LYNX
I’ve been lying beside the central fire for most of the night listening to the weeping that fills Sky Ice Village. Elder Hoodwink bandaged my spear wounds, but they seem small measure compared to the death of a child.
It’s about two hands of time before dawn. A few people wander about the village, mostly elders. Mink sits beside me, feeding driftwood to the central fire to keep me warm, but his gaze constantly slides to Quiller where she sits on the lip of the sea cave. Once or twice, Mink went to speak with her, but no one else wants to be shouted at. I haven’t seen RabbitEar or her daughters at all. Though earlier in the evening, village women came and went from their lodge, carrying bowls of water and clean clothing. No one has told me, but I assume they’ve bathed and dressed the body of the dead boy.
I did not know Jawbone well, but the sounds of grief that have issued from the lodges throughout the night tell me he was greatly loved.
As always before dawn, the pungency of the zyme is powerful. In the distance, it rides the waves like a rumpled green blanket. The only happy sound tonight is the cooing and laughter of Mink’s newest child that drifts from his lodge. I can imagine Gray Dove holding the baby to her breast, smiling down at him as she feeds him.
We have all watched companions, lovers, spouses, and children vanish from the world. The fortunate ones simply drifted away in their beds like leaves torn from trees. Most did not die in peace. Those are the hardest vigils.
I wonder if Quancee died in peace. Was there still a shred of consciousness in her body when Jorgensen tore her apart? Did she wonder where I was? Why I was not there to protect her? Did she weep in loneliness?
Tears lodge in my throat.
My life will forever be inextricably, deeply, and eternally bound to the moment of her death. I am convinced that I was only really alive when she was looking at me, and now I am just one of the odd shadows moving across the wall of Plato’s cave—a dim and amorphous shape. Not real.
Quancee said death was a tiny stepping stone in a vast universe of time coordinates, and that the coordinates least observed, least distinguished, were the best coordinates, because wave functions move on. Splashes and disturbances make the flow rocky and painful. It’s easier, she said, if a wave can merely flow unnoticed through the vast sea.
But I am too stupid to grasp what that means. All I know is that she is gone from my heart, and all that remains is a gaping chasm where she once loved me.
“Are you awake?” Mink whispers.
“Yes.”
“You must be hurting. Let me dip you another cup of willow-bark tea.”
“Thank you, brother.”
Mink picks up a wooden cup, dips it into the bag hanging from the tripod, and carries it around the fire to set it beside me. In the firelight, his heavy brow ridge casts a shadow over his sunken eyes. I’m sure mine does as well. We look so much alike.
As Mink crouches, he casts a glance at Quiller. Bushy red hair blows around her freckled face, which has a green tint from the zyme.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lynx. She’s going to need a friend.”
“She has RabbitEar.”
“RabbitEar is as broken as she is. You’ve been her best friend since you were children. She trusts you. Guilt is her greatest enemy now.”
“Because she took her son to climb the quest wall?”
Mink’s black brows pull together over his wide nose. “Yes. The elders told her it was necessary to heal the boy, but she didn’t want to do it. Quiller thought it was too dangerous this time of season, and it turned out she was right.”
Quiller straightens slightly at the sound of our voices, as though she heard her name and knows we’re talking about her. With great difficulty, she rises on shaking legs, stiffens her spine, and gazes out at the luminous ocean. Finally, she strides to the fire.
Mink stands up, says, “Are you hungry? Gray Dove is making fish stew for breakfast. When it’s cooked I’ll bring you a bowl. You’ll feel better if you eat.”
“Thank you, Mink. I am hungry.”
Quiller sits down beside me and watches Mink walk to his lodge.
Neither of us says anything for a time. We just sit in companionable silence. She is the bravest person I have ever known, but she’s trying to still her quaking hands by clasping them together in her lap.
“Are you all right, Lynx?” she inquires.
“I will be. Hoodwink says the punctures in my arms and legs will heal. He’s only worried about the one in my side. It missed the liver and the guts, but it’s still deep, and he’s worried about . . . evil spirits nesting in the wound.”
