The forest is ravenous.
It opens up its jaws, swallows us whole.
The trees blur, blending one into the next, shadows bleeding black to blacker. No sun, no sky within this place. But despite the perils—the creak and snap of beasts unseen—these dark woods offer us one thing:
Escape.
Muscles straining, lungs burning, I skirt tangles of brush and duck under green boughs, dragging my bad foot. My heart thunders in my ears.
I feel my pursuer behind me like a hot breath on my neck. As I labor over a fallen log, a thin branch whips my cheek. I bite back a cry.
And now, a flash of blue to the left. A boy my age—one of Matisa's kin, mayhap—fleeing like me.
For a split second I see his eyes—they're bright, determined; like he's sure he'll get away. Echoing my thought, he picks up speed and disappears. I want to follow but no, that's foolish. I'm not fast like him; I'd only lead them his way.
I stumble to a halt and rethink my escape. Could I double back toward Matisa's village and hide? I turn to the northwest, planning to carve a long arc and retrace my path. There's a sound behind me.
I glance back and find nothing but a row of trees, but deep down I know: I've been spotted.
Hurry.
Desperate, I scan the woods. Several strides to my right the moss floor disappears as the earth dips into a steep ravine. A cluster of spruce with low, bushy branches clings to the hillside. There's nowhere to run beyond it; the descent is far too steep—I'd fall and break something, surely. If I hide there, I'm trapped.
But I've run out of time.
I dart behind the trees and drop to the earth, trying to flatten myself below sight lines.
I hold my ragged breath.
Silence.
A line of sweat itches at the back of my neck, under my braid. My palms, too, are slick. I wipe them on the moss and risk a sip of air. My heartbeat slows from a gallop to a trot.
Silence.
Did he run past?
Real cautious, I draw my head up.
"You're dead."
My heart stutters. Where—? I push to my knees, scanning the trees. A figure shifts at the corner of my vision.
Tom is staring down the barrel of his beloved rifle, not ten strides away.
"Bang," he says. And smiles.
I frown up into his blue eyes. "Aren't you supposed to touch me?"
"You're plain in my sights. Don't need to."
"That thing's not even loaded."
"Course it isn't. You're still dead."
I curse and push myself to standing, dusting soil and spruce needles off my hands. "I'm not fast enough for this game."
"No," Tom agrees, relaxing his aim and bringing the rifle to his side. "But you were quiet. I had to look for your traces."
I glance at my bad foot. The boy who passed me will last far longer against his opponent, but I suppose it's something that I wasn't loud.
I remember chasing through the woods like this near our settlement, three seasons ago. That day, the day everything changed, I crashed into the forest after Matisa, tearing and shredding my way through the brush like hail through squash blossoms, while she darted ahead, silent as a sunbeam. Living with her people, osanaskisiwak, these past weeks has taught me to move quieter. And I've learned to listen better, to observe.
But you need speed and strength to become one of their warriors.
I cross through the trees toward my best friend. His cheeks are flushed, though probably more from excitement than the chase, since I didn't get far.
"Thanks," Tom says. "That was good practice."
I snort. "Hardly."
"Every little bit helps." He says it so earnest.
I tilt my head. "Not sure I recognize this Tom."
"Which Tom?"
"The one obsessed with his battle skills."
"Just want to prove them. I'm hopeful I won't have to use them."
"Sure you are," I tease, a smile pulling at my lips.
"I am. Been enough death around here lately."
My smile fades.
He's talking about the Bleed—the sickness that lives in the "little waters." This summer it's claimed over a dozen of Matisa's people.
"The rumor's gaining strength," he adds, his voice soft.
A familiar unease settles in my chest.
Battle preparations began as a precaution when, weeks ago, I arrived here with Matisa, Isi, and Tom with news that the Dominion—the people who rule in the east—are fixing to settle out this way. Matisa's people have long been wary of that group, who overthrew and slaughtered First Peoples in the east. But her people have also always had the upper hand against invaders: a remedy for the Bleed.
