Tall and grave, a dark-haired woman I recognize as Moon Song of a Wave Upon the Coral, a rootwife of the dolphin clan, rises and waits for silence. She’s dressed in a long dress the colour of the sea, which brings out the blue highlights in her own dark skin. I’ve seen her at councils such as this, back home, and while I know she can be patient, she doesn’t suffer fools.
“Deciding the wrong or right of Odawa’s blinding isn’t our business today,” she says. “We’re here because of his dealing with fairy and the impact that has had—and could still have—on all of us.”
“Better they were all dead anyway,” someone says.
I can’t see who’s spoken, but Moon Song turns in the direction of a group of sea otters. The animosity between the otter clan and fairy selchie has never been satisfactorily resolved—at least, not so far as the otter are concerned. They have such friendly, round faces that it’s always a surprise to me how dark and deep their anger can run.
But in that way, we’re no different from humans. We have our differences—with other clans, with fairy and humans, and even with those who are members of our own tribes. Raven knows, I’ve carried my own for long enough.
“And that is not today’s business, either,” she tells the otters.
“And,” Raven puts in, “we have treaties in place with fairy, agreed upon by the chiefs of all gathered here, as well as by those who aren’t with us.”
It’s the first time he’s spoken, but his silence hasn’t surprised me. I’ve come to see that Raven downplays the history that could make him an automatic leader of all the clans. It would be hard to argue with the one who brought the whole world into being, back in the long ago. I wonder if he ever plays that hand, or if he’s always content to wander among us, his part in our origin mostly forgotten.
Moon Song nods in agreement with him. She’s never been afraid to take on the role of leader if she feels it’s required.
“Treaties that Odawa deliberately undermined,” she says. “He wasn’t simply taking revenge on Grey. He was trying to start another war with fairy. And tell me this, Waninin, and you, Yanei Ohka. Is a feud between two cousins reason enough to cause the deaths of the hundreds of brothers and sisters we would lose in another war with fairy?”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Waninin says.
The sea otter that Moon Song puts the same question to, answers by changing the subject.
“I, for one,” Yanei Ohka says, “would like to hear the specific charges being brought against Odawa. And I would expect some proof beyond the word of a few corbae.”
A long, shocked silence follows.
Here’s the thing about my people—one of the big differences between us and humans: our word is sacrosanct. We lie and cheat right up there with the best of them. But once we give our word, once we make a promise, we keep it to the letter. That’s why Odawa’s still here, awaiting judgment when you’d think he’d have fled as soon as Raven’s people took him in their custody. He gave them his word that he would abide the word of the council, and here he is.
Our word is our honour. Without it, we’d have only chaos.
What Yanei Ohka’s just said is enough to start a blood feud between our clan and his that could last a thousand years, because while we’ll let a lot of things slide, the one thing that no cousin will do is question another’s honour without a world of proof to back him up.
I can feel the corbae stiffen all around me. In the trees the blackbirds shift angrily. And then Raven stands up again.
He’s different this time. Bigger, darker, his eyes fathomless.
“What did you say?” he asks.
His voice is quiet—like the hush before a storm, pregnant with menace.
Yanei Ohka’s features pale. I’m guessing that he let his mouth run on ahead of his mind, and he’s only just realized what he’s said.
“I . . . I . . .”
“In the heat of the moment,” Moon Song says, her voice soothing and mild, “we all say things we don’t mean. Things we don’t think or believe. Who knows what mad place inside our heads calls them up? But out they come, damaging and hurtful.”
Yanei Ohka nods gratefully to her.
“I’m truly sorry,” he says, directing his words to Raven. “That wasn’t what I meant to say at all.”
Raven’s gaze never leaves his face. “And what was it that you did mean to say?”
“Nothing. Only that I’m ready to hear what Grey and the others have to tell us.”
He sits down quickly and tries to hide among the rest of his clan.
Raven nods slowly. He doesn’t seem to have done anything to effect the change—and I certainly didn’t see it happen—but he’s no longer so tall and forbidding. He sits down, as well, and the council goes on with more of the same. There are arguments and discussions, tempers flare, die down to a simmer. But it’s been obvious all along what the final result will be.
I wonder how they’ll choose to deal with Odawa. In situations such as this, there are usually two choices: death or banishment. The banished keep their lives, but nothing else, for they’re allowed no contact with other beings—cousin, fairy, or human—and must give their word to abide by the constraint or be hunted down and killed.
Raven has already told me that Odawa will not give his word to abide by the conditions of banishment, but the council as a whole isn’t aware of that. Raven has said nothing because Odawa might still change his mind, but considering how single-mindedly he’s come after me through the years, I don’t see that happening.
Finally, Moon Song rises to her feet.
“Will anyone speak in Odawa’s defense?” she asks the gathered clans. Odawa himself has refused to speak, and there’s no one else. With the evidence laid before them, his own clan members know there’s not a single reasonable argument they can make. The war Odawa almost brought upon us is too serious a matter, and it’s obvious that while Odawa might not have tried to start a war with deliberate intent, he still acted with complete disregard for the hard-won treaties we’ve made with fairy and so put every cousin in danger.
