SHADOW WEAVER
Page 2
“How far behind the dog?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”
“We leave here in five,” he says.
Pa and I dismantle the tents without another word, unknotting gut skins that secure poles to wooden beams, rolling up furs. Kel bundles his change of thermal underwear around his spinning top and collection of wood-carved monsters and soldiers. Ma pours her heavy bag of jewelry on a blanket, selects her most precious necklaces, bracelets and hairpins, then digs a deep hole to bury the rest.
Once we've finished with the sleep tents, father and I divide up the storage items. We tie fire drills, hatchets and cooking utensils along with the rolled furs to the wooden frames of our packs. Then I bind a roll of fur and half the fish to the carrying frame I made for Kel last year. Enough food to survive three days out here by himself in case we get split up. He would be without shelter, but once we're further north, the snow is deep and he could burrow into a snowdrift. It is a last resort precaution. One I don't want to think about too much because the nights are still long and freezing. Without the warmth of each other, it would be easy to fall asleep and not wake up.
Five minutes later, everything we can easily leave with is packed. Pa lays a hand on Ma's shoulder.
“Come on, Thyme,” he says. “We have to go now.” My mother nods. She straps on the pack Pa has cobbled together for her. Almost as empty as Kel's. Then she fetches her lute and cradles it against her chest.
I swallow down my annoyance, ignoring the lute, as I tie the ropes of my rucksack to my belt and adjust the weight so it's evenly spread. Then I help Kel with his. He wipes streaks of mud and salty tears from his cheeks, gazing up at me, waiting for something.
“OK?” I ask.
He glances back to check Ma and Pa aren't listening. “Will Pa kill them?” he whispers.
That night, twelve years ago, comes rushing back: Darkness and shadows. A man. Musty, sour breath. Fingers brushing soft fur. Fingers holding a blade. Asmine's father carrying Asmine. Running from the tent. Her arms clasping his neck. Holding on for dear life.
I wasn't there. But I saw it all. Over and over in my father's memories as we travelled east, leaving behind the Sea of Trees, leaving behind my friend and her family to find a deserted place where there were no other Uru Ana with glitter-eyed children, no poachers, no anyone.
“Sorry,” I say, pushing down the past. How much did my brother see? How much has he already seen because of me or Pa? Enough to give him nightmares when he was a baby. “Try not to think about it.” I pull off Kel's glove, then my own. I entwine our fingers and nestle them into the pouch of my parka.
“No one will take you,” I say. “Pa and I won't let them.”
We hike north. The last rays of the day's sun seep through the spruce trees. It is not even the third hour after high-noon, but above us the sky turns a deep purply-blue and the first stars appear. Lucky for us, the moon is waxing and will not rise for many hours. It will be harder for the hunters to follow in the dark.
We are headed towards Jade Sword Mountain where we denned for the three-month winter long-sleep. The bitter winds and lack of vegetation make it the last place anyone would want to go. Pa's hoping the men won't track us into the desolate north. That they'll opt for one of our other trails leading east.
The forest thins. Spruce trees become scraggly and gaunt. My pack grows heavier and I'm starting to sweat. Snow blusters around us as the wind picks up. At first when the men stopped, once for the dog, then again at our camp, we increased our head start. But now they are gaining on us.
I am fairly certain they have not mercy killed the wolf dog. The only way to know for sure would be to enter one of their minds. But penetrating a mind is disorientating, I'm unpracticed, and it would slow us down. They're advancing so quickly, I wouldn't dare slacken our pace, even for a second. So I have to rely on them pulling up their own memories to the surface of the mind-world. And since they discovered the hound, they have been guarding their thoughts carefully. Which means they suspect we are not fugitives or hunters, but Uru Ana.
The one with the mind like a citadel is particularly impressive. I did not know it was possible for a man to conceal himself so well. The hunters who took Asmine had no such skill. They used the mist berry to dull their minds and hide themselves.
“Hey Kel,” I say, “why don't you walk with Ma? It'll make her feel better.”
My brother's hood is pulled up so his face, apart from his scintillating eyes which gleam in the dark, is all shadow and gray. He gives a little nod, lets go of my hand and reaches across to clasp Ma's. Pa notices and I give him a pointed look. We need to talk.
