Still Water - Chapter 6

The world had always been one way. Until it wasn’t.

Chapter Six

«Chapter Five

The boy arrived at midday, when the river light lay flat and hard against the water, and there was no wind to stir the reeds. I saw him first because of the raven.

It lifted from the sandbar downstream, beating its wings heavily, and crossed the river low, skimming the surface before rising to perch in a dead alder near the camp. I followed its line of flight without knowing why, and that was when I saw the canoe nosing out of the current, a single paddler fighting awkwardly to keep it straight.

He was too young to handle a dugout alone. Anyone could see that. His strokes were uneven, the paddle dipping too deep on one side and then slapping the water uselessly on the other. The canoe yawed with every correction. More than once, I thought he would tip it and spill into the river.

No one moved to help him. We had learned caution. Strangers didn’t come anymore, not unless they meant to stay or meant harm. And this one—this one wore no face paint at all, not even the simple lines of peaceful travel. His hair was cropped short, not shaved, but cut unevenly, as if done with a sharp stone by an impatient hand. He wore a necklace of drilled bone beads that marked him as Lake Island, but it hung loose on his narrow chest, the cord too long for his frame. A child, I thought. Or nearly one.

When the canoe finally scraped against the bank, he jumped out clumsily, nearly losing his footing. He dragged the boat higher onto the sand with more effort than skill, then stood there, breathing hard, eyes darting over the camp as if expecting someone to strike him.

The raven croaked once. Only then did people begin to gather.

The chief came first, walking slowly, his thumbs tucked into his belt to show he held no weapon. Two of the older hunters followed him at a distance. Women watched from near the fires, their faces drawn, their bodies wrapped tightly against the cold even though the day wasn’t especially harsh. I stayed where I was, near Morning Dew’s shelter, my hands idle, my stomach tight.

The boy swallowed and bowed awkwardly, bending at the waist the way someone had clearly told him to do, without understanding why.

“I come from the Lake Island People,” he said. His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him. “I bring words from my father, the chief.”

He glanced up briefly, then down again, as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes for too long.

The chief inclined his head. “Speak them.”

The boy drew a breath. “You sent a hunter to us. He came thin and angry. He asked for food. He asked for land. He asked for safety.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered men. I saw jaws tighten, shoulders shift.

The boy rushed on, as if afraid of being interrupted. “Our chief says this: we cannot take your men. We don’t have enough to feed them. Our fishing grounds are strained already. But we can take some of your women. Not all. Some.”

That murmur grew louder, edged now with something sharp.

“And our children?” the chief asked.

“Those who still nurse,” the boy said quickly. “And those small enough to eat little.”

One of the hunters spat into the sand. Another let out a short, humorless laugh. The chief raised a hand, and the sound died down again.

“There’s more,” the boy said. His hands were trembling now, though he held them clasped together as if to keep them still. “Our Spirit Talker is dead. He fell ill suddenly, before he could finish teaching his apprentice. We are… deaf.”

That word landed heavily. I felt it in my chest like a dropped stone.

“Our chief says this,” the boy continued, his voice steadier now, as if the words themselves were lending him strength. “If your Spirit Talker comes to us, we will take your women. We will feed them. We will shelter them. When your men die, your women will still live.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The river slid past, indifferent. Somewhere behind us, a child coughed weakly, the sound thin and wet.

Then voices erupted all at once.

“They want our Spirit Talker?”

“Do they think us beggars?”

“They take our women and leave us to starve?”

Cold anger flared hot and fast. Men stepped forward, hands on knife hilts, faces flushed. One of the hunters shouted that the Lake Island People had always thought themselves better because they lived on water instead of dirt. Another said it was an insult meant to humiliate us, nothing more.

I watched the boy shrink under the noise, his shoulders curling inward as if he expected a blow.

Cold Crow had not moved. He stood slightly apart from the others, his staff planted in the sand before him, his head bowed. His hair was almost entirely white now, his braid thin against his back. He looked older than he had the day before, as if the words spoken in his presence were already weighing him down.

