Obsidian and Stars

by Julie Eshbaugh

  “I couldn’t help but hear,” he says, “but maybe it’s for my own good. We all need to know where we stand, Mya.” Kol must be improving. There’s only the slightest drag of illness in his voice. Warmth rushes through my chest at the thought that he may soon recover, despite the fact he may also never forgive me for what he heard me say to Morsk. “If you’re considering Morsk’s proposition to father the next Olen High Elder with you, I should probably be the first to know.”

  “If you’re trying to hurt me,” I say, turning slowly to face him, “you’re doing a wonderful job.”

  Kol is sitting up, his arms crossed against his chest. “If I’m trying to hurt you?” he asks. “I’m only trying to protect myself, Mya. It’s becoming more and more clear that you have no intention of leaving the role of High Elder to Seeri and coming to join the Manu with me.”

  “Seeri is not ready to lead,” I say. I glance at the place where she sleeps. She doesn’t stir. “She may be someday, but she is not now. You saw her reaction to Anki and Dora in the woods. She acted rashly—”

  “She was trying to avenge your brother—”

  “But she was going about it all wrong! She might have killed Anki, but Dora would have certainly killed one of us. Which of us would you have been willing to sacrifice to have that revenge, Kol? Would you have sacrificed Seeri? What about Pek?” I notice my voice rising in anger and I force myself to stop and take a breath. I turn away from Kol. It’s too hard to say these words while looking at him. “Seeri wasn’t thinking. And that’s just one example. Seeri is not ready to take on the role of High Elder.”

  “But you are?”

  “Are you?”

  “I have to be. The Divine has chosen me—”

  “And she has chosen me too.”

  Kol and I both go quiet. I notice the other noises all around us—the sounds of the island waking up. Birdsong. Wings fluttering up to high branches.

  “I’m sorry,” Kol says after a long stretch of silence. He climbs to his feet, moves to my side, and takes my hand. For the first time since he’s been on the island, I see the warmth I’ve come to expect in his rich brown eyes. “I shouldn’t condemn you for your unwillingness to do something that I’m unwilling to do, as well. You can’t walk away from your clan at the time they need you most. I can’t do that either.” He pauses. His hand moves to my chin. His thumb traces my bottom lip but he only studies my face. He does not kiss me. Not now. Perhaps not ever again. “I suppose the next thing to say is that our betrothal is . . . what was it you called Seeri and Pek when we first met? An impossibility. Perhaps we’ve become the impossibility now.”

  “Are you trying to break our betrothal?” I ask. “Is that what you’re saying to me? That our betrothal is over?”

  “I don’t think we need to break our betrothal,” Kol says. “If you must remain the High Elder of the Olen, and I must remain the High Elder of the Manu, I think it may already be broken. I don’t know if there is a way to repair it.”

  I can’t hear these words from Kol’s lips. I lean against him and cover his mouth with mine, silencing him with a kiss. But he draws away.

  “Mya,” he says. There’s an apology in his voice. Regret. But then he looks into my eyes and I see a war of emotions on his face. He wants to let go—he’s trying to let go—but he’s losing. His hands grip my upper arms, holding me away, but it lasts only a moment before he pulls me back against him, pressing a line of kisses along my hair. His lips stop at my ear. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let you go.” His mouth moves to mine. Heat binds our lips together, but the kiss is brief. “Even though you may already be gone,” he says.

  For a long moment I stand silently slumped against him, my head on his shoulder. Then I tip my head back and look into his face. “There is another option,” I say.

  He leans away. To see me better, I think, but maybe to put distance between us.

  “Our clans could merge,” I say.

  Even as the words slip from my lips, I know how unlikely it is to work. I know his father never wanted a merger. Even when he sought an alliance with our clan, he made it clear a merger was unacceptable. To Arem, merging with another clan meant being absorbed by them.

  It was always the same with Chev. He never wanted to merge with any clan, with the exception of the Bosha, because we were one clan already. To him, a merger with the Bosha meant an absorption of the Bosha. Exactly what he and Arem never wanted for the Olen and the Manu.

