by Jake Halpern
“Yes, what is it?” he asked.
“Where does the phrase the houses must be without stain come from?”
The mayor looked at her with an air of infinite patience. “My dear, it’s just a saying we tend to use when the hour of departure draws near. It’s nothing to concern yourself about.”
“Yes,” said Marin with determination. “But why was it carved into the statue of the hag—down by the sea?” She saw Kana’s confusion and quickly explained to him what she and Line had seen.
“Ah, of course. That old statue,” said the mayor slowly. He rubbed a hand across his bald head, then crinkled his nose. “I haven’t seen that since I was a boy.”
“Who made it?” asked Marin, eyeing the mayor carefully, studying his face.
“You are a curious girl,” replied the mayor, as if that answered the question. He thought for a few seconds more. “Well, there’s not much to tell. The statue came with the island. All of it was a divine gift—a perfect home, ready to be inhabited. And for this we are eternally . . .”
“Grateful,” said Marin, finishing the sentence for him.
“Yes, quite right,” said the mayor as he gave Marin a smile. “But enough of this—you’ve come here to do a job, and we’re all in a hurry, aren’t we? Open the crate, will you?”
Kana edged his way past his sister to get a better look, and asked the mayor what was inside. The light from the candles obscured his vision.
“You shall soon see,” said the mayor. Then he frowned. “Silly me, you’re blind, aren’t you? But now everything is better. Is that right? How fortunate. Be a good lad and lend me a hand.”
Kana dropped to one knee, unfastened the latch on the front of the box, and pried its lid open. Inside was a set of a dozen knives. They looked like steak knives, only much, much larger. The handles were huge slabs of beautifully carved wood—four fists in height—and the blades were gleaming shanks of silver, each the length of a grown man’s arm.
“Whose knives are these?” asked Kana.
“They belong to the house,” explained the mayor. “I don’t like to keep them on display because, well, they are a bit unwelcoming. And since there is no easy place to store them here, I kept them in the nearest available house—yours. Help me put them back in their proper places, will you? Be careful, though. They are exceptionally sharp.”
The mayor took two knives from the box and walked over to the largest of the room’s fireplaces. Just above the hearth sat a long piece of polished wood that served as the mantelpiece. Built into the mantelpiece, at regular intervals, were a dozen narrow slots made of copper. The mayor took a knife and slid its blade into one of the slots until the hilt on the handle rested snugly against the mantelpiece. This action created a terrible screeching, grinding noise that made Kana and Marin recoil.
“Those are sharpeners built into the mantelpiece,” explained the mayor. “Whenever you pull out a knife, or return a knife to its proper place, the slot hones the blade. Ingenious, isn’t it?”
“I see why you keep them in storage,” said Marin.
The mayor shuffled his feet and then drummed his fingers impatiently on the wooden table. “Hurry, now,” he said. “I need to close this place up and get down to the loading area. We’re shorthanded now that the okrana have gone looking for that boy.”
Marin and Kana helped the mayor put the remaining knives into their slots. At one point, the mayor glanced at Kana and remarked, “That’s a nasty cut you have on your face. How did you do that to yourself?”
“It was an accident,” said Kana quietly. “My own fault.”
“Pity,” muttered the mayor.
Marin looked away.
When they were done with the knives, the mayor extinguished the remaining candles, casting the room into darkness. “Drat,” said the mayor. “Now I can’t see a blasted thing.”
“Let me help you,” said Kana, taking the mayor by the arm and guiding him to the doorway.
“Well, thank you for everything,” the mayor said as they reached the front door. He fumbled for something in his pocket, then laughed. “Silly me,” said the mayor. “I took the lock off this door last week.” He closed the door but took special care not to close it entirely, leaving it open just a crack. Marin, Kana, and the mayor stood at the entryway for a moment.
“Mr. Mayor,” said Marin hesitantly.
He raised his eyebrows. “Another question?”
Marin nodded.
“Quickly, then,” said the mayor.
“I heard that, once, the furriers didn’t bring enough boats and people were fighting—” began Marin.
“That was a long time ago,” interrupted the mayor. “Rest assured, it won’t happen again.”
“What happened to the people who were left behind?” asked Marin.
“They perished,” said the mayor quietly. “Though not right away.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kana.
“This happened before my time,” said the mayor. “Those who were left supposedly found a citadel on the Dwarf Oak Islands, and stocked it with supplies to last them through the Night. I sailed to those islands as a boy. Pleasant area for an outing, but certainly no place to live.” He shook his head. “No one can last through the years of darkness. You’d freeze, starve, or go mad—probably all three.”
He glanced at Marin’s worried face and smiled reassuringly.
“Not to worry,” he said. “Everyone is nervous the first time they leave the island. It’s a long voyage to the Desert Lands, but once we’re there, everything will be fine.”
“But what if—” began Marin.
“What?” snapped the mayor, face strained.
“What if we don’t find Line by the time we need to leave?”
“In such an event, there is a plan,” said the mayor.
“What kind of plan?” pressed Marin. Kana, who had turned to leave, glanced back, suddenly interested in what the mayor had to say.