The chief let the shouting run its course for a moment, then struck his staff against the ground.

“Enough,” he said.

The voices fell away reluctantly.

He turned to Cold Crow. “You hear what they ask.”

Cold Crow lifted his head. His eyes were clouded, not with age but with something inward. “I hear,” he said.

“This is no small thing,” the chief said. “If you go, you do not come back.”

“I know.”

“And if you do not go,” the chief continued, his voice steady but strained, “then many of our women will die. Perhaps all.”

The truth of it lay bare between them. Cold Crow said nothing.

The chief looked around the circle. “We will speak of this as men,” he said. “The boy has delivered his words. He will be fed and allowed to rest before he returns.”

A few muttered objections followed, but none were strong enough to break the decision. The boy sagged with relief, his knees bending slightly as if he might sit where he stood.

One of the women brought him a small bowl of broth—mostly water, with a sheen of fat floating on the surface. He accepted it with both hands and drank too quickly, coughing when it burned his throat.

As the men began to cluster together to argue more quietly, I felt a tug at my sleeve.

Morning Dew stood beside me, her face pale, her eyes too large in her thin cheeks.

“They’ll take women,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

She looked past me toward the river, where the canoe rested, and then toward the forest beyond the camp. “But not men.”

“No.”

Her hand tightened on my sleeve. I felt how light it was, how little strength there was in it. I wanted to tell her it would be all right. I wanted to say something that would make sense of this, something that would give us ground to stand on. I said nothing.

Across the camp, raised voices flared again as the men argued. Some said it was better to send women north than to watch them die here. Others said it was better to die together than to be broken apart like this. One man shouted that the Lake Island People were cowards, hiding behind water while the forest burned. No one asked what the women wanted.

I glanced again toward Cold Crow. He stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on the river, as if he were already measuring the distance he might have to cross.

Above us, the raven shifted its weight on the alder branch. Its black feathers gleamed in the flat light. It cocked its head, watching the circle of men with one bright, unreadable eye. I told myself it meant nothing. I had told myself that before.

The boy finished his broth and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat quietly now, eyes lowered, as if he’d already ceased to exist as anything but a vessel for the words he’d carried.

The chief’s voice rose again, sharp with decision. “We will speak tonight. We will decide before dawn. Cold Crow will hear us.”

The men nodded, some reluctantly, some with grim acceptance. The future had narrowed to a single crossing.

I felt it then—not as fear, but as pressure, familiar and unwelcome. The sense of being seen from the edges of things. Of paths opening that I had sworn never to walk again. I did not look back at the raven when I turned away. I didn’t want to know if it followed.

* * *

By nightfall, the whole camp smelled of sickness. It was not a single scent, but many layered together: sour breath, unwashed skin, old smoke clinging to furs no one had strength enough to shake out. Hunger had its own smell, thin and sharp, but this was heavier, sweet and rotten at the same time. It lay close to the ground and did not lift even when the wind came briefly off the river.

Morning Dew had not risen from our bedding all day. At first, she said she was only tired. She always said that. But by afternoon, her breath had grown shallow and fast, each inhale sounding like it caught on something inside her chest. Her skin burned under my hand when I touched her forehead, yet she shivered as if cold.

I brought her water. She sipped it and then turned her head away, coughing so hard that for a moment I thought she would choke. When it passed, she lay still, eyes closed, her lips tinged faintly blue.

“Can you stand?” I asked.

She tried. Her legs buckled almost immediately, and I caught her under the arms before she could fall. She clung to me, her fingers digging into my shoulders with surprising strength, her breath coming in ragged gasps against my neck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she had done nothing wrong.

I lowered her back onto the furs, my heart hammering uselessly. “Don’t,” I said. “Just rest.”

She felt lighter than she should have, even with the child inside her. I noticed it as I settled her down, the way her bones pressed more sharply through skin than I remembered. Her shoulder blades jutted like the edges of a poorly packed bundle.

