Rae Carson: The Shattered Mountain

Right before they set off, Mara takes stock of their provisions. In addition to the supplies in Pá’s bag, Reynaldo and two others thought to grab jerky and water skins. The pack on Marón’s horse holds cooking utensils, a bag of dates, two blankets, a knife, a spongy onion, and a round of bread. It’s so much better than nothing, but they’ll need to find food fast. The nearest village is a week’s journey, but Mara isn’t sure it’s the safe choice. It might suffer the same fate as her own village. Maybe when they get close, she and Reynaldo can scout ahead.

But first, the cave—and Julio. Please be all right, Julio. Please be safe. She has purposely not allowed herself to consider the way the rain of arrows started again just as suddenly as it stopped. As if the distraction Julio provided had vanished like smoke.

They hike all day to reach the cave. The climb is steep, and the little ones tire quickly. She and Julio reached it in half that time, on that precious, precious day months ago.

It’s exactly the way she remembered, with a sun-soaked ledge outside the crooked opening. The air is drenched with a clean, sharp scent from the juniper surrounding the ledge, keeping the cave invisible from below. What she doesn’t see is any sign of life. No campfire. No footprints. No Julio.

She helps the tiny, coughing girl onto the ledge, then Mara abandons the children to rush inside the cave. “Julio?” she calls, and her voice echoes back with emptiness. “Julio?” she repeats, as if calling louder will summon him.

Someone comes to stand beside her. “He’s not here, is he?” Adán says.

“He will come,” Mara says, though her gut twists. She takes a deep breath. “All right, everyone. Let’s get settled. Reynaldo, if you build that fire, I’ll make a soup tonight.”

The cavern already boasts a fire pit in its center. It’s a narrow but long chamber, with a ceiling high enough that only she and Reynaldo must hunch over. She knows from experience that cracks in the ceiling provide an outlet for smoke. There is plenty of room for all nine of them during the day, but a shortage of level floor space will make sleeping a challenge. There might be space for everyone if she, Adán, and Reynaldo sleep outside on the ledge, rotating watches.

Mara throws together a thin soup of jerky with onions and garlic. As they take turns spooning it from her cooking pot, she sizes up the group. She is the oldest, at seventeen. Reynaldo is fifteen, Adán fourteen. Everyone else is younger, down to the tiny girl, who can’t be more than four. Mara is glad to note that her coughing has subsided, and it no longer turns up blood. Maybe something will go right for them after all.

She doesn’t know all their names. Her village isn’t that large, but skirmishes with the Inviernos have caused a lot of migration among the hill folk, and when the animagus burned her village, it was half full of strangers.

She could ask their names. She should ask their names. But she’s suddenly overcome with the sense that she might learn who they are only to see them die.

Later. She’ll ask later. She wants to be silent and alone with her thoughts a little bit longer.

Looking into their ash-covered faces, their eyes filled with both hope and terror, Mara marvels at how two such opposite-seeming emotions can exist inside her. She wants to save them. But bitterness grinds away at her heart too. These are the children of the people who turned blind eyes to her pain. They bought her pastries and her wool quick enough, but never in her life did anyone ask, “Mara, how are you really ?” Until Julio.

Once Julio arrives, she won’t have to be in charge anymore. He’ll be the oldest of their group, at nineteen. He’s confident and outgoing, well liked by everyone. He’ll know how to deal with the children. Julio likes taking care of people. He’ll relish the responsibility.

Mara is about to go out to the ledge to take the first watch, but the tiny girl toddles over. Mara sits as still as a statue as the girl climbs into her lap. She grabs a fistful of Mara’s shirt and snuggles in tight. Then Carella’s daughter sidles up, lays her head on Mara’s thigh, and falls fast asleep.

After a moment, Mara’s shoulders relax. She wraps one arm around the tiny girl and lets her other hand rest on Carella’s daughter’s silky head.

THE next morning, Julio still has not come. Adán stands on the ledge, gazing down the mountain. He is a lot like his brother—the same long limbs, the same straight black hair bleached red at the temples. His hands are as big as paddles, hinting that he might be even taller than Julio someday.

Mara steps up beside him, squinting against the morning sun.

“He’s coming, right, Mara?” Adán says.

“He’s coming.”

“And then what are we going to do?”

She shrugs. “Julio will know. He’ll probably lead us to the nearest village. Some of these children might have family there.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” says a voice at her back, and she turns.

Reynaldo’s curly hair is sleep mussed, and his wide-spaced eyes blink against the sun. Mara has always thought him young looking for his age, with his round cheeks and open gaze. But there is something old and weary about him now. Perhaps they’ve all aged years in the last day.

“What do you mean?” Mara probes.

“Our village isn’t the only thing that burned.”

As he stares out into the empty expanse of sky, something in his face prompts Mara to say, “Your farmstead. Is that why you were in the village yesterday?”

He nods. “They killed everyone. All the livestock. Burned our . . . I ran to the village to warn everyone. But I was too late. And I’ve seen smoke on the horizon.”

Gently, Mara says, “You helped me save these children. You weren’t too late for that.”

He swallows hard and nods, but he says nothing.

Mara crosses her arms and hugs her shoulders tight. She wishes Marón had lived. He was a smart businessman, and his tavern was a cornerstone of their community. He would have known what to do. “So you think the nearest village suffered the same fate?”

“All of them, Mara. All of them within two weeks’ journey. It’s war, now. Full out.”

Adán whirls on him, tears in his eyes. “We have to go somewhere !”

“We don’t have enough supplies to stay here forever,” Mara agrees. “We hardly have enough to get us through the next two days.”

Reynaldo says, “Maybe we could hunt—”

“Game is scarce,” Mara interrupts. “The fires will have driven most of it away.”

Reynaldo looks down, scuffs the toe of his leather boots against the rock ledge. “I know of a place, but . . .”

Mara and Adán regard him expectantly. “But . . . ?” Mara prompts.

“It’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell.”

Mara inhales sharply. “The rebel camp. You know where it is.” Julio was always so sure it existed, that the rumors were true. A safe, hidden place, somewhere west of here in the scrub desert, where an oasis provides good grazing and even some farming.

Reynaldo says, “My cousins Humberto and Cosmé went there last year. I visited once. They invited me to join, but my Pá needs . . . needed me.”

The tiny hope sparking in Mara’s heart is all the more precious for how fragile and weak it is. “Would they take us in, do you think? Could you show us the way?”

“I can. But it’s on the other side of the Shattermount, where the hills start to become true desert. A week away. We should leave right now. Before our food runs out.”

“No!” Adán says.

Mara nods at the boy. “We’ll wait for Julio.”