  “Who would lead? Would you be the High Elder, or would I be?”

  “We would both be,” I say.

  “So your clan would follow you and mine would follow me? How is that a merger?”

  “Kol . . .” I can’t stand the practical tone of his voice. Yet as I think through the consequences a merger presents, I realize that perhaps it is a completely impractical suggestion.

  “It’s not that I haven’t considered the idea of our clans blending, Mya. But I can’t see how it would preserve anything. The Divine made us separate. Traditions, dances, songs, stories—so much would be lost by both our clans if we were no longer independent.”

  I think about this—about the independence that would be lost. If the Manu were to combine with the Olen, could I allow the Olen to follow Kol, even if they were following me, too? What if Kol and I differed on a decision? Could I allow him to override me? Could I allow my clan to follow him instead of me? I don’t think I could.

  It would mean the end of the Olen, and the Olen cannot be allowed to end.

  “What about the Bosha? Do the Olen still intend to accept them back?”

  “That was my brother’s wish when he died—”

  “Because I don’t think the Manu could ever merge with a clan that accepted the Bosha. They have done too much harm to us. A merger that included them . . . I’m afraid it could never be possible.”

  So there, I think. The first instance where we could not lead as one.

  “I know you want me to say I would walk away from the Bosha to merge with the Manu,” I say. “But I can’t give you the answer you want.” I slide out of his arms. The day is brightening. The others are starting to stir. “Though I wish so much that I could.”

  He holds me at arm’s length. “Don’t say that. Don’t. Because you don’t really mean it.”

  “I do mean it. But the decision isn’t mine to make. I could be selfish and say that what we want is all that matters, but you know a High Elder can’t decide like that. Though I honestly wish that I could.”

  “Just like your brother wished he could let Lees marry Roon.”

  He drops his hands to his sides. This mention of my brother—of my brother’s regret at having to make hard decisions for the clan—feels like a double insult. An insult against my brother for the way he led and against me for being like him.

  A voice comes from beyond the trees. A groan of someone carrying a heavy load. Morsk. Without another word to me, Kol walks away to wake his brother.

  I step beyond the shade, striding toward the place where Morsk has placed the body of my brother on the ground. Leaves still stick to his parka and hair. I’d hoped he would look like he did when he first died—like he was only sleeping—but his skin is so sickly gray there’s no pretending he is anything but dead.

  I drop to my knees beside Chev’s shoulder. I wonder how he would feel if he knew how I was suffering under the burden of leadership. Would he sympathize with me, pity me? Or would he feel I’d gotten what I deserved for undermining his authority and taking Lees away?

  I look at his face and I remind myself that he came here to bring us back. I remind myself that he loved me, and I feel the sympathy he would give me if he were here.

  It doesn’t take long before we are ready to climb down to the boats. Before we do, I tell them all I have an idea I hope will help us avoid the Tama. “Rather than rowing directly east and then turning south when we come to shore,” I say, “I propose we row south for a distance before we cut in t
oward the coast. It will be riskier—without a view of the shoreline, the chance of disorientation is greater—”

  “But it will help us avoid the eyes of the Tama,” Kol says.

  I’m relieved when everyone agrees.

  Morsk and Pek work together to carry Chev’s body down the cliff, then Anki’s. Noni has gotten enough strength back that she is able to climb down without help. Kol follows her, with Seeri right behind him carrying Black Dog. Then Lees starts down the cliff—Thern ahead of her and Pada behind.

  I’m last to descend the rock face. It’s slow going, but I’m in no hurry. This day we will return the body of Anki to the Bosha and tell them of Dora’s death. Thern and Pada will admit to their clan what they did to help Dora and Anki seek revenge. What will the Bosha do? Will they react with shock and shame? Will they punish Thern and Pada? Or is Kol right not to trust them at all? Could it be that all the Bosha elders have been on the side of Dora and Anki all along?

  I could go back on the promise Chev made. I could say that as High Elder, I refuse to allow the Bosha to rejoin our clan.

