Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light #4)

4

  Lost Lamb

  Rafael laid his hunting spear across the breakfast table.

  I looked at him blankly. "That doesn't go there."

  "I stuck it in the fire last night," he said, disgruntled. "So it's sterilized. Anyway, look what I got for Michaela."

  Rafael unclipped a stone knife from his belt and waved it at me.

  "You look very threatening right about now," I said. "I fear for my life."

  "Shut up, Sky. Anyway, she should be okay with this, right?"

  "I don't know, Rafael," I confessed. "You grew up hunting and butchering. You have to remember, she didn't."

  "That's true," he admitted pensively.

  "It might scare her. Or worse--she could hurt herself."

  "Well," he said, "I'm gonna keep a close eye on her. I won't let that happen."

  I smiled. "I know you won't."

  He looked at me; then away. It still amazes me when he lapses into bashful silence. We've been together since we were kids. There's nothing to be bashful about anymore.

  Michaela shuffled into the kitchen. Today's t-shirt didn't bear a witty message. She sat down at the table; she stopped.

  "What's that?" she asked, and pointed at her dish.

  "Prairie bananas," I said.

  "Oh," she said. She picked up a honey biscuit and bit into it noisily.

  "You still wanna go hunting?" Rafael asked.

  Michaela nodded.

  "Are you sure?" I asked. "They're going to be killing animals." I couldn't stand the thought of it. I'm too emotional, I guess.

  "I don't care," Michaela said. "My mom killed my cat once. I can take it."

  Rafael and I exchanged a look.

  "Forget it," Rafael said. "We'll go some other day.

  "What?" Michaela complained. "Come on!"

  "Eat your breakfast," I said.

  Michaela bit into a prairie banana, chewed it up, and stuck her tongue out at me, mushy mess and all.

  "Lovely," I said.

  Rafael picked up his pager and punched a quick message to his uncle, complaining all the while about the size of the buttons. He set aside his spear and the stone knife. I took a quick trip to the front room closet and dug out the wicker baskets inside.

  A few minutes later, and we headed west through the woods, out to the reservation proper.

  "Why are we carrying these stupid things?" Michaela said, baskets hanging from her arms.

  "Summer crops," Rafael said. "We pick 'em up from our friend's farm."

  "And they let you?"

  "Why wouldn't they?" I asked.

  "I don't know," Michaela said. "Mom always stole food from the supermarkets."

  I wasn't sure whether to feel sorry or upset. On the one hand, her mother must have been in some pretty dire straits. On the other, I'm not sure you should let your kid watch you shoplifting.

  The farmland was abundant with families on their way to pick up the summer yield. Not as many as you see in autumn, though--now that's a sight to behold. Kids leaned across the wooden fences and the iron gates stood open, welcoming to visitors. One of Mrs. Siomme's mares stood alongside the country lane and the young children laughed, brushing their hands across her glossy brown coat.

  "Hello, the two of you! I mean, the three of you!" Aubrey said.

  Annie was sitting on a chair outside the farm gates, fanning herself with her hand. She smiled serenely at us.

  "You're fat," Michaela said to her.

  "Yes, I am," Annie said evenly. "And do you know whose fault that is, sweetheart?"

  "Anyway," Aubrey said quickly, fretfully, "why don't you go ahead and pick up your crops?"

  We went through the gates to the plot out front. I spotted Leon hiding in the cornstalks, peeping at us with his luminous, cunning eyes. I didn't think he'd appreciate it if I laughed at him.

  "It's blue!" Michaela shrieked, pointing at the corn.

  "Tastes better than yellow corn," Rafael said.

  Michaela cast him a dubious look.

  "What?" Rafael said defensively. "It does." He ripped an ear off its stalk and peeled back the silk. He handed the ear to Michaela. "Try it."

  She bit into it. She hastily tried to cover a smile. "Tastes like candy," she said.

  "I told you so," Rafael said. "Why would I lie?"

  "In summer," I said, smiling, "some tribes celebrate the green festival. That's when their blue corn ripens."

  "Then why don't they call it a blue festival?" Michaela asked.