And he certainly had a hand in the bogans’ killing of a number of cerva. The silence holds for a long space of time, but it can’t hold forever.
In a moment, judgment will be passed and the punishment laid out.
In a moment, the deaths beginning with Mira and carrying on to so many others will finally be avenged.
In a moment, I’ll finally be free of the curse Odawa has laid upon my life. I’m not even aware of what I’m doing as I stand up.
“I will,” I say.
The weight of all those gazes is heavy. I see surprise. I see anger.
The truth is, I’ve surprised myself. But I’ve been thinking of Mira, of how she would feel about this. She was like the cerva in that way—at least those of Walker’s clan. She always saw the best in people. She railed against the injustices of the world and never believed that violence was a better answer than compassion and understanding.
Like Anwatan’s response to Minisino, Mira would never have agreed to a solution that meant anyone’s certain death—not even that of her own murderer.
“I don’t excuse what he’s done,” I say, “but circumstances drove him to do what he did. Perhaps when I plucked out the eyes of what I thought was a dead salmon, I also damaged something in his mind because his single-minded pursuit of me over the years, the deaths he has caused, seem to me to be caused by madness, not the calm wisdom for which the salmon clan is known.”
I don’t look in Raven’s direction as I speak, but I can feel his angry gaze on me.
“Are you saying he’s guilty or not?” Moon Song asks.
“He’s guilty,” I reply, “but I don’t believe either death or banishment is the answer.”
“And what would be the proper punishment?” Raven asks.
I don’t turn to look at him, keeping my gaze on Moon Song.
“If Odawa will promise to use his remaining days to mak
e up for all he’s done,” I say, “we should allow him to do so. We speak of the gifts of the Grace. Isn’t compassion one of them? Would it serve our community better if Odawa was dead, or if he lived to help us make this a better world?”
“But if, as you say, he’s mad . . . ?” someone begins.
I shake my head. “Single-minded, perhaps, and he was driven to a kind of madness. But if nothing else, his being held accountable today should make a difference. If he can take responsibility for what he’s done and swear to make up for it, then we’ll know that the madness was temporary.”
Before anyone else can respond, Odawa finally speaks. He turns his blind gaze in my direction, and I swear he sees right into me.
“And what about you?” Odawa asks.
“I’ll make the same promise,” I tell him.
“That’s easy for you to say. You already serve the community . . .”
He breaks off and gives a slow nod. “I see. That’s the whole point of it, isn’t it?”
“Is it such a bad point to make?” I ask.
“You weren’t awoken from a frozen sleep to find the world gone dark.”
“No, I wasn’t. I can’t pretend to know how that felt. But does another death help anything? Would it not be better for you to give your word to serve the Grace?”
“And you’ll just forget all of this,” he says.
“I will never forget,” I tell him, my voice hard. “Just as you won’t. But I’m willing to put it behind me because it’s the right thing to do.”
He shakes his head. “I say again, it’s easy for you to—”
I cut him off before he can start.
“People I loved are dead,” I tell him. “Don’t you dare say this is easy for me.”
The sightless gaze faces me for a long moment, then slowly lowers to the ground.
It becomes very quiet in the meeting field then, as though no one is breathing. I hear, as if from far away, the lap of the lake’s waves against the shore, the wind soughing through the pines, the stir of a blackbird’s wings in the trees behind me.
“Odawajameg?” Moon Song asks. “Will you give your word?”
Those milky-white eyes turn in her direction and he nods. “I do.”
Moon Song looks about at the gathered cousins then.
“And does anyone disagree with Grey’s suggestion?” she asks.
I wait for Raven to speak, but he doesn’t say a word. No one does.
“Then let it be so,” Moon Song says.
______
We came in ones and twos and small groups and leave the same way. There is little discussion, here in the meeting field, but I know cousins. They’ll be talking about and arguing today’s events for weeks to follow.
Odawa stands alone in the center of the meeting field, a tall silent figure. Still and unmoving. The only shifting about his figure is the slight billow of his robes in the breeze. The departing cousins glance at him, but no one tries to engage him in conversation. I’m not interested either. I’m done with him now. I’m done with all of this.
Or almost done, I realize, as I turn to face Raven’s angry Buddha face.
Chloe, Brandon, and the others from the Rookery have already departed, but he’s stayed behind waiting for me—a large, ominous figure, as unmoving as Odawa.
I start to walk by him, into the woods that separate the peninsula from the city, and he falls into step beside me.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him.
“That’s not an option, little jay.”
I glance at him, then shrug.
“So go ahead and talk,” I say, “because I’ve got nothing to say.”
“That fish killed Mira and only you know how many of your other friends and lovers. How could you even propose the thing you did?”
We’re under the trees now. A few of the blackbirds remain, high in the boughs above us, but most of them have flown off now. Back to Stanton Street, maybe, or off to spread the gossip of what they’ve seen today.
