Ivory and Bone(62)

“Yes,” I say. “This can work.” I wrap my hands around the front edge of the boat and pull, but I can’t move it. Even when Roon wades into the water and pushes from the back, there’s too much weight. “We need to dump some out—”

“We need all of it. Let’s drag it—”

“The hull will rip—”

“Fine! Just . . .” He trails off. We’re already tipping the boat, turning it ever so slowly, letting just enough water run out that the back end begins to float up and Roon lifts it above the surface.

“Go!” he shouts, and without a moment to draw in a breath, we take off, carrying this huge vessel of water as fast as we can without letting it all splash out along the way.

Once we get back to camp, Roon shouts and waves, trying to get everyone’s attention, but no one notices him. Finally, he takes off his already dripping parka, dunks it into the kayak until it is soaked with water, and beats it against the flames racing across the surface of my family’s hut. The burning hides beneath Roon’s coat hiss and smoke as the fire sputters, sizzles, and finally goes out.

Everyone sees, and everyone follows Roon’s lead. My mother grabs a mammoth pelt that hangs from a post beside the kitchen door—a tool she uses for sweeping out dirt and scraps from the floor—and practically throws herself into the opening in the kayak. Pulling the dripping hide from the water, she flings it onto the wall of her sister’s hut. When the flames sizzle and smolder, my aunt drops to her knees, tears running down her cheeks. My young cousins—just nine and ten years old—throw down their waterskins and add their own drenched parkas to the mammoth pelt. A few more hurried trips to the kayak and their hut is saved.

All around the camp, voices go up in cheers. Roon, my incredibly brilliant brother, works harder than anyone. Progress is slow and many hides are lost, but if not for Roon, our camp would have ended in ashes. When the last flame is out, he collapses in the center of the meeting place, his face framed by singed hair, his chest, face, and neck flushed with heat. Blisters form on his hands, still dripping with icy water. He presses his palms to his cheeks and his teeth chatter.

“You’ll get sick. You need to get warm.” Our mother stays shockingly calm while soot and cinders swirl around her like swarming insects. She bends over him and wraps him in a hide that was pulled from his own bed. It smells of smoke but is otherwise undamaged. Stroking his hair, she whispers to him, “Roon. My youngest, my most overlooked. I promise you will never be overlooked again.”

“I’m all right,” says Roon. “Take care of Pek and Kesh. They need you more.”

I raise my eyes to my mother’s face, confused. Why do Pek and Kesh need her more than Roon? It’s clear from the heavy look in her eyes that there’s something I haven’t been told.

“What’s wrong with Pek and Kesh?”

Our mother slides a hand under Roon’s back ever so gently, her fingers barely touching his skin, but still, he flinches. His teeth clamp together as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Mother, what’s wrong—”

“Shh! Don’t upset your brother.” When she finally gets her arm around his back she manages to lift him to his feet, each small movement accompanied by a gasp. Once he’s upright, I notice a cluster of angry red burns, broken and oozing, at his waist.

The sight sends a wave of sickness through me, starting in my stomach and emanating outward.

“Pek and Kesh—are they worse—”

My mother looks at me behind Roon’s back, and the message in her hard glare is clear—they are definitely worse. “Urar is with them,” she says, shooting a quick glance in the direction of the sea. “Just now he led them and several others to the beach.”

As my mother helps Roon hobble into the kitchen, I turn and race to the shore.

As I get closer, sobs and groans reach me and my legs grow strangely heavy. I slow my steps, listening. Has someone died? The last time I heard people cry together like this was at my grandfather’s burial, when I was just a little boy.

But as the line of people at the edge of the sand comes into view, I see that no one has died—at least not yet. These aren’t cries of mourning; they’re cries of pain.

Lying across the rocky soil of the beach are a half-dozen members of my clan: my twin cousins, only eleven years old, two women who are close friends of my mother, and my brothers Kesh and Pek. All of them have at least one limb exposed, some two or three—arms and legs cut free of their garments, lying bare against the dark sand like recently caught fish. But each body part, sticking out at odd angles to be examined by the healer, is mottled by bright red burns. Each face is gray and tight with pain. My aunt and uncle and a third person—the daughter of one of the burned women—help tend to the injured. They hurry back and forth as Urar calls out instructions.

Pek calls to me through clenched teeth. Urar, leaning over Pek’s blistered arm, lifts his eyes for only a moment, just long enough to point to an empty bowl and order me to fill it from the sea. I hurry to do as I’m told, returning quickly to Pek’s side. “The Bosha clan. They were searching for Chev,” Pek says. He pauses, sucking in a quick gasp of breath. “They thought we were hiding him, so they set fire to the huts.”

He gasps again, takes two quick breaths. “A boy lit a torch from the hearth. He hesitated at first, only lighting our own family’s hut. Then the kitchen. He demanded we offer up Chev and his sisters to save the camp. When he realized they had gone, he set more and more huts on fire, threatening anyone who came close.