  "Because they're not as smart as you," I said.

  We packed our baskets with crops and went beyond the gate, where Annie sat chewing out a cringing Zeke.

  "--and it's so difficult, and people like you come along--!"

  Michaela tugged on my arm. "Is she always so mean?" she asked.

  I tugged on my collar. Man, was I sweating. Maybe it wasn't such a bright idea to wear a turtleneck out to a farm. "Only when she's pregnant," I replied.

  "I love it when she's pregnant," said Holly At Dawn, in rare good spirits.

  Rafael and Michaela and I sat for a moment underneath a shady crabapple tree on the opposite side of the lane. I watched Henry Siomme, a twelve-year-old, as he helped a little girl up onto the back of his mother's horse and took her for a short stroll. Michaela watched, too. I think she secretly wanted a ride of her own.

  Rafael's hand rested on my back. "Why are you wearing that heavy shirt?" he asked me.

  Little Charity approached us just then, her hands tucked her back. "Hi," she said brightly to Michaela. "Did you try any of the summer squash?"

  Michaela shook her head, eyeing Charity furtively.

  "Me neither. I like the winter squash better. Do you know about the raft race?"

  "Char," Rafael said, "you wanna come with us?" We had to get the vegetables in the cellar before they spoiled.

  The four of us walked back to the woods together, Charity chatting with Michaela. The conversation was largely onesided. We went home and Rafael and I laid the crops down in the cellar. I kind of wanted to sit down there for a while myself. On the other hand, Rafael was sure to take it as a personal victory if I tried. He was the champion of cellars, that Rafael, and refused to consider that a refrigerator might be just as handy.

  "Do you want to build a raft together?" I heard Charity say to Michaela when we climbed out of the cellar.

  Rafael strode across the room, then stopped. One of his pagers had started beeping. He spent a few frustrated minutes figuring out which one, then cursed beneath his breath. "I've gotta go back to the hospital," he said.

  "Have fun," I said with an impish smile.

  He scowled at me, but kissed me on the cheek. "Seriously," he said. "Change your damn shirt." And then he went out the door, not to be seen or heard for hours.

  I figured I had better get to work fixing Michaela's window. I was pretty sure I still had leftover sand and glasswort in the attic from eight years ago. I'd gone overboard back when we were building the house.

  "Skylar," Charity said, "would you mind if we hang out together by the brook?"

  "You really delivered a calf?" Michaela asked her.

  "Not really," Charity admitted. "But I tried to help."

  "Stay close to the window," I said. "If I can't see you, I'm going to scream."

  Charity giggled. "Basket case," she teased.

  The girls went outside while I made a quick visit upstairs to the attic. Boy, was it dusty in there. I found the sand and glasswort boxes underneath a shelf stacked with Rafael's old notebooks. One of these days, I thought, I was going to look through those notebooks again. I loved his old drawings, promises of monsters and fairy tales, folk stories come to life in charcoal and spiral binders.

  I dragged the boxes down the stairs and over to the hearth. That was when Carole Svensen crept timidly into the room.

  I waved at her. "Want to make glass with me?"

  She started tal
king--or I think she did, because her lips were moving--but not a sound came out of her mouth.

  "Sorry?" I said politely.

  "...Your amendment action...for the ICWA...I need..."

  "Carole," I said, "why do you come all the way out here to pick up my junk? Can't you just trust me to e-mail it to you?"

  Carole's flesh-colored stockings were in pretty bad shape; I saw a tear running down the side, no doubt inflicted by a thorny barberry bush. She didn't seem to notice, but there was a leaf stuck to the side of her head.

  She looked like she was about to cry.

  "Come here," I relented, and opened my arms. And she rushed into them, like a lost lamb to a shepherd, and wailed all over my fuzzy turtleneck.

  Dad was the next one into the sitting room--though he drew to a sudden stop at the sight of us. "I hope I'm not interrupting..."

  "Carole's had a rough day," I said, rubbing her back.

  "Ah, I see," Dad said. "Should I make some tea?"

  "There are acorns in the kitchen," I said.

  "I'm on it."