I thought of how she had once leaned into me without effort, how her weight had been a comfort rather than a worry. Now I was afraid of breaking her with my hands. That fear stayed with me, buzzing and relentless.

She nodded, already half gone from me, her attention pulled inward by the effort of breathing.

The Aunties came without being called. Bone Needle crouched beside Morning Dew and pressed two fingers gently against her throat, then laid a palm on her chest. Her face tightened, the lines around her mouth deepening.

“She’s burning,” Bone Needle said. “But there’s no heat in her limbs.”

Another Auntie—a thin woman with scarred hands whose name I do not recollect—lifted Morning Dew’s eyelids briefly and shook her head.

“The breath sickness,” she murmured. “Same as has been moving through the camp.”

I looked around then, as if seeing it for the first time. A woman hunched near the fire, coughing into her sleeve. A boy with dull eyes leaning too heavily against his mother. The sound I’d heard earlier—thin and wet—echoed again, followed by another, and another. The camp itself seemed ill.

Shelters sagged where poles had not been reset. Fires burned low, untended, their smoke drifting sideways instead of rising cleanly. No one had the strength to argue about it anymore.

I saw a woman crouched near the water’s edge, retching weakly into the river, her hair hanging loose down her back. No one went to her. Not because they didn’t care—but because there were too many like her now. It was as if sickness had become another season, arriving without ceremony and settling in.

“How many?” I asked.

Bone Needle didn’t answer directly. “Enough,” she said.

She glanced at Morning Dew’s belly, swollen and taut beneath the thin fur. Her gaze lingered there longer than anywhere else.

“The child is strong,” she said slowly. “Too strong.”

I had heard women speak of strong children before, always with pride. Strength meant broad shoulders, steady hands, sons who would bring meat home, and daughters who would survive childbirth. This sounded different.

I looked again at Morning Dew’s belly, at how taut the skin was stretched, how the movement beneath it seemed almost restless. For the first time, the child frightened me—not as a spirit’s gift, but as a hunger with no understanding of mercy. I hated myself for the thought even as it formed. I felt something cold slide down my spine.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She met my eyes then, and there was no softness in her gaze. “You know what I mean.”

Another Auntie leaned closer and lowered her voice. “The child is taking what little she has left. That happens sometimes. Especially when the mother is already weak.”

I shook my head. “She’s carried before.”

“And lost before,” Bone Needle said quietly.

The words struck harder than if she’d raised her voice.

I swallowed. “What can we do?”

They exchanged glances, the kind that passes whole conversations without a sound.

“She needs food,” Bone Needle said. “More than we can spare.”

My hands curled into fists at my sides. “We’ll find it.”

“With what?” the scarred-handed auntie asked. “The river is empty. The traps are bare. Even the birds are thin.”

“I’ll go farther,” I said. “I’ll—”

Bone Needle shook her head. “Not in time.”

The words sat between us, heavy and unmoving.

They worked on her then, rubbing her limbs with warmed fat, easing her into a better position so her breathing came a little easier. I hovered uselessly, fetching water, holding a bowl, wiping her mouth when she coughed.

At one point, she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at me.

“You look frightened,” she said.

I tried to smile back. It felt wrong on my face. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmured again.

I leaned down and pressed my forehead to hers, breathing in the scent of her hair—smoke, river water, the faint sweetness that had always been hers. “You’ll rest,” I said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes had already closed again.

As the night deepened, the camp quieted in that uneasy way it did now—no songs, no laughter, only the crackle of a few small fires and the sounds of coughing, shifting bodies. Somewhere a woman sobbed softly, the sound muffled as if she were ashamed of it.

I stepped away briefly to fetch more water, my legs stiff from crouching too long. As I crossed the open space near the riverbank, I noticed movement above me. The raven sat on a low branch this time, close enough that I could see the pale line at the base of its beak. It watched me without fear, its head tilting slightly as I moved. My chest tightened.

