Catherine Knutsson - Shadows Cast by Stars

“Guess you should have worn your shoes after all.” His feet are filthy, and I raise an eyebrow at them.

He wiggles his toes. “A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

“That won’t be the case if you step on my clean floors.”

“Yours?” He inches a toe toward the threshold.

I brandish my mop like a sword. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He shrugs. “You win. Going to get cleaned up before Bran gets here? You’re a mess too.”

I hand him a bucket of filthy water. “Since when do you care about my appearance?”

“Since Bran Eagleson came to call. You know who his father is.”

“Who he is ?” I straighten up and shake my head. “He’s been gone two years. Two years, Paul. Do you really think he’s still alive after all that time?”

Paul’s smile falters. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.” He brushes his hair away from his eyes, and the smile returns. “Come on. The house is clean enough. Do you want me to heat up some water for you?”

“Thanks, but no.” Sweat rolls down my forehead, stinging my eyes. “I’ll bathe in the lake.”

“Then you’d better hurry. No matter who his father is, Bran Eagleson doesn’t get to see that much of my sister.”

“Hah. Funny.” I toss a rag at him.

Paul ducks outside. The rag hits the wall instead, and harmlessly drops to the floor.

The lake is wreathed by heathered mountains. A glacier, which supplies this land with water, is the sole exception. It stretches between peaks, a brilliant expanse of white amid all the green. How it survived when the other glaciers of the continent died their rapid death is a mystery, but then, the Island is steeped in mystery. One of the mountains up there is called Forbidden Plateau. My mother told me its story. They say long ago a group of women and children took refuge there during a war, but when their men came back to get them, they were gone, never to be found again. I stare at the mountains, trying to find the forbidden one, but they all look forbidden to me.

Heat radiates from the dock as I slip off my shoes and stroll to the end, where I sit and test the water with a toe. It’s icy cold, but I plunge my feet in anyhow, smiling as minnows come to investigate my toes. Then, in a bright flash, the minnows vanish.

Below, a shadow glides through the water.

I jerk my feet up. The shadow is huge, easily twice as long as I am. It drifts under the dock, unhurried, emerging on the other side and circling back again before slipping out toward the center of the lake.

Too big for a trout. Too big for an otter. Too big for anything logical.

Water does strange things , I think. It plays tricks on the eye .

But I’m not convinced. I run back to the boathouse, picking up my shoes as I pass them, and end up crouching on the shore to wash, staring out at the lake.

Myth doesn’t live in lakes or descend from stars , I tell myself, and even though logic says the shadow isn’t a monster, logic has never been my strong suit.

P aul and I wait in the shade of the boathouse, staring out at the lake, waiting for Bran. Paul is whittling a piece of wood. I’m trying to figure out a way to make a necklace out of a piece of weathered glass I found on the lakeshore and the ribbon I brought from the Corridor, though that’s only to give me something to do while I debate whether to tell Paul about the shadow in the lake. It’s one thing to see something irrational, but to actually articulate it? Just the thought makes me feel stupid.

Bran’s canoe sidles up to the end of the dock just as the sun reaches its apex. Paul pulls on his shoes and runs down to meet him.

“Oh sure, put your shoes on now,” I grumble as I fasten the ribbon around my neck and make my way down the dock, taking my time, feigning complete disinterest in Bran Eagleson, even though it’s hard work not to look at him. Guys aren’t something I know much about. At school, they avoided me as much as I avoided them. So this, the way my stomach suddenly flip-flops, is unexpected, and maybe would be even a bit unwelcome, if it weren’t for the way he watches me.

Paul grins at me when I draw close, as if he’s privy to some great secret.

“What?” I say.

Paul just shrugs and steps into the canoe, though that cheeky grin doesn’t leave his face.

“Do you want the stern?” Bran asks, flashing me a bright smile.

“No. I can paddle, but not well,” I admit, watching as my brother settles himself into the bow of the canoe with uncanny ease.

“Then I’ll steer. You sit in the center. Paul and I will bear you across the lake. Like royalty, hey, Paul?”

Paul snorts. “Don’t give her any ideas.”

Bran offers me his hand.

I falter. The last thing I want is to take his hand.

The only thing I want is to take his hand.

“Well?” Bran raises an eyebrow.

My cheeks burst into a furious blush as our fingers touch. I turn my face away to shield myself from Bran’s cinder-gray gaze as I take my seat. The canoe teeters as he steps in and I hold my breath, remembering the shadow that passed under the dock.

“Don’t worry,” Bran says. “I’ve been doing this all my life.”

I want to believe him and that certainty in his voice, but the shadow in the water is still fresh in my mind. “So, is the fishing good in this lake?” I ask, steadying my voice so the question sounds like nothing more than idle conversation.

“Yep. Sometimes we even get sturgeon.”

With that one word, my gut releases the knot it’s been holding. Sturgeon. A lovely, logical explanation. The bottle-green depths no longer seem quite so menacing.

Paul and Bran dip their paddles and the canoe glides away from the dock. They spring from the same branch, Bran and my brother, matching each stroke with the same strength, the same cadence.

I close my eyes. I can no longer see the lake, or the water, or what might lurk below. Instead I am flying alongside a raven and a kingfisher, who leave a space between them for my own absent shade.

Bran’s house sits on the southern edge of the lake. While it might have been grand at one time, the shutters now hang at odd angles and the windows appear filmy, as if they watch us with the milky eyes of the aged.

A woman in a billowing fuchsia dress strolls along the strand. She is rail-thin, and her hair, as long and white as a sun-bleached bone, streams behind her.

“That’s my mother,” Bran says.

She’s nothing like what I expected. She looks as if she has been left behind by time.

The canoe runs up the beach and Bran holds it steady so I can hop out.

His mother doesn’t even notice me. She only has eyes for her son. “My darling,” she whispers, reaching out to touch him and then withdrawing her hand as if she was about to make a mistake. “I’ve missed you so!”

He stows the paddles, ignoring his mother altogether.

Paul gives me a questioning look. We stand side by side, waiting awkwardly. Finally Bran wades up onto the shore, wipes his hands on his shorts, and sighs. “Mother, this is Paul and Cassandra Mercredi. They’ve taken the place with the boathouse on the northern side of the lake.”

Her eyes fall on me. They’re blue, but not like any blue I’ve ever seen-almost crystalline, pale, translucent. Unearthly. “Cassandra, Cassandra,” she says, rolling my name about in her mouth, the words catching on the odd lilt of her voice. “The entangler of men?” She looks me up and down and gives me a withering smile. “No, I suppose not. Well, come up to the house, then.” She doesn’t move, peering at Paul for a long moment before clapping her hands. “Call me Grace, darlings! Come along!”