Raven takes my arm, and I have no choice but to stop. He’s an immovable force, and the grip he has on my arm almost pulls it from its socket when I try to keep moving. He lets me go when I stop. I refuse to rub my shoulder in front of him, however much it feels like it needs a good massage now.
“I know how you felt about him,” Raven says, “and I certainly know how you felt about Mira. So I need to understand. How could you do this?”
“I’ve learned a few things from my recent association with humans and fairy,” I tell him.
“And what would they be?”
“That we’re not so different, for one. And that our similarities are worth celebrating.”
“What does that have to do with Odawa? Up until ten minutes ago, he was still the enemy. He still murdered your wife and friends.”
“But he wouldn’t be an enemy in Mira’s eyes. Just as the bogans weren’t in Anwatan’s. They could take her life, but they couldn’t take away her pacific beliefs.”
“That’s a cerva philosophy.”
“Does that automatically make it wrong?”
“No. It’s just . . .”
Raven sighs. For a long moment I think he’s going to leave it at that, but he gives a slow shake of his head.
“You never asked how Mira and I became estranged,” he says.
“I didn’t even know the two of you were close—not until Chloë told me yesterday. Mira never spoke of you.”
“We had a . . . disagreement about my responsibilities.”
I wait.
He sighs again. “She said if I brought this world into being, then it was my responsibility to see that it remained a fair and just place for everyone to live.”
“That seems like a reasonable notion,” I say. “If you are, in fact, that Raven.”
“I am. But I’m also Lucius Portsmouth. Just like the crow girls, I don’t usually remember my origins. I don’t like to be reminded of them.”
“Why not?”
“Because while I do see the wrongs and injustices that pervade this world, there’s nothing I can do about them without causing more harm than good.”
“But you made this world.”
He shakes his head. “All I did was pull it out of a pot. Anybody could have done it—as Cody never tires of reminding me. The act didn’t invest me with some great power.”
“I’ve seen you . . . “ I’m not quite sure how to phrase it and settle on: “become more.”
“I didn’t say I was helpless.”
“Then why don’t you do more?”
“Where would I begin?” he asks. “There’s disharmony wherever one turns. I’m surprised that the Grace is even remembered anymore, this world has grown so distant to her gifts and teachings.”
“Then just do what you can. Every little thing can make a difference.” “I see why you and Mira were together,” he says. “That’s exactly what she said. And I’ll tell you now what I told her then: the only way to truly effect a change is to change what’s inside a being. How they see the world. How they connect to it. But who am I to make decisions such as that? Who is anyone?”
“But surely—”
“Take Cody. How many disasters has he brought into the world? But he always means well and he has also done great good. Should I go into his mind and change who he is?” He pauses. “That’s not the best example. I doubt anyone could make Cody be anything other than what he is. But do you understand what I mean?”
I nod. “I think so. Everyone needs to make their own choices or those choices don’t mean anything.”
He cocks his head. “Maybe you and Mira are more different than I thought. Because she wouldn’t accept that. She said it was my responsibility to make things right—that the whole world was my responsibility, not just some small corner of it—and so long as I made no effort to do so, then we could no longer be friends.”
I almost hear that conversation. Mira was nothing if not stubborn. But I also knew her as especi
ally reasonable. How could she not have seen things from Raven’s point of view?
I ask him as much.
He shrugs. “We all have blind spots. When it came to me, hers was that she’d decided I was supposed to mend whatever was broken, however it needed to be done. It seemed so simple and straightforward to her, such a fair and honourable solution, that my disagreeing with her could only be construed as a deliberate avoidance of my perceived responsibilities.”
I think about how active he’s been these past few days and compare it to the stories told of him, of how he distances himself from the world. How there are times when he completely withdraws from the world, sometimes for years at a time.
“I can see her side of the argument, too,” I tell him. “Isn’t it a part of the Grace’s teachings that each of us has a responsibility to leave the world at least a little better than it was before we got here?”
Raven nods. “But Mira wanted me to put the world back into the pot and pull it out again, fresh and sweet once more—the way it was in the long ago. But you know, Cody tried that and all he succeeded in doing was almost destroying the world and the pot I brought it out of.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Raven shrugs. “So you can see why I might be reluctant to attempt the global changes Mira insisted I make. I didn’t want her out of my life, but she gave me no choice. I thought we would reconcile, eventually. But then Odawa killed her, and I was left knowing that we never would.”
“You never went after him?”
“Oh, I did,” Raven says. “But he’s a wily one. I could never track him down, no matter how many of our kin I sent hunting him.”
“I gave up hunting him,” I say.
“Because of your guilt.”
I nod. Mira wouldn’t have died, no one else would have died, if I hadn’t blinded Odawa in the first place. Saying I thought he was dead at the time—truthful though that was—was still no excuse. I’d still done the deed that set everything else in motion.
I look at Raven and see something in his eyes. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, where I’ve seen it before. The crow girls had that same look when they calmly told Raven to kill them so that they could go bring Joe back from the dead. It’s the look of one living entirely in the Now. Not the Now of Zen philosophy, but a Now that precludes any memory of the past or consideration of the future.
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