws his arms around his mother. He speaks into her ear, just a few words, and as Lees and I approach the shore, I watch her run into the water. She stands at the edge of the canoe and looks down at the body of my brother, and she lets out a cry that breaks my stone heart in two.

Mala’s cry is like an echo—the twin sound to the cry I hold inside, the cry I’ve yet to let out. Hearing it feels dangerous, like the pain inside me might take flight and leap from my throat, answering the call of its own. So I push the pain down. I’m the Olen High Elder now. I can’t let my weakness show.

Once the boat I share with Lees is close to shore I scramble out, anxious to climb the steep bank and escape the cold sea. Someone reaches for me and I look up to see Mala. She has hurried onto shore ahead of me and is ready to haul me up.

I think back to the last time I stood on this bank—just days ago when I came for my betrothal—and Mala pulled me into her arms. I was protective of my emotions that day. Like today. Like every day. I didn’t want my weakness to show.

And I regretted it.

I put both my hands in Mala’s and let her pull me to her, tugging me up the slope and into her embrace. I know how much I need this comfort, how much I need a mother’s embrace. I surrender to it. I let the cry I’ve been holding inside finally escape, muffled and muted against Mala’s shoulder.

Once Kol’s whole clan has joined us and we are all huddled together around the hearth in the Manu’s meeting place, the long story is told. About Noni and her mother. About Chev and how he died. About our trek across the island, Kol’s illness, and our battles with the Bosha and the Tama. When the whole story has been told and there’s nothing more to say, Mala brings out food. She fusses over Noni, who stays very quiet and very close to Lees. The children squeal over Black Dog. Mala feeds us until we are all full, and I can tell by the foods she shares, especially the honeyed roots, that she is trying to comfort us—to comfort me—without words.

After the meal, no one from Kol’s clan leaves the meeting place. Instead, everyone stays—everyone crowds around me and my sisters—and they all share their memories of Chev. I know they have the best intentions, and yet with each story the pain inside me grows, like it’s nourished by words. I sit as long as I can, though I ache to retreat into our family’s hut and hide.

You can’t do that ever again, a voice inside me says. Chev’s voice. You’re the High Elder now, and a High Elder does not hide.

But I do hide. I hide inside myself, even when I’m in plain sight.

The sun slides west against a pale blue sky, but it seems to stay fixed in one place—the evening goes on and on. Finally, the sun hovers above the treetops on the western hills, and the crowd begins to thin. Urar, the Manu healer, comes and sits by me. He tells me he has been to the shore. He has chanted over the body of my brother, which still lies along the bottom of the canoe. He asked the Divine to watch over Chev until he can be buried when we finally reach our home.

“The Spirits in the sea are caring for him now,” Urar says. “He is cradled by the sea. The Spirits will keep the body cold and well until he can be buried.”

And then Urar reminds me of a thought I have been hiding from. “I could rub the body with red ocher,” he offers, “unless you think the Olen healer would like to prepare the body himself.”

The Olen healer—Yano—the man my brother loves. Loved. The man he loved until he died.

All at once I feel as if the ground has slid out from beneath me. As if I’ve been standing on the edge of a cliff of shifting rocks and now they are tumbling to the sea. A wave crashes up, pulling me under. I feel it, feel myself drowning, even as I sit here and calmly stare into Urar’s face. “I think it would be best if you did it,” I say. But my voice is wet and choked, like I am speaking underwater. “I would appreciate it so much if I could take him home already prepared.”