It’s nothing, I told myself. They go where there is death. That’s all.

But I hadn’t seen ravens like this when other women had fallen. Not watching. Waiting. I turned my back on it and went on.

When I returned, Bone Needle was speaking softly to Morning Dew, murmuring words meant to soothe rather than heal. She looked up when she saw me.

“She should not be alone tonight,” she said.

“I’ll stay,” I replied at once.

Bone Needle nodded. “Good.”

The other Aunties drifted away, leaving us in the dim circle of firelight. I settled beside Morning Dew, careful not to jostle her, and took her hand. It felt slack in mine, warmer than it should have been.

Time blurred as I watched her sleep. I traced the rhythm of her breath with my own, matching it when I could, falling out of sync when fear tightened my chest. Once, she stirred and murmured something I couldn’t understand—perhaps a name, perhaps nothing at all.

Outside, footsteps passed and faded. Someone coughed. Someone else cried out briefly in a dream. I felt myself shrinking inward, my world narrowing to the rise and fall of her chest, as if that alone held everything else together.

Her breathing hitched again, then smoothed out. I counted the seconds between breaths until my head swam.

Sometime later—hours, or perhaps only moments—she stirred.

“Still Water,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“I’m here.”

She frowned slightly, as if struggling to bring something into focus. “The boy,” she murmured. “From the island.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll feed the women.”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “If I go… you won’t come.”

The words landed gently, without accusation.

I opened my mouth, closed it again. “No.”

Her grip tightened faintly. “You won’t follow.”

“No.”

She nodded, as if confirming something she had already known. “Good.”

The word cut deeper than any reproach.

“You shouldn’t have to die with us,” she went on. “Men don’t survive that kind of crossing.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say I would find a way, that I would not let her go north alone, heavy with child and sickness. But the truth pressed in on all sides.

“I don’t want you to go,” I said instead.

She turned her face slightly toward me, her eyes opening again. They were clear now, frighteningly so. “I don’t want to die,” she said simply.

The honesty of it left me empty.

“I know,” I whispered.

She smiled faintly. “Then don’t make it harder.”

After that, she slept, or something like it. Her breath rasped, each inhale a small effort, but it did not stop. I stayed awake, listening, my hand never leaving hers.

At some point before dawn, Bone Needle returned and crouched beside us again.

“She won’t last many days like this,” she said quietly. “Even if the sickness passes, the hunger will not.”

I nodded. I had no words left.

“The child…” she began, then stopped. “The child will take what it can.”

“And her?” I asked.

Bone Needle met my gaze steadily. “That depends on what you do.”

When she left, the sky was beginning to pale, the stars fading one by one. Morning Dew slept on, her face slack, her lashes resting against her cheeks. I watched her breathe and wondered how something so small—a lack of food, a sickness carried on breath—could strip the world down to a single choice.

Outside the shelter, the raven croaked once, harsh and final. I didn’t go look.

* * *

Cold Crow sent for me just after dawn. I had not slept. Morning Dew’s breathing had steadied toward morning, though it remained shallow, each breath a measured effort. When Bone Needle relieved me, I hesitated before leaving, my hand lingering on Morning Dew’s arm as if I could carry her warmth with me.

“She’ll rest better now,” Bone Needle murmured. “Go.”

Cold Crow waited at the edge of the trees, where the ground sloped gently upward, and the river sounds thinned. He stood with his back to the camp, staff planted before him, head bowed. For a moment, I wondered if he was praying.

Up close, I saw how much he had diminished. His shoulders stooped now, the staff less a symbol than a necessity. The skin of his hands was thin and mottled, the veins standing out sharply beneath it.

Once, I had thought of him as part of the land itself—unchanging, inevitable. Seeing him like this unsettled me. If even Cold Crow could be worn down, then nothing the spirits gave was meant to last forever.

When he heard my steps, he turned.

“You look hollow,” he said.

