Darkthaw (12 page)

“Speak English!” Matisa snaps. “Em and Kane deserve to know what you think.”

“Fine!” Isi shouts. He whirls on us, and his voice could tear the hide off a mule deer. “Here's what I think: I think I would be shot by my own mother if I showed up back home without Matisa, telling them I'd left her to a pale death-bringer.”

Matisa's eyes widen in horror. She shoots a look at me, grabs at his elbow, and pulls him toward her. “Em is our
friend
,” she hisses.

Isi pulls his arm away. “Is she?” he asks. “A friend who adds to the burden of others, then asks them to abandon their wounded family so she does not have to take responsibility for that burden?”

Blood rushes to my face.

Matisa's eyes blaze. “Em was doing what her heart told her. And I am doing what mine tells me.”

He turns away, mutters, “I knew this would happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

He wheels back. “I trusted you! I have done what you asked. When you wanted to find the settlement, I followed you. When you wanted to stay at that settlement, I stayed. And then you were sure we needed to bring Em along when we finally, finally returned. But enough is enough, Matisa. You can't keep chasing after dreams you pretend show the future.”

Hurt flashes in Matisa's eyes. Her voice is a growl. “I never asked you to come with me.”

Isi steps back like he's been slapped.

I need to stop this. “Isi's right,” I blurt out. “Nishwa can't make the journey with us like that, he needs to go back to your people.”

Isi's eyes flicker to me, but he only looks annoyed I've spoken at all.

“I said Isi can take him,” Matisa fires back. I've never seen her angry like this. Her eyes have a sheen to them, and two bright spots have appeared on her cheeks.

“And I said I'm not leaving you here!” Isi shouts.

They glare at each other. Matisa's hands are curled into fists.

“Are you two finished?” a voice asks. We look to Nishwa, who is peering at us with one eye cracked open.

Matisa hurries to his side, kneeling and pushing a chunk of hair behind her ear. She helps him sit. “We thought you were asleep.”

“Difficult to sleep with all the noise,” he says, wincing as he pushes himself up and looks around at us all. “So here is a way to get some quiet: nobody goes anywhere. Matisa, stay with the group, Isi, stay with Matisa, I will take myself back.”

Isi snorts, and Matisa starts to protest, but Nishwa cuts them off: “My leg is hurt, I'm not dying. If I rode hard I could be home in four days.”

“That is a terrible plan,” Isi says. “It's clear there are newcomers out here. No. We come with you.”

“I will be on a horse, and I know the route back,” he says. “I have Em's tincture. And I'll take a rifle.”

We all shift at that. There are two rifles left. If he takes one . . .

“You don't know how to fire it,” Matisa protests.

“Andre taught me how to aim.” Nishwa waves his hand.

Isi snorts again.

“Isi, Matisa believes she and Em must stay together,” Nishwa says. “You cannot ask Em to leave her people, and you cannot ask Matisa to leave Em.” He speaks some words in their language.

Isi's jaw works hard, but he stays silent.

“Let me take myself back, or come with me and leave Matisa here. But she is not coming with us.”

Isi stares at Nishwa and Matisa in turn. Matisa raises her chin. When he locks eyes with me, his gaze is fire.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he mutters. “I knew it.” He turns and stalks off into the forest.

“Matisa—” I start, feeling guilt and relief at once. But thanking her feels foolish. Feels like it would belittle her sacrifice.

Nishwa speaks, saving me from having to continue. “I will need help getting packed.”

Nishwa is settled atop his horse, enough stores for four days and one of our precious rifles strapped to the beast. Isi's jaw is in its usual set, and his eyes are narrowed. He leans forward, speaks a few words of his language to Nishwa, who nods. Nishwa bends low to Matisa and touches his forehead to hers. They speak soft, something in their tongue. I can feel their family love for each other in their whispers, plain as day.

His round face goes serious as he looks around at us. “Take care.”

He turns his horse to the west and sets out. Sister Violet leads her little boys away, following Andre, who heads to pack up. Matisa, Isi, Kane, and I watch Nishwa until the forest swallows him up.

“Four days?” I ask.

“If that,” Matisa answers. “He will be fine.”

“You don't know that,” Isi mutters.

“Isi, Nishwa will be fine,” Matisa says. “And we will all be together again soon.”

He turns scathing eyes on her. “Will we,” he says, like he's tasting a bitter berry.

She nods. “And you have made your choice, so there is no need to punish anyone for it.”

He stares at her a moment. He shakes his head and stalks away.

THE MORNING LIGHT WASHES OUR TENT IN A
soft, warm glow, but I awake with that sliver of ice in my chest. I roll over and stand, careful not to wake Matisa. My bad foot protests with a painful throb. I bend to grab the tincture from my satchel before I remember I sent it with Nishwa. Matisa said she and I would make more, but last night we were all too rattled to do much but move away from the stinking bait, make camp, eat, and turn in.

Least, that's what I told myself. That's how I explained Kane avoiding my eyes around the fire, why he leapt up to help his ma settle the boys to sleep and didn't return. That's how I was able to fall asleep finally, my chest hitched tight with the thought of us getting to the crossing. Getting to the crossing, and Kane heading east with his ma.

I step on my foot wrong as I leave the tent and let the fiery pain wash away that thought. Haven't done that to my foot in a long while. Haven't needed to. But thinking on Kane, and Nishwa heading out alone yesterday, that ice in my chest
feels heavy. We'll be slower now, too, looking out for those awful hidden traps.

Least we know to look for the bait. We'll probably smell it first. And we might be slow, but Nishwa will be sure to reach his home in time to warn their hunters.

If nothing bad befalls him on the way.

