Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(9)

Later, with his wound dressed with moss and wrapped in another supple hide, hidden from his mother’s view behind clean pants, Kol emerges from the hut and joins his clan. I hang back, aware that people might think the wrong thing if they were to see me come out with him. Everyone calls his name when he appears—offering him a place to sit near the fire, bringing him a mat of food—but no one asks why he stayed away. They are just happy to have him with them now.

“The High Elder’s son,” I hear a voice say.

“The future High Elder,” another answers.

As these words repeat in my mind, the room grows suddenly smaller and darker. The future High Elder. I knew that, of course. I’ve always known that Kol would become the High Elder when his father died. But despite that knowledge, it hadn’t entered my thoughts today.

Not until this moment.

I step out of Kol’s family’s hut. The fire has grown. Its light spreads to the edge of the meeting place, throwing tall shadows on the walls of the circled huts. Kol turns toward me, and his face is illuminated. He doesn’t see me, though. He’s accepting condolences from the members of his clan.

I watch him—Kol, my future betrothed. And I remind myself that I’m ready. I’m ready to be betrothed. Even to the new High Elder of the Manu.

I linger at the edge of the crowd, listening to song after song until the sun begins to rise, but then I say good night to Kol and his whole family and go to bed. The music continues, though, and I don’t sleep well. When finally the light coming through the roof vent glows along the walls and I know the sun is well into the sky, I let myself get up.

I leave my brother and sisters asleep in the hut—they all came to bed after me—and step out into the cool morning quiet of Kol’s camp. People will sleep late today. So many songs were sung, so many stories were told. Stories of Arem, and all he had done on behalf of the clan. Stories of his hunting skills. Stories of his talent for working stone into tools.

Stories of how he’d trained a fine son to take his place as High Elder.

This morning the camp is silent, except for the waves in the bay. Called by the sound of the sea rushing to the sand, I follow the trail from the ring of huts to the beach.

As I draw closer—the cold gray surface reflecting clouds of soft gold—I catch the sound of voices. At the water’s edge, Mala’s sister, Ama, and her sons are prepping the boats to fish. They see me. Their heads lift in turn. Someone has pointed me out.

“Mya!” Ama waves to me, and I find myself hurrying forward to greet her. She stands in ankle-deep water loading a boat, but she wades onto shore as I reach the sand. “You’re up early,” she says.

Kol’s cousins wind rope and fold nets, stacking them onto the deck of a double kayak that floats in the shallow waves of low tide. Ama stands with a spear in her left hand and a pack propped against her knee. The hide of the pack is almost black from the many layers of oil rubbed in to protect it from water. Her tunic has the same dark sheen. “I came to help,” I say, and the words surprise me more than they seem to surprise her.

Ama’s eyes sweep over my clothing—I’m still dressed in my betrothal clothes, not really best for fishing—but still she smiles. “Have you ever hunted with these?” She unties something like a sash from around her waist—a strip of hide worked thin and supple, about as wide as her palm and about as long as her arm. She hands it to me, then stoops to pull large chunks of walrus ivory out of her pack.

“A sling?” I ask.

“Yes.” She smiles like my mother used to when I correctly identified an edible plant. “So you’ve used one before?”

“I’ve used one, yes. But not exactly like this.” I take the strip of hide from her hand. It’s soft and lightweight, like the hides used to wrap infants in summer. The ivory pieces are scuffed and marked—these have brought in their share of game. “I’ve used something similar,” I say. “But the ones we use are woven from strips of sinew to make a sort of flexible basket with a long tail. We use them to hurl rocks, not chunks of ivory—”

“You use them on land?”

I nod. “To hunt grouse,” I say.

“Ah, yes. We hunt grouse here, too. But these are for seabirds, so for these we use walrus ivory.”

Of course, I think. A weapon for the sea should come from the sea. The Spirits know their own.

Ama nods at the sling in my hand. “But you’ve used this type of weapon to hunt birds?”

“I have—”

“Good. Then I have a hunting partner.”

With a quick flash of a smile, she picks up the pack and moves to prep a second double kayak with the efficiency of someone who lives more on the sea than on the land. “Tie that sling around your own waist. I have another one for me.” She turns away briefly to instruct her boys, but they move even before she speaks; they are so skilled at the task of launching out to fish.

“I know not to hunt out at sea alone,” she says. “It’s too dangerous without a partner, even for me, and I can’t take the boys away from their fishing. I would’ve asked someone, but . . . not today. Not on a day like today.” Her voice falters, and she presses her lips between her teeth. She turns her shoulders away from me, letting her eyes trace the horizon, and when she turns back again, her composure has returned. “You were sent by the Divine this morning, I think,” she says, forcing her mouth into a thin smile. “You and I will bring in good food and good blessings to this clan on this day. The Divine brought you here to help me.”