Ivory and Bone(33)

We move farther north, and the wind grows cooler as the trees grow thinner. Here, the rocky shore is interrupted by frozen waterfalls that plunge to the edge of the sea. These rivers of ice run down from the ice-covered peaks of the coastal mountains. They are as cold as they are beautiful, but still my heart warms as they come into sight. We’ve reached a boundary, a sort of gateway to the north. I’m reminded of the moment on my hike south on the inland trail when I realized the mountains were all at once behind me, holding back the north wind, protecting the south from the chill that blows constantly down over the Great Ice.

Out here on the water, I know those mountains aren’t far. Soon, the north wind will blow hard against my face again. Soon, the trees on the shoreline will disappear. Already they’ve diminished to a broken line of scrubby, tangled patches where there is still sufficient shelter to the north. Just ahead the line of land bends west. When we reach that bend, the mountains, still white bumps against the sky that could pass as low clouds, will rise up to welcome us.

My mother sits in front of me. She turns and smiles. “You look hungry,” she says, misreading only slightly the look of longing she sees on my face. She unwraps slabs of fish and passes them to me, my father, and the two oarsmen who wordlessly paddle this boat—one at the head and one at the rear.

Out on the water ahead of us, my brother Pek leads our group in the kayak he used to come to your camp, while another oarsman from your clan paddles from the rear seat. Pek had argued that he could handle the boat by himself, but considering the distance, it was decided the presence of an extra paddler made more sense than my prideful brother paddling alone with the second seat empty. Behind us, a second canoe similar to this one but a bit smaller in size—a boat I suspect may be the exact canoe Roon and Lees took out last night—carries Roon and Kesh as well as two more oarsmen from your clan. Roon is almost finished with his piece of fish—that boy is always hungry.

I pivot in my seat again, turning my back to the shore and facing west, allowing myself a long moment to look out at the horizon—ever constant despite the changing coastline. I linger over a few deep breaths, reveling in the familiar scent of the sea and the whisper of the paddles as they cut the surface. So familiar . . . I let my eyes close and I almost feel that I’m home. I open them again and imagine that the sea beside me is the sea that stretches from our bay.

It’s then that I notice them—distant shadows moving across the gray sea.

Boats.

Far away toward the line that separates surface from sky they glide along, hardly more distinct than the shadows of seabirds or the breaks in waves, but yet distinct enough. Three in all: I can make out the point at the front of each boat, cutting through the spray, and the rhythm of the strokes that propel them forward almost in time with us. Almost, but not quite in time. A beat or so slower, they gradually fall behind. I turn in my seat to watch them recede, wondering what clan might have boats out on these waters—halfway between your camp and mine. Could it be that Chev sent rowers to follow us to ensure our safety? It seems unlikely, considering five of his clansmen are escorting us home.

Could these be the spies Chev wondered about, on the morning Roon discovered the clan on our western shore? I remember your brother’s speculation as you hurried to leave our camp.

By the time they disappear, I suspect, as Chev did, that these were not spies but something else—Spirits sent by the Divine—perhaps to aid or even impede us. Not knowing which, and not wanting to cause a stir, I keep my thoughts to myself and say nothing. Before long, my eyes tiring from the sight of water rolling out in every direction, I decide they were never there at all, but rode the waves only in my mind.

The sun slides west and the wind picks up. Other than these small signs, everything suggests that time has stopped. Surrounded by circles—the circle of the paddles, the circle of the waves—I wonder if the day itself has closed into a circle, an endless loop rather than a line leading to an end.

But then the coast turns westward and the trees that have lined the land for most of the day abruptly stop. The snowcapped peaks of the eastern mountains seem to spring from out of nowhere, and my father calls out and stretches his arms in front of him as if to embrace them.

We’ve made it home.

On the other side of those peaks are the meltwater streams, the wildflower fields, and the windswept grasses. The paddles quicken and we pick up speed, pulling closer and closer to shore. We round the point that juts out over the sea at the foot of the tallest peaks, and we are officially in our bay. Nothing—not fatigue, not my throbbing wounds, not the prickly memory of the Spirit paddlers I’d seen along the way—can diminish the joy I feel at the sight of our land.

Yet once the boats have landed—once I’m climbing out of the canoe, stretching the cramps out of my legs—I notice something feels off. At this time of day I would expect to find Aunt Ama’s family fishing or gathering shellfish, but no one is out on the water or on the shore. It’s still, far more still than it should be. Gulls circle overhead, their squawks calling attention to the otherwise complete quiet. I drag my heavy feet up the steep bank to dry land, following close behind Pek. I think he and I both spot it at the same time—something out of place on our familiar strip of rocks and sand—a kayak.

Of course, there’s nothing strange about a kayak, but this boat is not one that I recognize. It lies on its side, displaying a hull that is longer and more narrow than the hulls of the boats my aunt’s family constructs. The sides are deeper, the bottom flatter.