THE MOUNTAINS SEEM FULL OUT OF REACH. WE climb grassy hills that become dotted with rocks as we press west, our eyes on the mountain-scarred horizon. So far away. A lifetime. Matisa and Tom speak together in hushed tones. Isi is focused and silent.
There is no sign of sohkâtisiwak.
We travel all day before arriving at a dark forest. The mountains disappear behind rows and rows of black spruce. Our horses bend to the task of traversing the impossible land. Pressing through swamp, they pull their hooves clear of muck and grasses. We climb over deadfall, make a miserable campfire beneath the tall and scraggly spruce.
My nights are dreamless, and the hours blend one into the next: row upon row of spruce, pressing forward, the horse’s stumbling steps beneath me, the darkness of the forest echoing a darkness creeping into my mind.
When I am sure we have lost our way, sure the forest is all there is, all there has ever been, we arrive.
The forest thins, emptying us out into their midst: the mountains.
Large and looming, stretching tall to the skies, covered in spruce and not—sheer cliffs ending in bright white snow. The air here is different: fresh and heavy, with a bite beneath. The ground under our feet becomes both rocky and soft. Carpets of juniper stretch out low and fragrant, and the trees here look hardy—as though they made the decision, years ago, to survive no matter the odds.
Matisa points ahead, to a valley deep in the mountains. “Our home,” she says.
But I know. I know because I have dreamt this place. I know this smell, this air, this ground beneath my feet. We press west into the shadows, and a river that appears beside us urges us on. It appears and disappears, winding fierce behind walls of rock, its white water singing like it’s calling our arrival.
We reach my dream lake.
It lies in the valley, calm and shining like a polished stone—a color I have seen only in my dreams. Not blue like the prairies skies, not green like the new spring buds. Something in between, and so beautiful my heart might break.
“Matisa,” Isi says.
I tear my gaze away to see where he gestures.
There is someone coming along the shore. A rider on a white horse. The horse gallops fast—a white flame—and the rider’s long dark hair streams out behind like smoke.
I look to Matisa. She smiles.
The rider crosses the distance in moments, pulling up in front of us, his horse’s hooves clattering on the rocky shore. Now I see the horse is not white but smoke-gray, and its rider is a young man. He, too, is beautiful—his hair is glossy, his cheekbones are high, and his lips are curved. He wears the same blue-colored clothing that Isi and Matisa wear, but his chest is covered with a leather plate, and his wrists and hands are wrapped with leather, too, his fingers free and gripping the reins.
He stares at us, his eyes wide and incredulous, looking from Matisa and Isi to me and Tom. As Matisa steps forward, he leaps from his horse. He lunges and pulls her into an embrace. I look to Isi. He’s smiling wider than I ever imagined he could. Matisa laughs as the boy pulls back and embraces Isi the same.
This boy launches into their language, a string of talk. He seems to be asking questions without waiting for the answers. Isi finally halts him with a word, but he is laughing. Matisa looks to us, her face open. Happy.
“This is my cousin Eisu,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Cousin like Isi?” I ask. “Or cousin?”
She laughs. “Cousin.” She gestures to me. “Em,” she says, “and Tom.”
Eisu gestures toward us and asks Matisa something in their tongue.
“Yes,” she says, and smiles. “These are the Lost People.”
Eisu looks at us. This time his gaze lingers, his dark eyes searching over us—over our strange clothes, no doubt, mayhap our strange skin, too. It’s a strong gaze, like Isi’s, a gaze I’ve come to expect.
“Welcome,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, and nudge Tom, who is silent. I turn my head.
Tom is staring at Eisu with a look I’ve never seen on his face but know well in my heart. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open a breath. I nudge him again, and his eyes snap to mine, his cheeks going pink.
Eisu doesn’t seem to notice. He remarks something, and Matisa bursts out laughing.
“What is it?” I ask.
“He says I am in big trouble for leaving the way I did and he hopes you were worth it.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Tom joins, but it’s a tad forced—like he’s actually nervous about being worth it. I shoot him a look.
Eisu turns his head and speaks to Matisa.
Her shoulders heave with a relieved sigh. “Nishwa,” she tells us. “He made it.” She asks a question that Eisu answers in earnest. “And he caught the hunters before they left.”
My heart soars. I watch as Matisa and Eisu continue to talk. I catch Isi’s eye, and he returns my look with his usual fierce gaze, but in it, now, is acceptance. I look to Tom beside me. He’s regained his composure, somewhat.
And all at once I’m so happy I feel light, like air.
Eisu speaks, spreading his hands. Now he’s not asking questions. He’s saying something important, I can tell, because both Matisa and Isi lean in like it might hurry him along.
Matisa cuts him off with a question.
He hesitates.
“Eisu,” she says, a warning in her voice.
He answers with a nod.
Matisa and Isi share a look. She looks to the west, gazes toward that valley.
Matisa’s eyes meet mine, and they are clouded. “Some of my people say the remedy has lost its power, that it no longer protects us.”
Tom and I exchange a look. “Why do they say that?” I ask.
“Six people have died from the sickness.”
I frown. “But . . .” If the remedy no longer works, then they have protected a secret for decades for nothing. And our plan to negotiate peace . . .
“Can he be sure they are taking it?” I ask.
“He says they are,” she says, soft. And in this moment I see her not as the fierce and mysterious dream figure who freed my people and brought the promise of a better life. I see her as she has always been: a girl. A girl who has finally reached her home but is still somehow lost.
I swallow, looking out across the dream lake, toward that valley I’ve never seen but somehow know deep down in my bones. Is it no longer the safe haven I dreamt?
I see Matisa caked in the dream soil of the Watch flats, sick with the Bleed. Me digging desperate-like, my hands heaping dirt upon her—burying her . . .
A rush of despair fills me. And then, anger. I close my eyes and clench my jaw. We have risked too much, given up too much, for my dreams to foretell her death. She has always believed that finding me will prevent disaster for those we love. I have to believe that, too. I press my palms to my brow and think hard. I think about burying her in that soil, with the river voices singing out . . .
My thoughts pause there. Something feels wrong. In the dream, I’m desperate but not sad. Surely I’d be broken with grief if I were saying goodbye to Matisa?
And now I realize the image itself is strange: we don’t say goodbye to our dead by burying them under the soil. We have always cast them to the Cleansing Waters to send them to their peace.
But if I’m not burying her, what am I doing?
Make peace with it.
A flicker of hope starts in my heart. Mayhap there is more to all of this than either of us can see right now. Our dreams have not yet shown us the path, but that path feels in reach—like the long days of summer that stretch out just beyond the Thaw. If only we are patient, if only we weather the storm.
And I vow we will make it to those long days of sun.
“Let’s go home.” I hold out my hand to Matisa. She looks up at me. “We’ll see what needs to be done. Together.”
Our hands clasp and Matisa draws herself up, bringing her head high. I look to the valley of craggy rocks and snowcapped peaks, the wind whispering through the trees. My hair whips into my face as the breeze picks up, churning the waters of the lake into white waves that flash in the sun. And as I gaze out over the choppy, glittering lake, that fire inside me starts anew.
We set off west to the valley, my skin washed with soft air and the scent of evergreen. My bones sing out to this place I have never seen.