“I didn’t sleep.”

He nodded, as if that confirmed something he already knew. “Walk with me.”

We moved a short distance into the trees, far enough that the camp noises faded but not so far that we were alone with the deep forest. Cold Crow stopped near a cluster of birch, their white bark scarred with old cuts and marks from other seasons.

He studied me for a long moment. “Bone Needle told me she’s failing.”

“Yes.”

“She has the breath sickness.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s with child.”

“Yes.”

Each word stripped something away. I felt myself shrinking under the weight of it.

Cold Crow tapped the ground lightly with his staff. “Then I’ll speak plainly.”

I braced myself.

“Feed her,” he said. “Or she dies.”

The words were simple, almost gentle. They cut anyway.

I swallowed. “I’m trying.”

“You are failing.”

The bluntness stung. I felt heat rise in my face, anger flaring briefly before collapsing into shame. “There’s nothing left,” I said. “The river—”

“I know the river,” Cold Crow said. “I know the forest. I know what you bring home.”

He held my gaze steadily. There was no accusation in his eyes, only certainty.

“She needs more than you can give her here,” he went on. “Even if the sickness passes, the hunger won’t.”

My chest tightened. “If she goes north—”

“She lives,” Cold Crow said. “Longer, at least.”

“And if she stays?”

“She dies,” he replied without hesitation. “And soon.”

The finality of it left me reeling. “And the child?”

Cold Crow’s expression did not change. “The child will take what it can. If the mother weakens further, the spirits may choose the child instead. Or they may not.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only honest one.”

I turned away, pressing my hands against the bark of a birch, the coolness seeping into my palms. “You’re telling me to give her up.”

The birch bore old marks from other seasons—cuts made to harvest bark, shallow and precise. Some had healed. Others had not, the scars darkened with age.

I thought of all the ways I had failed quietly: nets mended too late, traps set where game no longer passed, prayers spoken without conviction. None of them disastrous alone. Together, they formed a pattern I could no longer pretend not to see.

The spirits had not struck me down. They had simply let me continue.

“I’m telling you to save her,” Cold Crow said. “Those are not the same thing.”

I laughed, a short, broken sound. “She won’t come back.”

“No.”

“She’ll belong to them.”

“She will belong to herself,” Cold Crow corrected. “As she always has.”

The words scraped against something raw inside me. I thought of Morning Dew’s quiet strength, her careful kindness, the way women shared scraps with her because she gave more than she took. The thought of her among strangers—fed, sheltered, watched—made my stomach twist.

“And you?” I asked suddenly. “They want you too.”

Cold Crow inclined his head. “Yes.”

“You’ll go.”

“Yes.”

I stared at him. “Just like that?”

“There is no ‘just,’” he said. “But yes.”

“You’ll leave us.”

“I will leave this ground,” he said. “Not my people.”

“Then why does it feel like abandonment?” The question burst out of me before I could stop it.

Cold Crow studied me for a long moment. “Because you confuse presence with possession.”

I flinched.

“You think because I stay, I protect you,” he went on. “But protection is not a wall. It’s a movement. Sometimes it requires crossing water.”

“And sometimes it requires leaving,” I said bitterly.

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “You told me once that the spirits would take what they wanted either way.”

He nodded. “They would.”

“Then what does it matter what I choose?”

Cold Crow’s eyes sharpened. “It matters because you will live with it.”

I sagged against the tree, suddenly exhausted. “I can’t lose them both.”

“You may,” he said quietly. “That is the truth you keep circling.”

The forest held its breath.

“You speak as if it’s already decided,” I said.

“For the spirits?” Cold Crow replied. “Perhaps it is. For you? No.”

I looked up at him. “What do they want from me?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—regret, perhaps, or sorrow. “They want you to remember who you are.”

I laughed again, harsher this time. “That man who starved his family.”

Cold Crow shook his head. “That man listened.”