I always have to stop myself from saying things that will make no sense to them. Words like “bacteria” would be a barrier to understanding, not an aid, and I am acutely aware that I must not allow myself to get so far from my people’s perception of the world that I start to view them as intellectual insects, as Jorgensen does.
“I’m more concerned about you, Quiller. Are you all right?”
“No.”
She heaves a tired breath and cocks her head as though listening to the distant deep-throated roars of the Ice Giants. Reflections dance across the highest peaks, green as grass and luminescent as polished jade.
I don’t say anything for a time, just lick my own internal wounds. Lonely, frightened, and more helpless in the face of life than I have ever been, it’s hard to imagine how I can help her.
But I softly say, “It’s all so complicated, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Loss. The person I knew as Lynx died yesterday. The person I knew as Quancee died, too. The world I loved died. I’m grieving so many deaths it’s impossible to breathe. I was wondering if you feel the same way.”
Slowly, she turns to stare at me. “None of that was your fault, Lynx, but this is my fault. I killed my son. Now I have to learn to live with it.”
Reaching out, I pull one of her hands from her lap and hold tight to it. “No one has told me how it happened.”
She shakes her head, and I think she means she can’t, then she says, “I told you my son was sick, having sp-spells. The elders said he had to go on a spirit quest, because only a spirit helper could heal him.”
“And because you loved him you took him to the quest wall.”
“Yes.” She whispers the word as though afraid to say it aloud. “Standing at the bottom of the trail, my son begged me to take him home and I . . .”
She can’t go on and looks away.
“Quiller, you tried to heal your sick son. What happened is no one’s fault. You mustn’t blame yourself or RabbitEar.”
Quiller gazes at the fire. “I don’t blame RabbitEar. If I had taken my son’s hand and led him home, RabbitEar would have just sighed and followed us back to Sky Ice Village. That’s what I should have done.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
Her brow furrows. “How can you say that?”
“Something Quancee told me, I . . .” I stop, afraid that I’m about to make myself even more alien to my people than I already am.
Quiller exhales a deep breath that frosts in the cold air. “What did she tell you?”
“I’m not sure I can explain . . .” I helplessly shake my head, but I continue, “Quancee would tell you that you did take his hand. You led him home a hundred times in a hundred different places, and in those places he may still be alive. What you must ask is why, in this place, did he die? There is always a reason.”
“A reason? For the death of an innocent child? There’s no reason for any of this.”
“I know it feels that way.”
The lines at the corners of her eyes deepen. Sharply, she says, “Explain better. What do you mean he may still be alive?”
“I mean . . .” I shift to ease the pain of the spear wound in my side, which has started to throb. “There are other worlds. They are all around us, and we are embedded in them, moving through them, part of them.”
“Blessed gods,” Quiller hisses through gritted teeth. When she hangs her head, red hair falls around her face. “You’ve become so odd.”
She lifts her head. “Why do you think Quancee died?”
A swallow goes down my throat. “I don’t know. There is an answer. I just . . . I don’t know what it is.”
“And it’s killing you inside, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The tear that falls from her eye onto my hand is warm. “I will bury my son this morning, Lynx. This is the only world I care about.”
Pulling her hand from mine, she rises and returns to sit upon the lip of the cave and stare out at the brightening sea.
I am alone and I have failed, not just failed to save Quancee. I’ve failed to help my best friend and my people. I’ve lived as a hermit in a cave with a magical creature they will never understand. My greatest failure is me. Though I tried, I never learned enough. I never understood enough.
The flames burn higher and heat bathes my cold face. My bones feel hollow, as though I’m fading away and there’s too little left to tie me here. Perhaps my quantum wave is moving on . . .
Sinking back against my hides, I watch the firelight fluttering over the cave ceiling, and wonder why I’m such a fool. How could I have expected my words to comfort Quiller? They do not comfort me. Eventually, I believe, they will ease my pain, but at this moment all I know is that Quancee is not here in this world; she is just as dead as Jawbone is for Quiller, and there’s no understanding any of it.