“They're faster than us,” I tell my father once Kel and Ma are ahead. The light wind and crunch of snow dampens our words.
“It'll be dark soon.”
“I think they're proper trackers. They haven't paused once at any of the other trails to decide which way we've gone. The dog must be helping them.”
“They won't follow us into the mountains.”
“We're not going to make it to the mountains. They're right behind us.”
My father breaks the rhythm of his stride. “What are you suggesting?”
“We should hide Ma and Kel and go after them.”
“We're not splitting up.”
I tighten my fingers around the straps of my pack and haul the whole thing higher on my shoulders. My back is hot and damp while my hands and feet tingle with the cold. The pack bears down as does my father's gaze. “They're trying to hide their minds.”
“You've lost them?” His voice cuts the air sharply. He doesn't understand what it's like to sense another mind. And because the sight passed down from my grandmother, skipping my mother, Pa is dependent on my perceptions. It must be frustrating. He has to rely on me, yet he still wants to make all the decisions.
“No. They haven't taken the mist berries. But obviously they'll have figured out there are four of us. They'll know we're travelling with a child and that it is likely from the size of our bootprints that two of us are women. If they didn't suspect what Kel was, why would they be hiding themselves?”
“We can't leave your mother and brother alone.”
“Taking the hunters by surprise is our best chance.”
My father halts. His arm shoots out to catch my wrist.
Thrusting the knife. Blood spurting as it cuts soft skin. Blade jamming against cartilage.
His memory flashes, slamming against my mind's eye. I flinch and twist away. Father's gaze locks on me like the deadly tip of an arrow, but I'm more concerned about Kel. My brother's hand slips from Ma's as he cocks his head. He stops, focusing on the mind-world. As he glances back at us, I realize the images were too rapid to comprehend if you didn't already know what they were. If you hadn't already seen before and afterwards a thousand times. To him they will have registered as something ominous, something bad. I relax a little.
“We came here so that would never happen again,” my father says. “I hope you never have to kill a man, Mirra. I hope your brother will never have to live with the burden of what you have lived with because of my actions.”
My cheeks sting with the cold and a mix of shame and defiance. I meet my father's gaze and the desire to fight drains from me. I am not thirsty for blood. I know what saving my childhood friend cost my father. The killings a dark secret he has withheld from my mother. But that is the difference between Ma and me. I understand there was no other way.
“Then we have to move faster,” I say.
Three
We gave up jogging some time ago. We are all too exhausted now. Hunger gnaws at my stomach despite the bowl of oats I slurped down as we abandoned the camp. My head is heavy and woozy. Kel holds my hand inside my pouch again. He whimpers, but I'm too tired to console him. We are exposed to the eastern winds here and they mercilessly swirl up the snow and throw it against us. My mother has surprised me. She hasn't keeled over and she isn't complaining. She hasn't broken down and refused to go on. I guess
we are driven by each other. No one wants to be the one who gives up.
Jade Sword Mountain rises ahead of us, its narrow peak like a sword saluting the stars. Black Ridge Mountain lies to the west, the Edelon mountain range and the vast tundra to the east. We have reached an open, sloping plateau. Land folds and undulates towards steep, jagged rock. Only shrubs and stunted trees grow here. It is like walking through a wasteland of empty shadows. Except the snow. Snow everywhere, reflecting the shimmering light of the stars, enough light to stop the world from tumbling into pitch blackness.
Suddenly, like stars blinking—there, then not—I realize I cannot sense the men's minds. I spread out my awareness, grappling through the foggy emptiness. I cannot remember when I last reached for them. Two minutes ago? Five? Ten?
I lean over to Kel. “Can you feel them?” I shout above the wind, breathing hard. His shimmering eyes meet mine, then cast sideways, concentrating. He shakes his head. Perhaps we're too tired. The pounding in my head muffles everything. And I am not used to the effort it takes to focus constantly, to stretch my attention across such distances. I stop, wiping tiny flakes from my top lip, the blustering snow replacing them moments later.
“What's the matter?” my father shouts.
A flutter of color.
Something right behind us! I fumble with the knots of my shoulder straps. How did they get so close?