  And Kol would have made his first decision on behalf of my clan. I would have allowed someone outside the clan to decide the best course of action for the Olen.

  What’s so bad about that? What’s so bad about letting Kol influence the Olen’s relationship with the Bosha? Doesn’t he have the best interests of the Olen at heart?

  I remember when I pushed out with Lees, Kol agreed to speak with Chev on my behalf. He said he was happy to speak for me. I’m your betrothed. Our interests are one now. Our actions are one. Isn’t that what he had said? So why can’t that extend to decisions for the clan?

  I talk to myself about all these things, telling myself it’s my choice to make. But I know it’s not.

  I could never let another clan’s High Elder have a say in the Olen leadership. Not even Kol. It puts the survival of the Olen as a separate and independent clan in jeopardy, and the survival of the Olen is too valuable to risk.

  These are the thoughts that loop through my mind as I push out a double kayak that I will share with Lees, just as we did the day we left. When we pushed out that day I was hoping to teach my brother a lesson. Today I head home, feeling that he is the one who taught me.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Once we have all boarded the boats—Anki’s body lying in a canoe paddled by Morsk and Thern, and Chev’s body lying in another paddled by Pek, Pada, and Kol—I begin watching the sea for signs of the Tama. If they’ve been waiting for a moment to attack and take Noni back, now would be the time.

  Noni shares a double kayak with Seeri, but we are all vigilant. Lees and I stay to one side of them and the canoes stay to the other. Even once we are far enough south that we feel safe enough to row closer to shore, I still throw frequent looks over my shoulder. I notice Lees does, too. But the water is always empty. Seabirds dive for their meals, but otherwise, the sea rolls unbroken to the horizon.

  Nothing to be afraid of, I tell myself. But fear hovers over me, like a shag that won’t fly far from its young.

  And so I row. All day, as the sun rises and crosses over into the western sky, I row, and I try not to think.

  We are in sight of the Manu’s bay when Lees calls out to me. “You look at him so often,” she says.

  “Who?” I call back, though I know. As we’ve traveled south, I’ve stayed aware of Kol’s canoe, whether they were ahead of us or behind. I’ve tried to gauge how well he was by watching the movement of his oar. At times he seemed strong; at others I thought he might drop the oar into the sea.

  “Your betrothed, of course,” Lees shrieks. “I can’t blame you. I would be the same way. I can’t wait until Roon and I are betrothed.” Her voice scatters on the wind, breaking on the waves. Of course she assumes she will soon be betrothed to Roon, and why shouldn’t she be? Chev was ready to agree to it, too. So Lees will become betrothed, but my betrothal will be broken. I should have just accepted Morsk’s proposition and never gone away.

  If I had stayed—if I’d taken Lees’s place and agreed to marry Morsk—would Chev still be alive? This question has haunted my thoughts since I found him on the ground, his throat slashed with his own knife. If we’d never gone to the island I feel he would be alive, but I can’t forget who’s really to blame for his death. I can’t let my guilt confuse me.

  Still, I feel the loss of my brother covering me like a shadow. The sun hits my face, but it has no warmth.

  When I first glimpse the bay that opens beside the Manu’s camp, my heart begins to thrash inside my chest as if it is trying to escape. I imagine the questions we will face from both clans camped on that bay—the Bosha on the western shore and the Manu on the east.

  We do not linger at the Bosha camp. I climb from the kayak to speak briefly with the elders, but I say little. I will let Thern and Pada explain to their own clan the events that led to Dora and Anki’s deaths. The events that led to Chev’s death. As the elders learn that Chev was killed, I see their reactions—grief and fear. I hear the questions they murmur to Thern and Pada as I go—will the Olen still accept them back? Will Chev’s sister honor his promise?

  I climb back into the boat, my heart pounding with hope. Hope that I was right to trust in Pada and Thern’s word. Hope that my brother was right to take the Bosha back.