  A few minutes later, and Dad and Carole were drinking roasted acorn tea in the front room while Carole helped herself to my computer. Charming girl, that Carole. I don't know why she doesn't trust me to get my work in on time. I'm not that bad of a slacker, am I?

  Dad came and sat with me in the sitting room when I was pulling the iron hearth tray out of the fireplace, the tray laden with a white-hot mess of molten sand and ash. Lighting the fire in the middle of the day was kind of a dumb idea. Nettlebush's daily temperature averages in the 90's. The sitting room, consequently, was stifling.

  "Your glasswork looks as good as ever," Dad said.

  "Thanks." I set the tray beneath the mantel to cool. "What are you up to today?"

  "Fishing with Cyrus. I must admit, it was nice to be on the water again..."

  I smiled at him. "I can imagine."

  Dad paused. "That little girl of yours--why don't we teach her to play shinny? I'm sure she'd find it fun."

  I glanced out the window. Michaela and Charity were sitting by the brook, Charity winding centauries in Michaela's hair like a crown. Michaela didn't seem to know what to make of her new friend. At least neither of them had wandered very far.

  I looked back at Dad; I smiled fondly. "I'd like that. I'll ask her tonight."

  The more I watched Dad, the more I thought about how withered and frail he looked. The sentiment bit at the inside of my heart. A part of me wanted to ask how prison had treated him. A larger part of me most definitely did not. Whatever he had been through, the worst possible thing I could do was to make him relive it.

  "Has she been to a therapist?" Dad said.

  I wrestled myself out of my reverie. "Huh?"

  "Michaela," Dad said. "It seems she's had a lot of emotional difficulties..." He glanced none too subtly at the cooling sheet of glass. "I was just wondering. Remember the psychiatrist I took you to when you were six?"

  I fell silent. Yeah, I remembered that. I remembered that a little too well.

  I heard the mechanical humming of the printer in the next room; a mind-numbing metronome.

  "Dad?" I said.

  "Yes?"

  I looked at him. I mean, I really looked at him. This man's life was far from easy. His wife dying, his best friend the killer... His strained relationship with his mother, something I'd wondered about, but never really understood until now...

  "Never mind," I said with a quick smile. I wasn't about to add more strife to his repertoire.

  Carole checked briefly into the room to say goodbye, my files clutched safely in her hand. "And the tea was wonderful, Mr. Looks Over, thank you!" I waved goodbye as she saw herself out the door.

  I glanced out the window. My heart plummeted into my stomach. Michaela and Charity were both gone.

  I didn't waste time explaining myself: I ran out the door. Dad ran after me, which I can't really say came as a surprise. The brook met me face-first, and the thickly wooded area on the other side. I couldn't see either of the girls.

  I fumbled hastily with the pager in my pants pocket. Every pager in Nettlebush has its own number. Charity's was 15--on my keypad, anyway. I typed quickly. A clear, tinnying beep sounded from the other side of the skinny brook.

  Okay, I thought. Calm down. Maybe they didn't go past the glade. Maybe Charity can talk some sense into her--

  Either way, I dashed across the brook.

  It didn't take long for Dad and me to hit the starfield. Charity was there, but no Michaela. Charity was mid-run when I caught her by the elbow and spun her around.

  Her dark eyes were alight with fear. "I told her not to! She said she wanted to see the black bears. I told her--"

  Calm down, I thought again. Just because she wanted to find the black bears didn't mean she would. I'd lived seventeen years on the reservation without seeing them even once.

  "What number is Rafael?" Dad said, and took the pager from my hand.

  "Just dial '1'," I said. "Could you take Charity home?"

  "Be safe," Dad said. He gave me back my pager and took Charity's hand.

  I trekked across the woods at a run. All the same, I couldn't stop wondering what I had done wrong. I think that's natural during a crisis. Not that this was a crisis. She's fine, I kept telling myself. She's fine.

  Until I came across the forest den, and the enormous black bear crouching slowly from its opening, sniffing at the air--rising on hind legs.

  "What--what should I do?" Michaela said. She wasn't moving. She must have been paralyzed with fear.

  "Just stay there," I said, my heart pounding in my chest.

