Phoebe North: Starbreak

I thought of the boy’s warning, a single word that suggested danger lurking in the forests beyond. Beasts . But we hadn’t seen any animals yet, not even a single, buzzing insect, as Jachin had pointed out. And I felt perhaps foolishly certain that my boy’s people wouldn’t hurt me. I kept the gauge on the lowest setting. Enough to stun but not enough to kill.

We ate a breakfast of hard jerky and dehydrated noodles sprinkled with something salty from a silver packet. Overhead the stars were fading; we knew that it was finally time to go. We each hefted our bag up onto our back, surveying the remnants of our first Zehavan home. But then our eyes each struck the same place: the shuttle, silver in the sunlight despite the way that crash had warped her hull. The blood that had spilled over the snow was dry now, as brown as mud. But we all knew better.

“That’s my zayde ,” Ettie said, her eyes growing wide and watery. It was as if the realization surprised her. I remembered what that was like—the moments of normalcy right after Momma’s death, cut through by loneliness and guilt. She added, “We can’t just leave him here! We can’t!”

She was right; of course she was. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rebbe Davison wince.

“We can’t bury him either,” he said. “The ground’s too hard.”

We stared at the shuttle for a long time. Mar Schneider had been my neighbor. When I was young, he’d visited Momma, sharing stories of his childhood with her. It was boring, but I never minded. He always brought over ribbon candy for me and Ronen to share.

“We’ll burn the body,” I said at last. “Set it on fire. Make sure he’s safe from . . . whatever’s out here.”

“Burn him?” Jachin said. “But we’re supposed to return him to the earth.”

When we all regarded Jachin, questions on our brows, Rebbe Davison piped up in agreement.

“He’s right. It’s in the ship’s contracts. It specified that bodies will be buried, not burned. Within twenty-four hours. It was all very specific. . . .”

I wasn’t sure what to say. But Deklan butted in, waving his hand. “Old laws. I never signed that contract anyway, did you?”

Jachin glanced at all of us, pleading. But no one answered.

“Okay, okay,” Jachin said at last, but he didn’t sound happy about it. He sighed, long and low, and hung his head. “Let’s do it.”

Deklan was the one who cut Mar Schneider down, hacking at the straps with his razor-sharp survival knife. But I was there with Rebbe Davison to catch the body. We wrapped his old, stiff limbs in one of the extra sleeping sacks. I made myself look at his gray skin and the meaty flesh that spilled out of it. I told myself that it was only a body, not a person. And this was no time to be afraid. The day was coming in fast; before we knew it, it would be night. So the three of us carried the body out, and set it down over the already spent coals.

We lined the fire pit with black-barked twigs and all the firestarter we’d been unable to fit inside our packs. In the gray light of morning, I could see how haggard we all were: dirty, tangle-haired. Bags shadowed all of our eyes. Maybe we’d always looked like that—maybe the light on the ship had been too dim to show our true faces. Or maybe this grave, simple work had transformed us into new creatures, half dead ourselves.

Deklan volunteered to be the one to light it. I was glad to have him there—he was brave and bold in ways I wasn’t. The rest of us stood back, tucked into the shadow of the mountain. On muscular legs he scrambled forward, a lighter in his hand. For a moment we couldn’t see him; he was lost behind an outcropping of rock. I held Ettie against me, my arms draped over her shoulders. Soon I felt Laurel’s hand bumble out and reach for mine. She squeezed tight as we all waited. In this distance there was a click then a gentle whoosh .

“Did it light?” Rebbe Davison asked as Deklan appeared again. But he didn’t have to answer. We all saw the flames roar up into the frigid air. We all waited, watching as they leaped, orange and feral, past the mountain’s rocky edge. Finally I heard Jachin let out a mumble of words.

“We should say something,” he was saying. “Someone should say something.”

“Captain Wolff always led us in saying that kaddish.” We all turned to look at Laurel. Her cheeks flamed as brightly as the fire in the distance. “What?” she asked.

Deklan gave his head a hard shake. “We’re rebels,” he said. “We can’t say the kaddish.”

I felt my temper flash, white and wild, at that. “Just because we’re rebels doesn’t mean we have to throw all our traditions away. What’s the harm?”

None of them said anything. They were all staring down at the ground, or out, bleak and empty, toward the fire.

“On our hallowed ship, or on Zehava,” I said, enunciating each word with great care. At the name of the planet, I saw their faces soften, all of them. “May there come abundant peace, grace, loving kindness, compassion . . .”

Ettie was the first one who joined me.

“Long life,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke, “refuge . . .”

And then Laurel and Jachin lent their voices as well.

“Healing, redemption, forgiveness . . .”

By the time we’d reached the end of it, they’d all joined in. Even Deklan.

“And salvation for those in the heavens and on Earth.”

I still held Ettie against me. I felt her rib cage quake.

“Shh,” I said, squeezing her. “Shh, it’s okay.”

Everyone was quiet for a long time. Then, at last, we turned away from the pyre and its black column of smoke and toward the narrow pass that cut through the mountain below.

We trampled down the mountainside in silence. The cliff faces were black and dripped with ice so thick, it looked like icing on a cake. Soon we found a chasm in the mountainside, a deep split in the rock almost as wide as a body. One at a time we launched ourselves across. Deklan caught Ettie as she leaped. For a moment she wavered within the cage of his arms. But then she righted herself, blushing.

“Thanks,” she said shyly, then darted her hand out to take up mine.

It was strange how quickly she took to me. I’d never been good with children, though it often felt like they were everywhere in the claustrophobic space of the ship. Maybe she liked me because I’d known her grandfather—or maybe it was because of what we shared. Ettie was different from the rowdy boys and girls who roamed the school yard. Her dark eyes were huge, pensively taking in the world around us. She’d lost so much—one moment, standing in her grandfather’s shadow, the next, marooned on a planet, alone with a pack of strange adults. I saw in her a well of secret strength. She pushed her long hair behind her ear, tucking it out of the way of the wind so she could better see the world around her. Then, as we reached an apex, she stopped, shielding her eyes with her gloved hand.

“Terra!” she called. “Terra, look!”

I came to stand beside her, where the wind whipped in our faces, so cold that it seared my skin. The forests spread out for hundreds of kilometers beneath us, a white path a shining line between one set of dark branches and the other. Most of the trees were firmly rooted, though their limbs seemed to stretch and waver in the air, just like Ettie and Rebbe Davison had described. But not all of them. As our companions made their way toward the path’s mouth below, we saw purple vines shrink back from nearby branches, flinching from the sound of their footfalls. The vines’ movement was rapid—almost frantic. Ettie and I watched as the whole sea of purple constricted, fading into the distance as the vines unraveled themselves from the trees and retreated into the forest.