  My heart has finally calmed by the time we reach the shore of the Manu camp, but then it grows heavy like a stone in my chest when I see the clan come to meet us on the beach. I imagine someone must have spotted our boats on the opposite shore and word must have spread that Kol and Pek, gone two days, have returned.

  If there’s a buzz in the crowd, it quiets as soon as Kol climbs out of the canoe and throws his arms around his mother. He speaks into her ear, just a few words, and as Lees and I approach the shore, I watch her run into the water. She stands at the edge of the canoe and looks down at the body of my brother, and she lets out a cry that breaks my stone heart in two.

  Mala’s cry is like an echo—the twin sound to the cry I hold inside, the cry I’ve yet to let out. Hearing it feels dangerous, like the pain inside me might take flight and leap from my throat, answering the call of its own. So I push the pain down. I’m the Olen High Elder now. I can’t let my weakness show.

  Once the boat I share with Lees is close to shore I scramble out, anxious to climb the steep bank and escape the cold sea. Someone reaches for me and I look up to see Mala. She has hurried onto shore ahead of me and is ready to haul me up.

  I think back to the last time I stood on this bank—just days ago when I came for my betrothal—and Mala pulled me into her arms. I was protective of my emotions that day. Like today. Like every day. I didn’t want my weakness to show.

  And I regretted it.

  I put both my hands in Mala’s and let her pull me to her, tugging me up the slope and into her embrace. I know how much I need this comfort, how much I need a mother’s embrace. I surrender to it. I let the cry I’ve been holding inside finally escape, muffled and muted against Mala’s shoulder.

  Once Kol’s whole clan has joined us and we are all huddled together around the hearth in the Manu’s meeting place, the long story is told. About Noni and her mother. About Chev and how he died. About our trek across the island, Kol’s illness, and our battles with the Bosha and the Tama. When the whole story has been told and there’s nothing more to say, Mala brings out food. She fusses over Noni, who stays very quiet and very close to Lees. The children squeal over Black Dog. Mala feeds us until we are all full, and I can tell by the foods she shares, especially the honeyed roots, that she is trying to comfort us—to comfort me—without words.

  After the meal, no one from Kol’s clan leaves the meeting place. Instead, everyone stays—everyone crowds around me and my sisters—and they all share their memories of Chev. I know they have the best intentions, and yet with each story the pain inside me grows, like it’s nourished by words. I sit as long as I can, though I ache to retreat into our family’s hu
t and hide.

  You can’t do that ever again, a voice inside me says. Chev’s voice. You’re the High Elder now, and a High Elder does not hide.

  But I do hide. I hide inside myself, even when I’m in plain sight.

  The sun slides west against a pale blue sky, but it seems to stay fixed in one place—the evening goes on and on. Finally, the sun hovers above the treetops on the western hills, and the crowd begins to thin. Urar, the Manu healer, comes and sits by me. He tells me he has been to the shore. He has chanted over the body of my brother, which still lies along the bottom of the canoe. He asked the Divine to watch over Chev until he can be buried when we finally reach our home.

  “The Spirits in the sea are caring for him now,” Urar says. “He is cradled by the sea. The Spirits will keep the body cold and well until he can be buried.”

  And then Urar reminds me of a thought I have been hiding from. “I could rub the body with red ocher,” he offers, “unless you think the Olen healer would like to prepare the body himself.”

  The Olen healer—Yano—the man my brother loves. Loved. The man he loved until he died.

  All at once I feel as if the ground has slid out from beneath me. As if I’ve been standing on the edge of a cliff of shifting rocks and now they are tumbling to the sea. A wave crashes up, pulling me under. I feel it, feel myself drowning, even as I sit here and calmly stare into Urar’s face. “I think it would be best if you did it,” I say. But my voice is wet and choked, like I am speaking underwater. “I would appreciate it so much if I could take him home already prepared.”

  “Of course,” Urar says. His eyes reach out to Kol, calling to him from across the meeting space. I can see what his expression says. She needs you. He can’t know that I have hurt Kol too much for him to want to come and comfort me.