  "Play dead, right?"

  "No," I said. "If she thinks you're dead, she's more likely to eat you. Just stand very still, okay? Don't raise your voice or you'll scare her. Don't run or she'll think you're prey."

  I wanted very badly to grab Michaela, but another step closer might rouse the bear's suspicion. So I stood still--almost afraid to breathe--and I kept my eyes on the both of them.

  The bear dropped down on all fours. She picked up on our scent and stalked closer. My heart was working overtime in my chest, burning and painful.

  "It's okay," Rafael said.

  I chanced a look over my shoulder. He approached us very slowly, his hunting spear in his hands.

  "The both of you back up."

  I reached for Michaela's arm and drew her backwards just as Rafael stepped forward. The simultaneous movement confused the bear. The bear paused in her pursuit. Her beady black eyes shifted from Michaela to Rafael.

  Rafael was very still, perfectly calm, save for the extending of his spear. Experimentally, the bear swiped at the spear. Her padded paw caught on the iron spearhead.

  She moaned with surprise--and probably a little pain. She turned her back on us and took off at a sprint.

  Rafael didn't say a word. He jerked his head at us, a nerve working alongside his taut jaw. He led us on the walk back to the house, my hand tight around Michaela's.

  We'd barely walked through the front door when Rafael spun on Michaela, fury in his dark eyes, fury on his dark face.

  "What the hell were you thinking?"

  It's not very often that Rafael shows real anger. When he does, it's not pretty. I guess Michaela must have been used to angry adults, though; she didn't even flinch.

  "Michaela?" I said.

  "You said not to go there," Michaela said. "Near the bears."

  I tried to keep the weariness from my voice. "That's right. So why did you do it?"

  "To see if you would come for me."

  I didn't know what to say.

  "You could have been killed," Rafael went on. "Sky could have been killed. Did you even think about that?"

  Reluctantly, Michaela shook her head.

  "Are you going to do this again?"

  Again, she shook her head.

  "I don't bel
ieve you," he said. "I don't want you playing outside anymore."

  Michaela lifted her head. "But--!"

  "Rafael..." I said.

  "Don't give me that crap," he said to me. "I don't trust her. Do you?"

  I hesitated.

  "Do you?"

  "Not at the moment, no," I said.

  "But you came for me," Michaela said.

  "Yes," I said. "We're always going to come for you."

  "Then why can't I play with Charity anymore?"

  "You can," Rafael said. "Inside the house. Get me to trust you again and you can go outside."

  Her lips pinched, her brows furrowing in ten-year-old righteous rage. She spun around--her hair tossing around her like a cape--and ran up the staircase to her room. I decided I'd better go fit the new window in its frame lest she jump to freedom.

  "She hates us," Rafael said miserably.

  I looked at him with some level of surprise. "No, she doesn't," I said. "If she hated us, she wouldn't have run."

  I don't think he followed. His expression was nothing short of puzzled.

  "You'll see," I promised. "Give it time. I guarantee she's going to calm down once she knows she's safe."

  "You should've been a psychiatrist," Rafael mumbled. "Not a lawyer."

  I paused. "That's okay," I said. "I don't like psychiatrists."

  By sunset, all of Nettlebush gathered around the communal firepit for dinner. The sky was soaked in red and gray, the sun copper and spent. The At Dawn twins sat playing Sai Paa Hupia on the double-skin drum. And Michaela sat at the picnic table, glowering at me.

  "I see which one of you she takes after," Caias Siomme said to me, the reservation school's sole teacher.

  I've known this guy since I was his student. Back then he was just Mr. Red Clay, the tough-as-nails human encyclopedia. He married and had children some time after I graduated from his class, and that's why he's Mr. Siomme now. But I can't quite wrap my head around that, so I'm just going to call him Mr. Red Clay.

  Mr. Red Clay is Dad's age--hitting his sixties--but he's still ridiculously handsome. I'm sure a sizable fraction of the female population would agree with me on that.

  "I'm hoping we still have her in September," I said.

  "Then I can look forward to having her in my class. Why do you say 'hope'?"

