Catherine Knutsson - Shadows Cast by Stars

Bran trails behind me, and though I’m not sure, I think I feel his fingers brush my arm.

Grace watches me from the corner of her eye. “You don’t say much, do you? Well, Bran has that effect on girls sometimes.” She stops, twirls around, and plants a kiss on Bran’s cheek before he can escape. “Darling, why don’t you and Paul go find something to do? Take him to your workshop, maybe. I’m sure he’d like that.” She eyes me. “I want Cassandra all to myself for a little while.”

Paul mouths Sorry to me as they take off.

“Don’t be late for tea!” Grace calls after them. “Boys. They’ll always come back for food.” Her laugh is a brittle sound that sets my nerves on edge. “Now, my dear, tell me about yourself.” A queer smile crosses her face. “I imagine you’re from the Corridor, yes?”

I duck my head rather than answer, letting her guide me toward the house. She wants something.

“You do have a voice, don’t you? Are you a mute?”

“No.”

“Ah. Good. I was afraid you were damaged. Well? Tell me about your family.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, you’re native. I can tell that just by looking at you-those cheekbones, you see.” She stops and cups my chin with a hand, turning my head one way, then the other, inspecting me. “Let me guess. Cree?”

I am stunned by this. How dare she inspect me like I’m a fatted calf? When I find my voice, I take care to sound polite. This is Bran’s mother, after all. “No. We’re Métis.”

“Hmm.” She sniffs, releasing her grasp. “Your father’s side, or your mother’s?”

“My father.”

“And your mother?”

“She died five years ago.”

“Ah, my dear.” Grace clasps her hands to her breast, but the gesture is hollow. “I am sorry. Was it Plague, then?”

My eyes glide to the placid waters of the lake. That is one question I will not answer.

She takes my silence as an affirmation. “You should have moved to the Island a long time ago. The Band would have made sure your mother was safe. Ah, well!” She draws me into an embrace, only to push me back, holding me at arm’s length. “That can’t be undone now. So, do you like to read? Please tell me you like to read, because if you do, I have just the thing for you. A job, you know. Everyone needs a job, don’t they?”

I want to snap at her, or flee, or something-anything- but I can’t. I just stare at my feet and mutter “I guess” before sullenly following her inside.

My father says a home is a reflection of a family. Our home on the mainland was always spartan clean, and nothing ever went to waste. What was broken, we mended. What was dirty, we scrubbed. Waste not, want not , my father also says, though it’s pretty hard to waste not when there’s nothing to waste in the first place.

He’d be horrified by Bran’s house. Grace leads me through a maze of unwashed dishes, decaying food, tables and chairs that block doorways, boxes of bric-a-brac, and everywhere, dirt. I search for Bran’s presence in this mess, but I can’t find it. It’s like he doesn’t live here.

Grace chatters at me like a squirrel, saying things that I don’t really hear. I peer through the cracks of doors, hoping to spy Bran’s room. Darkness stares back at me.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she says, waving her hands as if the disaster will magically disappear. “There’s plenty of time to clean when I’m dead.”

I wonder if she’s dead already. I haven’t seen a hint of her shade. Sometimes that happens with those who aren’t native, but I expected something considering what follows her son around.

She pushes her way through heavy cock-eyed doors. “The library!” she announces, only to whirl around, her eyes comically wide. “You aren’t a prophetess, are you?” She laughs before I can say anything. “What? You don’t know your own mythology? That’s something we’ll have to rectify immediately. I know something about these things, you see. Come along, darling. I’ll be your teacher.”

I step into the room. Rows of books line three of the walls. Sunlight peers through the dusty curtains, staining the room sepia, casting the masks on the fourth wall in an unearthly light. They are old, these masks, carved a long time ago. I recognize some of them: Crooked Beak, with his deadly snapping jaws. Eagle, the one who soars the highest. Thunderbird. Bear. Sisiutl, the double-headed serpent. These are the masks of Bran’s people, of the tribes from this coast. Spirit is thick on them, carved right into the wood, steeped into the paint.

“So,” Grace says as she creeps up behind me, “you like them? They’re from the old times, back when people remembered how to dance, how to carve. They say if you put one on, you become the creature the mask resembles. Would you like to try? Who would you like to be, Cassandra, my young prophetess?”

“I’d like to be myself,” I murmur as I force my eyes closed. The masks are reaching out, whispering that it’s safe here, that they will protect me, but I know better.

That’s when Grace crosses the room and shuts the doors behind us. “Well then,” she says, smiling a smile so sweet that I know better than to trust it, “you don’t know who you are. I think we should fix that. Open the blinds. We need light!”

I do as she asks, pulling the drapes back so that sunlight spills into the room, breaking the spell of the masks. I’d like to open the windows, too, and release the old spirits trapped here, but I don’t dare. This is Grace’s home, and I can tell she expects me to do as I’m told, nothing more.

She browses the bookshelves, her fingers tracing the spines, until at last she says, “Aha, this is the right one!” and gestures for me to sit down on the floor. I don’t want to. The carpet’s filthy, but my father has taught us to respect our elders, so I do as I’m told.

“Let’s see here,” she says as she paws through the pages. “Oh yes, here we are. Cassandra. Your namesake. Daughter of King Priam. Twin sister to Helenus. She told her father that Troy would burn if they opened the gates to the wooden horse, but he wouldn’t listen to her. Apollo gave you the gift of prophecy by licking your ears, you see, and then took it away when you refused to sleep with him. Not nice, that Apollo.” She holds the book out toward me so I can see an illustration of a man of great beauty. On his shoulder sits a raven.

“Why is that there?” I say, pointing at the raven as my heart thuds. I don’t like how Grace assumes that the legendary Cassandra shares more than my name.

“The raven? Oh, that’s a guise Apollo was known to take, but not this version of Apollo. This is the Hellenized version, the clean, pretty one. The old version, the primal one, was a wild man, king of the hunt, king of the land, before the Greeks got ahold of him and made him a god in their own image. That’s what people do, you see. If a god doesn’t fit with what they want, they rewrite the myths until they’re more to their liking. But the raven, that’s a symbol older than time. Did you know that almost all the cultures of the world feature the raven in their mythology?” She smiles down at the bird. “This is what I used to be, once upon a time, long before I came here, a scholar of myth.” Her voice takes on a melancholy note, and just as I think she’s about to say something more, something important about me, she snaps the book shut and tosses it aside. “Enough of that. There are other stories you should hear.”

The next book she pulls from the shelf is thick and old, though gilt still trims its pages. She opens it to a ribbon marker and then hands it to me. “Read,” she says. “Aloud.”

The first story is about a man with a shrunken arm, which includes a poem that she makes me skip over. It’s followed by a tale about a long-dead king, and then a story of a man who tries to bring his wife back to life, but doesn’t trust her to follow him, and so he fails.