Ivory and Bone(48)

“How did who—”

“Your betrothed. How did he die?”

“I’m not sure that’s a story you want to hear or one I want to tell. At least not right now.”

What’s wrong with right now? I don’t ask you; I don’t have to. You sit just as before: leaning slightly forward, your hair falling over the front of your shoulders. Your gaze flits all around the room, only occasionally sliding to my face and hovering there, your lips parted slightly as if you are anticipating something.

None of this is by chance, I realize. Everything about this moment—the lingering sweetness on my lips, the glistening expectation on yours—it’s all been set in place by you. I lean toward you, taking a tentative step into the center of your elaborate snare, then step back just before the trap can spring. “It is a story I want to hear,” I say. “We’re here. . . . Why not tell me now?”

“Fine.” Your voice is clipped and sharp. I’ve finally pushed you hard enough that you’re ready to push back. I knew you would. It’s in your nature.

You lean away, your hands balled into small tight fists at your sides, each knuckle a bright white spike. You let out an abrupt sigh, bite back an almost-spoken word, and those angry fists push into the bearskin as you jump to your feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Some people can see things with their hearts. Others need to see them with their eyes.”

I scramble to my feet. “It would be helpful if you didn’t speak in riddles,” I say.

“Bring a spear.” You step to the door and draw back the drape enough to reveal a piece of the western sky, tinged blood red. The sun hangs so low, it’s hidden beyond the distant hills, but this is the time of year when the Divine treads slowly across the sky, and the sun refuses to set. “You are aware that something happened five years ago, and our two clans almost went to war. To you, the events of that day are insubstantial—”

“That’s not true—”

“Maybe someone you knew died—”

“Yes,” I say, remembering Tram’s father dressed for the hunt, lying in his grave.

“But that day does not follow you. For you, it stays in the past. But not for me. That day five years ago never leaves me. Its ghosts are always here.” As you speak, your cheeks flush the same intense red as the setting sun. Your eyes widen with excitement. “There’s so much you don’t understand. In a way, I suppose I envied you your ignorance. But you should know the whole story about that day. Ignorance never protected anyone for long.”

What could your betrothed’s death have to do with the death of Tram’s father, or any of the events of that day? Somehow I fear that once I learn the whole story of what happened between our clans five years ago, nothing will ever be the same.

You duck out through the door and I follow. “Some people need to see things to understand them. So let’s go.”





NINETEEN


The world outside is dim and muted—the sky a muted blue, the voices floating from the center of camp a muted hum. We manage to slide around to the trail that winds up and away from camp toward the meadow without catching anyone’s attention. For a fleeting moment, I think of our families—my father, your sister, my mother—how could they not notice our absence? But then I realize that they probably do. Perhaps they have all noted that we are both absent. Perhaps they assume we are together.

I let you lead me up the trail, climbing the long, gradual rise that rolls from the sea toward the vast expanse of treeless fields and meadows that stretch north, all the way to the foot of the Great Ice. The northern sky is cloaked in thick gray clouds and I wonder if ahead it might be raining. The scent of a storm swirls in the breeze—a surprisingly warm breeze that alternates with the chilly northern wind I would expect, and I know that rain is out there somewhere.

You stoop to pick a rock from the path, a smooth round stone like an egg the size of your fist. Crouching, you dig out another, and then a third. I stop, watching your fingers claw at the dry, dusty ground, thinking of the coming rain and how it will bring new life to the wildflowers and support to the bees. The spring was wet but this summer has been dry, and we are due for relief. I glance up at the gray sky, darkening as the sun lowers, and I know the Divine will not make us wait much longer.

Our feet move almost silently across the grass as you turn off the path and head into an open space at the edge of an outcropping of rocks, large jagged boulders that push up out of the ground like the back of a stalking cat. Insects keep a thrumming rhythm all around us, but otherwise, the night is still. You sit on the grass about fifty paces from the line of rocks and look up at me. I guess this is our destination.

Folding my legs beneath me, I kneel on the sparse grass and watch as you arrange the stones you carry in front of you.

“Five years ago . . .” You place the three stones in a line. “Five years ago, my clan was on the verge of breaking. There were arguments, disagreements about what path was best for our people. My father, with the breath of his final days, was advocating for a move south. Because of him, the clan constructed fifteen two-person kayaks. In those days, our clan was not familiar with the sea. We relied almost exclusively on the mammoth herds for food. Our use of kayaks was limited, and only two members of the clan were adept at boat-making. The task was slow, but eventually, fifteen boats were complete.