“Along the Coil River, there is . . .” But the mayor never finished. “I’m sorry, child, but this is not the time to explain. The okrana know, and that’s most important.” With that, the mayor nodded curtly and began hobbling down the path that led to the cliffs and the sea beyond.
Kana and Marin walked back toward their house, with Kana pushing the wheelbarrow by himself now that it was empty. Light was draining from the western sky rapidly, and darkness seemed to be spilling out of the woods unchallenged. In several places, the road drew so close to the woods that it almost felt as if they had stepped inside and were trespassing amid a tangled web of roots, branches, and twisting trunks.
At one point, Kana stopped next to a large, slightly concave rock, known locally as Table Rock. In past years, when the sun was higher in the sky and daylight illuminated this area, families used to come here for picnics.
“It’ll be good to be here again in the Morning light,” said Marin.
“Maybe for you,” replied Kana.
Marin winced. He was right. In such light, Kana would be blind. This was, of course, the very point that she had been making to Line—months earlier, back at the pond—but there was no value in bringing that up now. “I’m sorry,” she said. And that was all.
They resumed walking. The only sound was their wheelbarrow creaking as it rolled along the path.
“You really think Line went back to the pond?” asked Marin after a while. “I can’t see him doing it.”
“I haven’t talked to Line much in the last couple of weeks,” said Kana. “Your hunch is probably as good as mine.”
“I wasn’t trying to ruin your friendship,” said Marin quietly.
“I know,” said Kana, leaning into the wheelbarrow and pushing it over a large tree root. “Look, if he doesn’t turn up in the next hour or so, we’ll find Ivo and tell him about the pond.”
“Yes,” said Marin. “I’ll tell him.”
They continued walking. Minutes later, voices shouted in the distance. Several hundred yards ahead, they saw the flicker of a wick torch. Soon, more torches appeared.
“It’s the okrana,” said Marin.
“That was fast,” said Kana, squinting into the distance.
They quickly closed the distance between them and the okrana. Ivo stood in the middle of the group, stony-faced, and it was impossible to tell whether he brought good news or bad. Marin strained her eyes, searching frantically for Line.
“Did you find him?” she called. “Ivo?”
Ivo shook his head but didn’t stop walking. Apparently he was too pressed for time to talk.
“No signs of him at all?” Kana called out.
Ivo ignored the question.
Toward the end of the procession, Marin spotted one of the youngest members of the okrana—a gangly, pimple-faced teenager named Asher—who happened to be their second cousin.
“Asher!” shouted Marin. “What happened?”
Asher pretended not to hear, but slowed to let the other okrana pass. He waited a few seconds until they were out of earshot, then whispered to Marin and Kana.
“We know where he is,” Asher said.
“You do?” Marin breathed a sigh of relief. “Is he all right?”
“He went to the Upper Meadows to pick mushrooms, then headed toward the bog,” said Asher. “Someone saw him there earlier. He must have got stuck is all. We’re going back to town to get some sticks and boards.”
Marin nodded. The best mushrooms were in the bog. Pickers often got stuck there, in the quick mud. It wasn’t especially dangerous in itself, but it was nearly impossible to escape without help. That’s why you were never supposed to pick there alone.
“It shouldn’t take long,” said Asher. He turned and looked back at the other okrana. “We’ll bring him down to the loading area as soon as we get him out. I’ll give him a good kick in the pants for you.”
“Thanks,” said Marin. She turned to her brother and, for the first time in a long while, they smiled at each other.
“But you should hurry,” added Asher. He leaned in conspiratorially. “They say there might not be enough boats—some people may have to leave their luggage behind.”
CHAPTER 13
Back at Shadow House, Kana and Marin found their mother in the foyer, studying a scroll of yellowed paper. The scroll was the floor plan for the house, which showed every room, closet, nook, and stairway. Scribbled in the margins were notes written in faded ink.
“What are you doing?” asked Marin.
“Oh, you’re back,” replied Tarae with a start. “Good—your father has returned as well.” She now wore a long, coarse robe with a thick travel cloak on top. Marin couldn’t help but feel a surge of relief to see her mother in her old clothing. She wanted things to be more, well . . . normal—even if just for a few more hours.
“The candles are burning down,” said Tarae. “Don’t you think it’s much colder? I cannot get warm.”
“We saw the okrana,” said Kana, who was blinking in the dim candlelight. “Seems like they found Line.”
Tarae smiled fondly at Kana. “Yes, that’s what your father heard, too. Thank the southerly winds. Now go help your father in the parlor. We need to be down at the loading area in an hour. There are rumors of too few boats.”
When Kana and Marin entered the parlor, they discovered a large wooden crate that their father had hauled up from the basement. He was using the claw on the back end of a hammer to pry it open. The box opened in a flurry of dust, and Anton pulled out an oversize cast-iron plate. It was twice the size of a dinner plate and looked quite heavy. “These go on the dining room table,” he said. “There are ten of them—so space them out evenly.”
“We’re setting the table?” asked Marin. She looked at her father, astonished.