The healers' circle Matisa belongs to has guarded that remedy for years, planning to use it to negotiate peace with invaders. It's their best hope against the brutal weapons of the Dominion, and it's a secret the circle has dedicated their lives to protect.
The recent deaths from the Bleed have one of two explanations: either the victims weren't taking the remedy, or the rumor Tom speaks of is true—the remedy no longer works. If it's the latter, there'll be no negotiation, and Tom'll end up proving his skills in a bloody war.
We all will.
I change the subject. "What's next?"
"After this? Target practice."
I roll my eyes. "Like you need practice."
He grins. "Come on," he says, tugging at my arm.
We find a ridgeline, climb it, and head back toward the village, taking care to keep the turtle-shaped mountain directly before our right shoulder—the way we were taught. Deep in these crevasses the woods are so thick, it's easy to get turned around, lost. There are many hazards about: crumbling cliffs, large predators. Accidents aren't common; Matisa's people know the land well. But Tom and I are new here; it'd take far longer than a summer to understand this place.
Matisa's brother, Nishwa, is waiting on the training flats. He raises an eyebrow as we emerge from the trees. "Back so soon?"
"Tom needs faster prey."
"Ah." Nishwa runs a hand over his partially shaved head, a hairstyle that indicates his new rank: trainer. The position was his reward for stopping the osanaskisiwak hunters before they left on their yearly trip. He'd warned them of the approaching danger and urged them to stay and defend the valley. His shaved head should make him look fierce, but his round face is too open, his grin too easy. "Good. That means you can compete as well as the others." I don't feel slighted by his words; I'll always be too slow, too awkward, to be a warrior.
My gaze is drawn to the lake. A rider on a smoke-white horse is coming along the shore. Eisu, Matisa's cousin.
I nudge Tom with my elbow. "Use Eisu next time."
Tom's eyes dart toward the handsome scout and away. I hide a grin. Tom's in a spell over Eisu. He hasn't said as much, but I can tell.
"It'd be a more fair matchup," I amend.
And now I see Matisa, emerging from a line of trees on the far side of the flats. She shields her eyes against the setting sun and beckons.
"I'll see you later?" I say to Tom.
"Thanks again, Em." But Tom's eyes are fixed on Eisu.
I turn away, unable to hide my smile this time. I know what Tom's feeling. I know what it's like when your skin ignites at a person's touch, when your heart races when he speaks your name … I draw a breath and shove sudden thoughts of Kane—of the days of travel it would take to reach him—away.
I focus instead on reaching Matisa and notice an animal skulking in the shadows of the trees near her. It's a thin dog, all ribs and mangy fur. Matisa extends her hand, a scrap of something in it. The dog darts close to take it into its jaws and retreats just as quick.
I keep my distance. "Whose dog?" Dogs are new to me, and they look too much like wolves for me to feel comfortable around.
Matisa shrugs. "It seems she does not have a home. Perhaps she was run out of her pack."
I watch the dog gulping the scrap. It pulls its head up, eyeing Matisa and licking its chops. "You're not worried it'll bite you?"
"She won't bite me," Matisa says. "She is just looking for a friend." She tosses another scrap, which the dog snaps out of the air. My heart skips a beat. "A friend with food."
"You wanted me?"
"Yes," she says. The dog creeps forward again, but Matisa's hand is empty. "We need more healing salve."
"Oh?" I mix pastes and tend to wounds the warriors get during war practice, but there are other people who can do what I do; my work is never urgent.
"And I wanted to tell you about my dream."
Oh.
I fight to keep my thoughts from my face. Inside, I'm weary. The dog cocks its head.
"This one feels different," she ventures.
Feels different.
I swallow a sigh. Matisa believes she and I are the ones her legend speaks of: the dreamers from two different times who can prevent disaster for her people. It's the reason she searched for my settlement last fall, and it's why we journeyed together to her people. And the fact that our dreams led us to one another then, and again when we were split up during our trek to this valley, made me believe it, too. I always figured arriving here would lay our purpose bare.