“You listened even when it hurt,” Cold Crow went on, his voice softer now. “You listened when other boys ran or laughed. You listened until the forest answered you back.”

I shook my head. “That boy is gone.”

Cold Crow’s gaze did not waver. “Boys don’t disappear,” he said. “They are buried. Sometimes deeply. But the spirits have long memories. They know where to dig.”

The words left me exposed in a way no accusation could have.

“And listening would save her?”

“No,” he said. “Listening would tell you what saving costs.”

I closed my eyes. Images crowded in unbidden: Morning Dew’s face in the firelight, pale and drawn; the raven perched above the camp, watching; the pressure in the forest, warm and insistent.

“If I let her go,” I said slowly, “I break my marriage.”

“You change it.”

“And if I keep her?”

“You end it.”

The words landed heavily.

“She’ll hate me,” I said. “If she lives, she’ll remember that I sent her away.”

Cold Crow stepped closer. “She may,” he said. “Or she may remember that you chose her life over your pride.”

I felt tears sting my eyes, sudden and humiliating. “What about the child?”

“The child will live if she lives,” he said. “That is the best wager you have.”

“And if the spirits take her anyway?” I whispered.

“They would take her either way,” Cold Crow said, echoing his earlier words. “Do not imagine you can bargain them into kindness.”

Silence stretched between us. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a bird startled into flight. For a fleeting moment, I thought it might be a raven, but I didn’t look.

“I don’t want to be a Spirit Talker,” I said at last. “I don’t want what comes with it.”

Cold Crow regarded me steadily. “Want has very little to do with it.”

I turned back to him sharply. “Then why haven’t they taken me already?”

A faint, sad smile touched his mouth. “Perhaps they are waiting to see what you will give up without being forced.”

The answer chilled me.

“If she goes,” I said. “I won’t follow you north.”

Cold Crow nodded. “I did not ask you to.”

“You’re asking me to stay behind and starve.”

“I’m asking you to stay,” he said. “What happens after that will not be chosen. It will unfold.”

I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to argue further, to find some hidden path he had not named. There was none.

“She doesn’t know yet,” I said. “Not fully.”

“She knows,” Cold Crow replied gently. “Women always do.”

I thought of her words from the night before—Don’t make it harder. My throat tightened.

“Will you tell the chief?” I asked.

“He already knows,” Cold Crow said. “This is not a private crisis. It is only a private pain.”

We stood there a while longer, neither of us speaking. The light shifted as the sun climbed higher, glinting off the birch bark until it hurt my eyes.

At last, Cold Crow rested his hand briefly on my shoulder. His grip was lighter than I expected.

“You are not being punished,” he said. “You are being asked.”

“For what?”

“For honesty.”

He stepped back then, turning toward the camp. “Go to her,” he added. “She will need you today.”

As he walked away, I remained where I was, my hands pressed against the tree, my breath shallow.

I stayed there longer than I should have, until the bark chilled my palms and my legs stiffened. When I finally moved, it was with the careful slowness of someone afraid that a sudden gesture might shatter something fragile and unseen.

As I turned back toward the camp, a shadow passed briefly over the ground at my feet. I did not look up to see what cast it. I already knew.

I did not know which terrified me more: the thought of losing Morning Dew—or the possibility that, somewhere beneath the fear, I already knew what I would do.

* * *

The decision was made without ceremony. By midday, the chief announced it to the camp, standing near the riverbank where his voice would carry. Cold Crow stood beside him, silent, his staff planted firmly in the sand. No one cheered. No one argued. The debate had already burned itself out, leaving only ash and necessity.

“The women who go north will be chosen by the Aunties,” the chief said. “Those with children still nursing. Those who can still walk. Those who may yet live.”

A few men shifted at that—at the last word more than anything. May yet live. It sounded like an accusation.

“The Spirit Talker will go with them,” the chief continued. “He will cross the water and speak for us.”

Cold Crow inclined his head slightly. That was all.

“Those who remain will hunt and fish as they can,” the chief finished. “No one else leaves the band.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward me, then away.

