Ivory and Bone(81)

My mother hurries over, taking half of the pelts and handing them to me. Mya takes the rest of the pile from Dora’s hands.

“No, I can carry them,” Dora starts, but then she steps back as if seeing Mya for the first time. “Can you really be Mya?” she says. “How old are you now?”

“Seventeen,” says Mya.

“Just twelve years old when you left. My Anki was eleven, and Orn was only ten.” Her voice breaks on these last words, and she drags the backs of her hands across her eyes before taking the pelts my mother gave me out of my hands. “I’m fine. I can carry those,” she says. “I brought them as a gift, as a symbol of our sorrow and regret for the harm the Manu suffered at the hands of the Bosha.” She pauses and takes a deep breath, as if drawing in strength to say what she came to say. “We learned about a fire—the elders, I mean—we had been away from camp, but when we returned we learned a fire had been set by my son, Orn. We pulled apart our kayaks. These are the pelts they were made of. I know these can’t make up for what was lost, but I hope you will accept—”

“Of course we will. Thank you,” my mother says. She takes the pelts back from Dora and drops them in my arms again. They bristle against the wound that runs across my forearm—the wound I got trying to save Lo—and I wince, more from the memory than from the pain.

“And injuries?” Dora’s voice is a tentative whisper, as if she has to ask but fears the answer. “Were there injuries from the fire?”

“There were . . .”

Dora takes a step back. For a moment I think she might fall, but my mother catches her under the arm. I can’t help but wonder how she was chosen for this task. Did she insist she be the one to come, since her own son set the fire? “Could I meet those who were hurt? I need to apologize on behalf of the clan, and on behalf of my family. I know it won’t help them, but I need to—”

“You can meet my sons,” my mother says. “This is my oldest, Kol. Two of his brothers were injured. Kol, would you lead Dora to our hut so she can speak to Pek and Kesh?”

And so I find myself leading Dora up to the gathering place, a tumult of emotions churning inside my chest. How do I reconcile my anger toward the Bosha with the guilt I feel for the death of this woman’s son? As we begin to climb the path, my mother lingers behind us. Over my shoulder, I hear her ask the rowers still perched in the canoes if they would like to come with us into camp. “Thank you,” answers the tall, broad-shouldered woman who sits at the front of the canoe that holds Lo’s body. “But we will stay here and guard the boats and the Spirits they carry.” My mother, a gracious hostess under even the worst of circumstances, promises to bring back something for them to eat.

The evening meal is being prepared in the kitchen. Ahead of us, I see Roon duck under the door, a basket of greens in one arm and a load of firewood under the other. Tram and my youngest cousin are playing, running in circles around us as we walk, but Dora seems blind to it. She plods along, her eyes on the ground in front of her.

We head for my family’s hut, and when we step through the door we find Pek and Kesh in bed, just as I left them, but now they are both awake and sitting up. Urar is there, too, mixing something dark and wet in a bowl made of a hollowed-out driftwood log. Shava sits beside Kesh, holding his hand.

As he did when I surprised him earlier, Urar startles as we all enter, but the sight of Dora, a complete stranger, brings him to his feet. “Urar,” I say, “this is Dora, an elder of the Bosha clan. She brought these sealskins as an offering of regret for the fire. She also asked if she could meet those who were injured.”

The hut is dimly lit—only a single flap is open to let in light—so Urar comes close to Dora and runs his gaze over her features. His is a healer’s gaze. My father and mother, Mya and me—we all stand aside and wait. I can see the discernment in Urar’s eyes, as if he is listening to the Divine, letting her direct his judgment. His eyes stay narrowed as he walks a slow circle around Dora, taking her in, but then they widen and fill with a warm glow. His verdict reached, he gives Dora a small nod.

“This is Pek,” says Urar, motioning.

Dora takes the pile of pelts from Mya’s arms and approaches Pek’s bedside. “May these comfort you,” she says. He sits up in bed and nods, and she drapes a pelt across his legs and tucks a few behind his back.

“And this is Kesh,” says Urar. Dora turns toward Kesh and her eyes fall on Shava, folded on the floor beside him.

“Hello, Dora,” says Shava, getting to her feet.

“Shava . . . I’d heard you and your mother were staying with the Manu. My daughter Anki told me you were visiting with your old friends.”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve become betrothed to Kesh.”

I can’t quite tell if Dora and Shava are truly happy to see each other. Their greeting was certainly not warm, but I’m not sure if they are wary of one another, or if the horror of the circumstances is just too great to allow for pleasantries.

“And you are Kesh?” Dora asks. “I’m so sorry for your suffering.” Like with Pek, she drapes a pelt across his legs. She wraps a second around his shoulders, though it is certainly not cold in this hut, especially crowded with people.

From outside the hut, the steady beat of a drum begins. The musicians are gathering.