“Get ready!” My numb fingers free the rope and I shake off my pack. It falls with a thud. My shoulders are left feeling weightless.
“Go ahead with Kel!” Pa calls to my mother. “Keep going!” He throws down his rucksack and prepares his bow. I slide off my fur mittens revealing furless deer-skin gloves which allow my fingers flexibility and strength without freezing up. Facing down the open hillside, I scan the horizon. Waves of wind-driven snow break over me, whipping the hood from my head, obscuring my vision. My hands tremble as I grasp an arrow from my quiver, pull it back in line with my cheek. The strain after the day I've had makes my arms shake, muscles barely holding up. Icy flakes burn my eyes like grit and a great haze of exhaustion muzzles the mind-world.
Pa is by my side, bow ready to fire, eyes scouring the plateau beyond as best he can. Every distant shrub looks like a man crouching, moving, sneaking towards us. I feel dizzy.
A blurred, muddy form appears on my inner eye. I aim for where I discern the image. Pull the arrow a notch tighter and release my fingers. The bone-tipped shaft spins into the night. Pa fires in the same direction. There comes a gruff cry. He's hit one of them. My thought is cut short by sharp pain. The top of my arm burns, liquid oozing across my skin. I drop my bow, and reach across my chest to extract the arrow. It's scraped the fleshy bit below my shoulder. Nothing fatal. Unless the arrow is poisoned.
I sense the bounty hunter before I see him. Rage. Blinding rage. His mind a jumble of fists and blood-fights. He hurtles towards us. Broad shouldered, tall. Pa doesn't even have time to reach for his sheath before he's stabbed. He stumbles. I scream his name, terrified. The only thing I can imagine which is as bad as Kel being taken, is my father dying. I pull the longer knife from my thigh strap, but my throwing arm is limp and useless.
“The boy's got the sight!” a gruff voice shouts. Not my father's attacker who is on top of him. The other one. Kel must have turned back when I screamed and in the darkness his sparkling eyes will have danced like fireflies. I clench my knife and dive towards the man running for my brother. Keep going, Kel! I think. It's the last thought I have. An instant later, a fist smashes the side of my face and my head rips back, crushing the nerves in my neck. A flash of white light. Everything is upside down and I'm falling.
The night poachers snatched Asmine from the bed we shared, I had woken with bad dreams and gone to lie with my parents. Ma let me crawl in beside her and cuddled me back to sleep. Later, when she returned me to my bed she found Asmine missing. I couldn't help Pa and Asmine's father find the bounty hunters. The mist berries had cloaked their minds like rock and bush under winter's thick blanket. And they had forced Asmine to take the berries too. But now, as I lie in the darkness, pain pulsing in my skull, I realize this is different. The men who have Kel have no mist berries to hide behind. I know this because I saw the rage of the one who attacked Pa, the blinding flash of blood and fists on my inner-eye. I've never encountered a mind like it: crystal clear when it comes, yet so well protected.
Pa! I roll onto my side coughing up the snow I've been suffocating in. Colors sparkle at the edge of my vision. It's as though I'm seven again and my glitter-eyes are back, but I can actually see the dazzle in my own irises. I grow aware of the weight of the knife handle in my hand and close my fist around it.
“Pa?”
“Mirra!” My mother's voice is a soft, startled cry. I try to tilt my head, but it sends electric light shooting through my skull. Footsteps approach. My mother collapses beside me. “Oh Mirra, you're alive!” she sobs. The neck of her lute dangles on her hip. Bits of wood and gut strings hang from the smashed concave body.
“Where's Kel?” I croak. “Where's Pa?”
“Gone, both gone.”
I force myself to sit up. Ma is more of a hindrance than a help, picking and pulling at the fur of my parka. Blood trickles down my arm. I slide a hand down the neckline of my inner and outer parkas, beneath my cotton shirt, and press the injury. I am lucky. The arrow that hit me skimmed the skin's surface and the cold has constricted the bleeding. I reach for my father's presence, knowing he cannot have fallen far.
Timelessness, wildness, vastness. His mind is a harsh and beautiful winter land; it reminds me of a herd of giant deer skipping through a river, shaking themselves off on the other side, blooms of spray like diamonds raining down on Ederiss.