But for weeks her dreams have been the same: she is searching through a forest, a pile of her slaughtered people nearby. Mine are of me burying Matisa in the soil at my settlement.
Seems our dreams foretell death, so how they can help us prevent it is something I can't figure.
Matisa is waiting for my reply.
"Course." I force a smile, but her brow creases—she always knows what I'm thinking—and there's a flash of desperation in her eyes. My heart twists. She's changed since the day she found my settlement last fall. Back then she appeared from nowhere, a bright-eyed savior full of mystery and new possibilities. Now, worry spiders along her features, draws her shoulders down.
I chastise myself for adding to that worry, square my shoulders, and offer my hand. "I want to hear all about it."
Her face relaxes. "It's almost dinner." She takes my hand and gestures at the village. "We can talk while we eat."
I watch the dog out of the corner of my eye as it falls in beside us. It slinks along, wary-like, but peers at us all hopeful. It reminds me of someone …
The thought vanishes as two boys on horseback approach. They pass by at a quick trot. I stop and turn, watching as they dig their heels into their horses' sides, urging them into a gallop. They tear across the flats toward the lake. So strong. So fast.
Matisa is studying me. I turn my head. "What?"
"I have been thinking," she says. The dog moves closer and lifts its nose to nuzzle her hand, licking the salt from her palm. "Perhaps you should try again."
"Riding?" Matisa tried to teach me earlier this spring before we set out for her home. Back then, I was sure I could learn. I was sure about a lot of things: how exciting our journey would be, how my new life with Kane was just beginning. But our journey was a disaster, and Kane is now caring for his motherless little brothers in the safety of a newcomers' village—days from here and under the attentions of a pink-cheeked girl named Genya. Things didn't turn out the way I was dreaming they would; being terrible at riding is the least of those failures.
"We were rushed before," she says. "You could learn on a gentle horse, from a better teacher."
I consider this. I do love those beasts: all sleek lines and strong muscle, their smell so good and earthy, their eyes so kind. I remember feeling alive when we galloped through the drylands, trying to outrun the rain. But I also recall bumping along on Matisa's mare, the insides of my legs screaming after two days of practice. I remember how exasperated Isi was with his beloved Matisa for persisting in trying to teach me. He's a dear friend to me now, no more scathing looks, but that notion my lessons were useless sticks in my mind like a burr.
I sigh. "Not sure anything or anyone could help me."
"Matisa!" The shout draws our eyes. A young girl is hurrying toward us. She pulls up, out of breath, and launches into a stream of chatter in Matisa's tongue. As Matisa listens, her eyes scan the farmlands and the banks of the river.
"What is it?" I ask Matisa.
"Another sick girl."
I don't need to ask if it's the Bleed; the urgency in the messenger's tone and eyes say as much.
"The rest of the circle is harvesting today," Matisa says. "They would want to come, but I do not have time to summon them."
I can't offer to go find them for her; the healers' circle is out in secret places, collecting the remedy plant that is supposed to prevent the Bleed from taking hold. Once it's harvested, they'll mix it with other herbs to mask its identity in order to control the truth, to ensure the knowledge doesn't spread—by accident or someone's ambition—to newcomers. Like me.
Matisa chews her lip. "The girl will only be awake a short time."
"I'll come with you." I won't be allowed in to see the girl, but I want to be there for my friend.
"Let us go quickly," Matisa says. "She is being kept at the place of silence."
I struggle to keep up, following her west into a setting sun that crowns the mountain peaks with a blood-red glare, my skin prickling with anticipation. Or mayhap it's dread.
Dying from the Bleed is a short and grisly matter, over in half a day or night at most. Matisa isn't hurrying to heal the girl or even to ease her suffering. She hurries because if she can speak with her before she slips under the curtain of fever and pain, we might determine the cause of her death. We might learn whether it's like the circle wants to believe, that she failed to take the remedy. Or if it's true that the remedy no longer protects us.
My thoughts race alongside my heart as we climb toward the dying girl.
The rumor's gaining strength, I remember Tom saying.
A chill touches the back of my neck.
I pray to the Almighty it isn't true.