I head to the river to wash. The willows along the bank are coated with dew still, and the morning sun glimmers over the far bank, chasing the fog on the river away slow. As I look for a good spot, I notice the wide mouth of water drops and disappears from sight about fifty strides downriver. The banks are high, cutting away sharp. And the water just disappears.

A flicker of excitement lights in my belly. On a hunch, I double back to our camp and press south into the woods, cutting parallel to the river. Straight away the pitch gets steep. The ground here is soft; thin trees that haven't kept their grip are lying in jumbled messes beneath the moss. I trip over them, grabbing at branches to steady my diagonal trek across the hill.

When I get to the bottom, I can hear the river again clear.

It sounds like
les trembles
moving in a big wind, but louder. More urgent. I claw through the brush, pushing toward it. The air grows heavy, clinging to my skin and hair like a giant spider-web. I part the bramble and stumble out onto a rocky shore.

The river tumbles down the rock face above me, a great cascade of white water falling from the heavens, rushing to meet the churning water below. The clouds of mist drifting onto the shore settle on my face, coat my eyelashes like dew. My chest gets tight.

Been wanting to see a waterfall my whole life.

Saw a drawing in one of Soeur Manon's storybooks, once. The river used to flow real fast at spring breakup, and I'd picture it careening over the side of a rocky ledge somewhere, picture myself falling with it. But this—this is so much more powerful than I figured. It's pounding in my ears, in my chest.

I want to take my clothes off right now. Wade in, duck under that silky water, and listen to the pounding from underneath the surface. I shouldn't. The river's moving too fast. It would be dangerous. But mayhap just my feet . . .

I bend and unlace the moccasin on my bad foot. I set it on the rocks and do the second. My heart thumps loud as I shuck out of my leggings, untie my
ceinture
. I'm about to pull my tunic over my head when movement flashes in the corner of my eye.

I freeze.

I'm not alone.

Kane stands on the rocks downshore. Barefoot. Bare-chested. He has a kerchief in his hands that drips water. There's a stick of something in the corner of his mouth—wild mint, judging by the way he sucks it. His mouth stops when he sees me.

That ice in my chest returns. For months, I wanted to be out here in these woods with him—only him. But now . . .

He holds my gaze, his eyes unsure.

That moment in the woods yesterday floods in: that moment he turned away from me. Uncertainty was all over his body in that moment—the way he stood, the set of his mouth.

My anger returns. Why can't he be sure about this?
About me? I kneel on the rocky shore and cup my hands. The water is an icy shock. I scrub it over my face and drink it down, washing out the night, and sit back on my heels to look at the swirling river. There's an eddy close to the waterfall where the water is more calm. The rest of the river rages past, widening and churning as it dashes itself on protruding rocks.

Kane ventures closer. He takes the stick from his mouth and tosses it at the river. “Morning,” he calls, his voice near swallowed by the roar of the water.

“Morning,” I mutter, staring out at the waterfall.

“It's amazing,” he says, nodding at the falls. I stay silent. Part of me wants to tell him how much it means to me to see it, another part feels like he doesn't get to know.

Kane comes closer still, and now I can hear him plain. “Em . . .” Out of the corner of my eye I can see his hands fiddling with the bandana, wringing it out over and over. “I'm sorry. About yesterday.”

“It's fine.” I stand and fix my gaze on the mist drifting off the water. “Matisa chose to stay.” But my voice catches. I lean into my foot.

“It's not fine,” he says. “It was—well, everything was tense already with the Jamesons showing up. And then Nishwa getting hurt like that . . .”

I wait.

He stops wringing the kerchief. “It's different out here, Em.”

“It is,” I say, my voice still hard. “It is different.”

He waits, but I offer nothing more. He sighs. “I know it seemed like I was changing my mind yesterday, but all I was
hoping was that you wouldn't ask me to leave my ma and the boys right then. Was hoping there was some way we could sort it out . . .”

“I was
trying
to find a solution.”

“I know.” He sighs. “I just . . . everything was so upside down.”

At this, tears spring to my eyes. I blink them back, my voice tight. “Can't ask you to do something you don't want to do.”

“What I want is to be with you.” His voice is soft, near a whisper, and it sends my blood galloping around inside me.

I step my good foot into the silky water. Mist coats my bare legs.

“I'm sorry,” he says again. “I know how much it means to you, to be out here. I'm sorry it hasn't been . . . better.”

And now,
now
I look at him.

He stands in surrender. One hand holds the kerchief at his side and the other is raised—like he wants to reach for me but isn't sure he should. His dark eyes searching my face are anxious and hopeful at once. That ice in my chest melts.

“It's all right,” I say. “I'm sorry, too.”

He smiles, that funny half smile that makes my heart beat triple time, and for a moment I'm lost in its warmth, in its promise of protection.

He breaks the spell by knitting his brows, feigning a frown, and tipping his head at my feet in the water. “Thought you couldn't swim.” He folds his arms across his chest.

The motion draws my eyes, and suddenly the fact he's shirtless comes over me full force. “C-c-can't,” I stammer. “Was going to . . . to wade. In that still pool.”

He looks over his shoulder, to where the river gets frenzied. His forearms crisscross his chest, his torso is all tight lines and ripples and
Oh for the Grace
. . . I drop my eyes, my heart thudding in my throat.

“Can't go in there if you can't swim. It's not safe.” He's playing at being stern; his voice is husky.

There's a long pause. The falls roar. I steel myself, tell the cabbage moths flitting around my stomach to be still. “You said you could teach me.”

“Did I?” He steps closer.

My breath gets short. “You did.”

Why am I jittering like a June bug? I know him. I know him pressing me up against the walls inside the woodshed, kissing my mouth so hard it stopped my breath. I know his body against mine—it's burnt into my memory for good, but . . .