“Ma,” I say. She moans. “Ma...” In the snow-reflected starlight, her hair glows pale gold as it whips out behind her. “Pa's alive and I sense Kel. He's not far. We need to help Pa. Fetch my pack.” She raises her head. I can only make out the edges of her cheekbones, the curve of her high forehead. She tilts a little, revealing the glassy sheen of shock in her eyes. She nods, but it's as though she's not here. Up on her feet, she sways, searches about, returns with a heavy load.
“In the inside pocket, wrapped in skin, are the cotton pads.” I shout to be heard above the blow and howl of the wind.
“Cotton pads?” She rummages frantically. Every year since I was twelve and old enough to hunt, Pa has left us from anywhere between ten days to two weeks. He travels to the closest border settlements to trade the deer skin boots and coats Ma makes, in exchange for metal pans, medicine, grain and gifts for us all. Cotton pads are one of our staple commodities.
The seconds slip away, but I don't hurry her. She is shaken and panicked enough as it is. Finally, she waves the skin-wrapped wad in front of me.
“That's it.” I use my good arm to push to my feet, hold still for a moment, waiting for the spinning to settle. “Follow me,” I say. We plough through snow and wind, exposed on this forlorn plateau, each step compounding the throbbing in my body. “Don't let go of those!” I shout back at her, and notice by some miracle, she is also dragging my rucksack.
A pot, wooden spoons and a split bag of grain strew the ground. I shuffle past them, hoping she doesn't notice the blood glistening in the ruffled white terrain.
And then I reach Pa. He has fallen face-up, or rolled himself with the last of his strength. He must be breathing or I wouldn't sense his mind, but I kneel down and check his air passage anyway. Ma slumps beside me.
“My furs,” I say. She struggles with the gut string attaching the bedding to my pack. I reach over and cut the ties with my knife. “Lift his head,” I instruct her. As she does so, I slip part of the fur roll under him. Then, with my knife, I rip through his outer parka, sheath the blade and remove my glove. “Give me one of the pads, Ma. Be careful. Don't let any blow away.”
The skin wrap flutters in her shaky grasp. She removes a pad and pushes it into my hand. I slide my fingers bene
ath Pa's undershirt. Carefully, I tiptoe the pads of my fingertips up his chest to where I thought I sensed the knife go in. The shirt is soaked with blood. My fingers slip across his skin in the goop. The wound is higher than I imagined, severing the shoulder joint, not piercing his chest. I know when I've reached it by Pa's agonised cry. “Hold on, Pa. Hold on.” I press the dressing against the gash. He moans. “You're OK. I'm here. You're OK.”
“Is he OK?” Ma wails.
“He'll be OK. Get one of my undershirts, rip up two strips, long enough to tie around my arm.”
She does as I say while I concentrate on maintaining the pressure on Pa's wound. My knife-throwing arm burns. The inside of my cheek where I was hit aches. Every second Ma takes floundering to find a shirt, struggling to rip off strips, is like holding your breath underwater when all your body wants to do is come up for air.
“Have you done it?”
“I'm doing it.”
“Hurry, Ma.” I can't wait any longer. And Pa's cotton pad is sopping wet. I need to put another one on. She holds out the two strands. “Good,” I say. “Now I need another pad for Pa. I want you to hold him where my hand is. First hold him,” I say as she waves the pad at me. “I can't move my bad arm.” She kneels on the other side of my father, pushes her palm against the skin of his inner parka. I take the pad and slide my arm under his shirt again placing the thick cotton on top of the first. “Now while I've got him, put a pad over my wound and tie it down with the cloth strips.”
“OK, Mirra,” she says, teeth chattering, shoulders shaking.
It hurts to have her treating my arm while I'm taking care of my father, and it's awkward because she can't see what she's doing and has to work around my clothes. It seems an age has passed when the bandage is at last in place.
Here comes the hard bit—when she realizes I'm leaving her. I cross Pa's other arm over his chest and tell him to keep up the pressure. While Ma covers him with bedding furs, I struggle to knot myself a sling. Then I throw together a light bag with a fur throw, my fire board and bow for making fire, a hatchet, my flask and my hunting bow.