The Poison Season(38)

She handed him her box of matches. “You must be hungry. I don’t have any food on me, unfortunately.”

He shook his head, even though he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He didn’t want to push her generosity any further. “I’ll be fine.”

She stared at him with eyes the color of the faded blue velvet in his mother’s little glass jewelry box, the one all of his sisters coveted and took turns secretly smuggling into hiding places, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. “I suppose you’ll have to be.”

And with that, she turned and closed the door behind her.

For a while, Jaren sat on the floor, thinking. Perhaps waiting here wasn’t the best idea. He sensed that Leelo’s actions had far more to do with her than with him, and she could change her mind at any moment, or tell someone else and let them do the dirty work for her.

Unfortunately, running didn’t really seem like an option right now. The wound on his leg was throbbing, pulsating in time to his heartbeat. His body temperature was fluctuating between hot and cold, and his mouth felt as dry as his mother’s meatloaf.

He fell back, too weak to even sit, and thought of his father and sisters. They would have noticed he was missing when the sun rose, and they would have absolutely no idea where he went. They might find his footprints leading into the forest, and if they followed them long enough, they would surely see the paw prints of that blasted wolf. They might even follow them all the way to the lake.

But they wouldn’t know that he’d gotten into a boat and crossed the lake. They’d assume he was eaten or drowned. They’d never imagine he was here, on Endla. And even if they knew, they had no way to get to him. He had to make it off this island.

He glanced around the cottage, desperately hoping that the last inhabitant had perhaps left a pitcher of water, because he was getting thirstier by the second. All he found was another candle stump—in itself a blessing, since he wasn’t keen on the idea of spending all day and evening in the dark—and a stack of books.

He picked up the first one and dusted off the leather cover. It was a poetry collection, he realized with disappointment, written by a well-known poet who’d lived two hundred years ago. Children were forced to study her work in school. He tossed it aside and sifted through the remaining books. They were all similarly boring, novels he’d already read or texts that were so obscure he had no interest in the subject matter—and he doubted very much that the hovel’s previous occupant had found them riveting, either.

He was about to close his eyes when he noticed one last tome tucked under the wooden crate that served as a makeshift table. As soon as he pulled the book free, he realized it was being used to steady the crate, and the lit candle nearly slid off onto the blankets. He managed to shove the poetry collection under the crate just in time, sighing in relief that death by fire hadn’t just been added to his list of possible ends.

This book was different from the others. It was crudely made, with a spine sewn with catgut. There was nothing written on the wooden cover. Carefully, he opened to the first page.

It appeared to be a handwritten book of Endlan songs. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to read music. These songs, like the ones he’d heard in the past few weeks, didn’t have lyrics. They were just a series of notes to be hummed or chanted. Or perhaps the notes had meaning he simply didn’t understand. But it was the sounds themselves that made the music so haunting. He hadn’t realized before that a voice could be so full of sorrow or hunger or mourning without any words at all. Combine that into dozens of voices, and the effect was almost overpowering.

Or was overpowering, at least for some.

He set the book aside and did a cursory exploration of the hut, but there was nothing to eat and nothing else to distract himself with. He settled down on the blanket, willing his mind to still, to ignore the dull throbbing in his leg and the hunger in his stomach.

For an hour or so, he was on the edge of sleep, his lucid thoughts mingling with almost-dreams. Until the call of a bird in the trees outside the shack woke him fully.

It was the same bird they’d heard earlier, the one singing the song from his dreams. He wondered if that song was in the book, but without the ability to read the music, it was impossible to know. Instead he listened intently to the bird, humming along with the call until he matched it note for note. Unfortunately, it was the same few notes he already knew, and he was left still searching for the rest of the song.

Restless and suddenly desperate for air, he crawled to the door of the cottage and nudged it open. The shriek of the hinges caused him to wince and duck back inside, but after a few moments, the bird called again, and he took that as a good sign that no one was coming.

He crept outside, taking greater care to keep the door from squeaking, and slowly straightened to his full height, testing out his bad leg. The pain wasn’t as intense as it had been, but that was mostly because the leg had started to go numb. That didn’t seem like a good sign at all.

Judging by the sun’s position, it was midafternoon, which meant he had at least a few more hours before the girl returned. He had promised her he would stay put, and he had no desire to get himself lost, or worse, run into another islander. Instead, he found a tree stump just a few feet from the hut and sat down on it, letting his head tip back so the sunlight could shine on his face.

He heard the bird call again, this time a little farther away, and hummed the tune to himself. A moment later, the bird responded. Closer, now.