After that, the camp moved as if stirred by a stick. People began to gather tools and materials, not quickly, but with grim purpose. Two of the remaining dugouts were hauled higher onto the bank, scraped free of old ice, and patched where cracks had opened during winter. Men worked in pairs, their movements economical, faces set.

I watched from a distance, unsure where to put myself. When I stepped closer, a man I’d once hunted beside shifted deliberately into my path, forcing me to stop. He didn’t look at me. He simply stood there until I stepped back again.

I tried again later, approaching a different group as they worked on the dugout’s hull. No one told me to leave. They simply stopped talking. Hands continued to move—scraping, tying, sealing cracks with resin—but the rhythm changed, growing stiff and careful. I stood there for a moment too long, pretending interest, waiting for someone to acknowledge me. No one did.

Finally, one man cleared his throat. “We’ve got this,” he said, not unkindly. “You should see to your wife.”

The words landed like a dismissal and a judgment, both. I nodded and stepped back, heat flooding my face. It struck me then how complete my exile had become—not formal, not spoken, but total. I was not needed here. I was not wanted. My presence added nothing.

As I turned away, I caught fragments of conversation resuming behind me—quick, low, practical. I was already forgotten. That hurt more than anger would have. I realized then that when the canoes pushed off tomorrow, something else would remain behind with me besides hunger and fear. I would remain alone among my own people. That was answer enough.

The Aunties took charge of the women. The choosing was worse than I’d imagined. It was not done aloud, not cleanly. The Aunties moved from shelter to shelter, sometimes stopping, sometimes passing by without comment. A hand on a shoulder meant yes. A pause and averted eyes meant no. No one explained their reasoning, and no one asked for it to be explained.

Women watched one another closely. I saw calculation flicker in their faces—quick, ashamed, impossible to suppress. Who was thinner. Who could still walk without help. Who had children young enough to justify the space they would take in a canoe.

One woman followed Bone Needle for several steps, pleading in a low voice. “I’m stronger than she is,” she said, gesturing sharply. “I can still work.”

Bone Needle did not slow. “Strength isn’t what we’re counting now,” she replied.

Another woman, passed over, laughed suddenly and too loudly. “Good,” she said. “I hate boats.” No one answered her.

I felt the weight of each decision settle over the camp like ash. The Aunties bore it without complaint, but I could see how it bent them. They were not gods. They were only women who had lived long enough to know what hunger did. For the first time, I understood that survival was not just cruel—it was arbitrary.

They moved through the shelters, counting, murmuring, making quiet assessments. Some women were told gently to prepare. Others were passed over without explanation. A few protested, voices rising in disbelief or anger, only to be hushed quickly.

One woman—young, barely more than a girl—clung to her husband’s arm, sobbing that she would not go without him. He stood rigid, eyes fixed on the ground, saying nothing. When the aunties pulled her away, he did not follow.

Another woman refused outright. She stood tall despite her thinness, her jaw set. “I will not leave my sons,” she said. “If they die here, I die here.” No one tried to force her.

Morning Dew was marked without discussion. Bone Needle laid a hand briefly on her shoulder and nodded. “She goes.” Morning Dew did not protest. She only closed her eyes for a moment, as if bracing herself.

I stood there, useless, watching as other women began to gather small bundles—what little they could carry. Furs were shaken out, inspected, folded again. Bone needles, combs, small carved charms passed from hand to hand. Some women exchanged items quietly, gifts meant to survive the crossing even if they did not.

I noticed how few belongings there were. Hunger had stripped us down long before this.

The sounds of preparation filled the camp: the rasp of stone on wood, the low murmur of voices, the occasional sharp word quickly swallowed back. Children wandered uncertainly, sensing change but not understanding it, their hands sticky with whatever scraps they could still find.

Morning Dew tried to rise to help gather her things. She made it halfway upright before her legs gave out. I caught her just in time, lowering her carefully back onto the bedding. Her breath came in short gasps, her face slick with sweat.