  I quirked a smile. "She's kind of a problem child."

  Mr. Red Clay raised an eyebrow. "And Rafael wasn't?"

  I thought: He's right. Growing up, Rafael was one of the most problematic kids on the reservation. I can't count the number of classmates he decked across the face. His worst fight landed his brawling partner in the hospital--and got the both of them a year-long suspension from school.

  "I'm of the opinion," Mr. Red Clay said, "that love can fix anything. You'll notice Rafael calmed down considerably when he met you."

  "Well," I said, "don't embarrass me." But really, isn't that true, in a way? I'm pretty sure all anyone wants in this world is to know they're loved. Once you've got love under your belt, it's a whole lot easier to deal with the smaller stuff.

  I watched Jessica as she tried to coax a stern and taciturn Stuart Stout into dancing by the fire. I watched Rafael sketching in a bound notebook by the firelight. I watched DeShawn handing out baked acorn squash to the children sitting on the smooth soil. Yes, I thought. A whole lot easier.

  When the sky was darker than it was light, when the moon was as bright as a beacon at sea, it was time, at last, to head home. William Has Two Enemies picked up a barrel full of water and dumped it over the stone firepit; the embers hissed and smoldered wetly, rising smoke occluding the stars.

  Michaela walked between Rafael and me, her head down, her eyes on the moonlit path. The forest path forked and we followed it north, the house at the end of the dirt road.

  I lit the oil lamp in the front room. Michaela stood staring at me.

  "What's up?" I asked.

  "Nothing," she said.

  "Okay," I said, and wiggled my eyebrows.

  Michaela went up to bed very shortly after that. I lit the hearth for the night, owls calling noisily outside the windows, coywolves yipping back as they settled down to sleep.

  "I guess I thought it was gonna be happy all the time," Rafael grumbled, when he and I went up to bed.

  "Why?" I asked, smothering a laugh. "Was your household always pleasant when you were a kid?"

  He paused. "No," he confessed, and grinned at some obscure memory. "I was a pain in the ass. But Mary was the bigger pain."

  "I'm sure she was," I remarked. I knew better.

  I didn't have a chance to turn off the lamp. The door burst open, and Michaela ran in in plain white pajamas.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "What's this?" Michaela asked. She invited herself up onto the bed and waved a sheet of paper at us.

  I couldn't actually figure out what it was, because she wouldn't hold it still. Rafael intervened. He took the paper from her little hands and smoothed it out. Now I saw it for what it really was; a drawing in colored pencil.

  "That's Nai Nukkwi," Rafael said.

  Michaela wrinkled her face. "Who?"

  "Nai Nukkwi," he said. "She was Shoshone, like us. She lived a long, long time ago. When she was nine or ten, an enemy tribe captured her. They were going to sell her to white fur trappers as a slave. But Nai Nukkwi escaped. She ran a thousand miles home, all by herself."

  "Why's there a bear in the picture?" Michaela asked.

  "Okay," said Rafael, "when she was on the run, she came across an angry sleuth of bears. There were dozens of them, and they were standing between her and the Lemhi Valley. But she wasn't afraid. She knew that if she wanted to survive, she had to stand up straight, and look the leader in the eye."

  I took a closer look at little Nai Nukkwi in her colored elkskin dress. A hungry black bear towered over her on hind legs, jaws wide open.

  "But she looks like me," Michaela said.

  And that was true. I saw freckles on Nai Nukkwi's face, her nose small and snubbed, her hair straight and brown.

  "How do you draw like that?" Michaela said. "Can I draw like that?"

  "I could teach you," Rafael said.

  My heart tightened in my chest. Rafael's father had taught him how to draw.

  "Okay," Michaela said. "You do that."

  "But if you act like a brat again," Rafael said brashly, "then I'm gonna stop teaching you. So you've gotta behave from now on."

  Michaela let out a great big sigh. "Fine."

  She padded out of our bedroom, the drawing clutched possessively in her hands. I heard her trundle down the hall; I heard her door click shut.

  "Softy," I accused.

  "Shut up," Rafael said, and turned his head away so I wouldn't see his smile.