“Yes,” said Anton flatly.
“Father—this is too much!” said Marin.
She looked at Kana for support. Kana arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Anton put up a hand. “Please—not now.”
Marin knew that this was not the time or place to make a fuss, but she couldn’t help herself.
“But it’s ridiculous!” said Marin. Her voice had turned querulous.
“Here we go again,” mumbled Kana. Marin glared at her brother.
“I know you find this strange,” said Anton. “I’ll explain in just a bit. All right?”
Marin forced herself to calm down. Ever since Line’s disappearance, she’d been wound altogether too tight. It would do no good to get her father upset. “All right.”
Kana grabbed two plates from his father’s hands and walked toward the dining room table. Marin followed his lead and took two plates herself. They were enormously heavy, and she had to strain not to drop them. Within a few minutes they had set the table and returned the crate to the basement. When everything was done, their father turned to Marin and Kana.
“You want to know the truth?” he asked. “Fine.”
He paused and leaned on his broom.
“Let me ask both of you a question. When I sneeze, what do you say?”
Kana raised an eyebrow.
“What do you say when I sneeze?” Anton repeated.
“Bless you,” Kana replied.
“Right, but why do you say it?”
Kana shrugged.
“Sometimes in life, we do things simply because we’ve always done them,” explained Anton. “Perhaps there were once reasons, but we have forgotten them. A very long time ago, people believed that whenever a person sneezed, their soul exploded out through their mouths and into the air. They also believed that the devil was always lurking about and might snatch up that soul. So they said bless you, to stall the devil until the soul could shoot back down into the person’s body.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Marin, throwing her hands in the air.
“You’re probably right,” said Anton. “But you still say bless you. And until a moment ago, you didn’t even know why.”
“But that’s just a saying,” said Kana thoughtfully. “That’s different from all of this business with the locks, and the furniture, and setting tables.”
Marin nodded, happy to have her brother as a temporary ally.
“Is it that different?” asked Anton. He folded his thick arms together. “The truth is that we don’t know why we do a lot of things. We kiss talismans and break bottles of Noon wine over the bows of new fishing ships believing, rightly or wrongly, that it’ll keep us safe. If it works, we keep doing it. Everything that we’ve been doing, we do for one simple reason. For generations, it has kept us safe. Every household in Bliss follows these directions, and upon return to our homes fourteen years later, everything is in perfect order. Nothing is damaged—nothing is broken.”
“But, Dad, do you really believe these superstitions keep us safe?” asked Kana.
Anton shrugged. “I can’t tell you for certain. What I do know is that we do these things—and we have remained safe—so we keep doing them.”
“That’s it?” said Marin. “You just follow these made-up rules, like children playing a game, and you don’t even know why?”
“Why are you so upset?” asked Anton. He frowned in confusion.
Why? These were the rules governing their lives—and they made no sense. Again she looked at Kana: Why are you so calm about this?
Anton smiled. “Marin, don’t you see? Only children entertain the fantasy that adults know how and why everything works. Being an adult is accepting the not knowing.”
After a moment’s pause, Kana stepped forward and took a plate off the table. He held it in his hands, trying to estimate how much it weighed. He looked at his father quizzically. “It feels like you’re preparing this
house for somebody else.”
“That’s right!” said Marin.
“Who would stay here?” asked Anton. “Who could possibly survive the Night? Don’t tell me you two believe the children’s tales about the spirits.”
“Of course not,” said Kana calmly. “But what’s the point of all this?”
“I’ve already told you,” replied Anton, raising his voice just enough to show his waning patience. “And besides, I’m your father, and sometimes that alone should be enough.”
Marin stood up in irritation. “This is crazy—all of it,” she muttered. She glanced back at the dining room table, with the heavy plates sitting there rather ominously. “Is there nobody in this town who thinks for themselves?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. It was as if all the stress in her life—the fighting with Kana, the imminent move to the Desert Lands, and the disappearance of Line—had suddenly overwhelmed her. Sensing her distress, Anton reached out to his daughter and took her arm. But Marin pushed him away and retreated to the other side of the room.
Anton sighed heavily, and Tarae walked in. “We leave in ten minutes,” she announced, oblivious to what had just happened. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a last look around?”
Marin nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave, and ran up to her room. She had only a few minutes left in this house and she wanted to spend them alone. Marin exhaled heavily and lay down on her bed.
She felt something sharp hit her head. When she sat up, she discovered it was the copper box her mother had given her. She still hadn’t opened it. Of course, Marin knew what was inside the box, but she was suddenly curious to see it up close.
There was very little light in the room—just a lone candle—and Marin held the box close to the candle to see it better. The exterior was plain, though well polished. Four tiny clasps, one on each side, held it together. They were stiff, but Marin soon had them open. She lifted off the top and peered inside. Lying in a row were six hollow rods, each four inches long. They were made of a smooth, gray-blue stone; at the end of each rod was an evil-looking scalpel. They glittered sharply. Marin picked one up and lightly touched a blade with her thumb. A drop of blood welled out.