“Don’t,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “I’ll do it.”

She nodded, her eyes closing again. “I wasn’t trying to,” she murmured. “I just wanted—”

“I know.”

I gathered what little we had: a spare fur, a bone needle she favored, the small carved fish charm she’d kept since childhood. I hesitated over each item, weighing its worth against its weight, as if that mattered anymore.

Outside, raised voices broke out near the canoes.

“I won’t send my wife north to be traded like meat,” someone shouted.

“You’d rather watch her starve?” another voice shot back.

“She’s mine!”

A bitter laugh followed. “That’s the thinking that brought us here.”

I flinched, my hands clenching around the fur I held. Morning Dew stirred at the noise, her brow furrowing.

“Don’t listen,” I said softly, though I wasn’t sure whether I meant her or myself.

By late afternoon, the dugouts were nearly ready. Extra thwarts had been lashed in place to support cargo. Bundles were stacked neatly along the bank, guarded by the aunties like hatchlings.

Cold Crow moved among them quietly, speaking to some women, nodding to others. His presence steadied the chaos, even now. I watched him from afar, remembering the way I had once followed him into the forest without question.

A sudden flare of resentment surprised me. You go, I thought bitterly. You cross the water and leave us with what’s left.The thought shamed me even as it formed.

I turned away and nearly collided with a young man I barely recognized—thin, hollow-eyed, his face smeared with dirt.

“Why her?” he demanded abruptly, gesturing toward the women gathered near the river. “Why my sister and not me?”

I had no answer for him. He didn’t seem to expect one. He spat into the dirt and stalked away.

As evening approached, the air grew tense, brittle. The women chosen for the crossing clustered together now, some speaking quietly, others withdrawn into themselves. Those left behind hovered at the edges, uncertain whether to approach or keep their distance.

I saw one woman press her forehead briefly against her husband’s chest before stepping away. He stood stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides, not returning the gesture.

Morning Dew watched it all with eyes too bright.

“They’re afraid,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“They’re angry.”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You’re not coming.” The words were not a question.

“No.”

She nodded slowly. “I thought so.”

I sat beside her, the ground cold beneath me. “I’ll walk with you to the river,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

She turned her head slightly, studying my face. “That’s enough.”

I swallowed. “I should do more.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re doing what you can.”

The kindness in her voice hurt more than anger would have.

As dusk settled, a thin mist rose from the river, blurring the far bank into shadow. Fires were lit, though smaller than usual, their light flickering uncertainly. Food—what little there was—was distributed carefully, with the women who would travel receiving slightly more. I noticed it. Morning Dew noticed it too.

She ate slowly, deliberately, as if afraid to waste even a breath. I watched her swallow each mouthful, my chest tight with a mixture of relief and dread.

Above us, something moved. I glanced up just in time to see a raven settle onto the branch of a nearby cottonwood, its silhouette stark against the fading light. Another followed moments later, landing beside it. They did not call.

I reminded myself again that ravens gathered where people gathered. That they were drawn to scraps, to death, to camps like ours. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were marking this moment—etching it into a memory I couldn’t access. I looked away.

Night came fully, heavy and close. The camp quieted into a strained hush, punctuated by the occasional cough or whispered argument. No one sang. No one told stories. Tomorrow, the river would carry half our lives north.

I sat beside Morning Dew until she slept, her breathing uneven but steady. When at last I lay down myself, the ground felt colder than it ever had before. Sleep came fitfully, broken by dreams of water rising between us, wide and uncrossable.

When I woke before dawn, the ravens were gone. The silence they left behind felt deliberate.

Chapter Seven»

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like:

The Field of Blood — If everyone is working to do good and their actions lead to tragedy, who is responsible?

The Empty Mirror — What if everyone lived in a different reality, and technology made it permanent?

Inversion — A physicist finds a way to teleport himself. But is he still himself when he arrives?