Nightfall (8 page)

“Thanks,” said Marin. She turned to her brother and, for the first time in a long while, they smiled at each other.

“But you should hurry,” added Asher. He leaned in conspiratorially. “They say there might not be enough boats—some people may have to leave their luggage behind.”

Back at Shadow House, Kana and Marin found their mother in the foyer, studying a scroll of yellowed paper. The scroll was the floor plan for the house, which showed every room, closet, nook, and stairway. Scribbled in the margins were notes written in faded ink.

“What are you doing?” asked Marin.

“Oh, you're back,” replied Tarae with a start. “Good—your father has returned as well.” She now wore a long, coarse robe with a thick travel cloak on top. Marin couldn't help but feel a surge of relief to see her mother in her old clothing. She wanted things to be more, well . . . normal—even if just for a few more hours.

“The candles are burning down,” said Tarae. “Don't you think it's much colder? I
cannot
get warm.”

“We saw the okrana,” said Kana, who was blinking in the dim candlelight. “Seems like they found Line.”

Tarae smiled fondly at Kana. “Yes, that's what your father heard, too. Thank the southerly winds. Now go help your
father in the parlor. We need to be down at the loading area in an hour. There are rumors of too few boats.”

When Kana and Marin entered the parlor, they discovered a large wooden crate that their father had hauled up from the basement. He was using the claw on the back end of a hammer to pry it open. The box opened in a flurry of dust, and Anton pulled out an oversize cast-iron plate. It was twice the size of a dinner plate and looked quite heavy. “These go on the dining room table,” he said. “There are ten of them—so space them out evenly.”

“We're
setting the table
?” asked Marin. She looked at her father, astonished.

“Yes,” said Anton flatly.

“Father—this is too much!” said Marin.

She looked at Kana for support. Kana arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Anton put up a hand. “Please—not now.”

Marin knew that this was not the time or place to make a fuss, but she couldn't help herself.

“But it's ridiculous!” said Marin. Her voice had turned querulous.

“Here we go again,” mumbled Kana. Marin glared at her brother.

“I know you find this strange,” said Anton. “I'll explain in just a bit. All right?”

Marin forced herself to calm down. Ever since Line's disappearance, she'd been wound altogether too tight. It would do no good to get her father upset. “All right.”

Kana grabbed two plates from his father's hands and walked
toward the dining room table. Marin followed his lead and took two plates herself. They were enormously heavy, and she had to strain not to drop them. Within a few minutes they had set the table and returned the crate to the basement. When everything was done, their father turned to Marin and Kana.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked. “Fine.”

He paused and leaned on his broom.

“Let me ask both of you a question. When I sneeze, what do you say?”

Kana raised an eyebrow.

“What do you say when I sneeze?” Anton repeated.

“Bless you,” Kana replied.

“Right, but
why
do you say it?”

Kana shrugged.

“Sometimes in life, we do things simply because we've always done them,” explained Anton. “Perhaps there were once reasons, but we have forgotten them. A very long time ago, people believed that whenever a person sneezed, their soul exploded out through their mouths and into the air. They also believed that the devil was always lurking about and might snatch up that soul. So they said
bless you
, to stall the devil until the soul could shoot back down into the person's body.”

“That's nonsense,” said Marin, throwing her hands in the air.

“You're probably right,” said Anton. “But you still say
bless you
. And until a moment ago, you didn't even know why.”

“But that's just a saying,” said Kana thoughtfully. “That's different from all of this business with the locks, and the furniture, and setting tables.”

Marin nodded, happy to have her brother as a temporary ally.

“Is it that different?” asked Anton. He folded his thick arms together. “The truth is that we don't know why we do a lot of things. We kiss talismans and break bottles of Noon wine over the bows of new fishing ships believing, rightly or wrongly, that it'll keep us safe. If it works, we keep doing it. Everything that we've been doing, we do for one simple reason. For generations,
it has kept us safe
. Every household in Bliss follows
these
directions, and upon return to our homes fourteen years later, everything is in perfect order. Nothing is damaged—nothing is broken.”

“But, Dad, do you really believe these superstitions keep us safe?” asked Kana.

Anton shrugged. “I can't tell you for certain. What I do know is that we do these things—and we have remained safe—so we keep doing them.”

“That's it?” said Marin. “You just follow these made-up rules, like children playing a game, and you don't even know why?”

“Why are you so upset?” asked Anton. He frowned in confusion.

Why?
These were the rules governing their lives—and they made no sense. Again she looked at Kana:
Why are you so calm about this?

Anton smiled. “Marin, don't you see? Only children entertain the fantasy that adults know how and why everything works. Being an adult is accepting the not knowing.”

After a moment's pause, Kana stepped forward and took a
plate off the table. He held it in his hands, trying to estimate how much it weighed. He looked at his father quizzically. “It feels like you're preparing this house for somebody else.”

“That's right!” said Marin.

“Who would stay here?” asked Anton. “Who could possibly survive the Night? Don't tell me
you two
believe the children's tales about the spirits.”

“Of course not,” said Kana calmly. “But what's the point of all this?”

“I've already told you,” replied Anton, raising his voice just enough to show his waning patience. “And besides, I'm your father, and sometimes that alone should be enough.”

Marin stood up in irritation. “This is crazy—all of it,” she muttered. She glanced back at the dining room table, with the heavy plates sitting there rather ominously. “Is there nobody in this town who thinks for themselves?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. It was as if all the stress in her life—the fighting with Kana, the imminent move to the Desert Lands, and the disappearance of Line—had suddenly overwhelmed her. Sensing her distress, Anton reached out to his daughter and took her arm. But Marin pushed him away and retreated to the other side of the room.

Anton sighed heavily, and Tarae walked in. “We leave in ten minutes,” she announced, oblivious to what had just happened. “Why don't you go upstairs and take a last look around?”

Marin nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave, and ran up to her room. She had only a few minutes left in this house and she wanted to spend them alone. Marin exhaled heavily and lay down on her bed.

She felt something sharp hit her head. When she sat up, she discovered it was the copper box her mother had given her. She still hadn't opened it. Of course, Marin knew what was inside the box, but she was suddenly curious to see it up close.

There was very little light in the room—just a lone candle—and Marin held the box close to the candle to see it better. The exterior was plain, though well polished. Four tiny clasps, one on each side, held it together. They were stiff, but Marin soon had them open. She lifted off the top and peered inside. Lying in a row were six hollow rods, each four inches long. They were made of a smooth, gray-blue stone; at the end of each rod was an evil-looking scalpel. They glittered sharply. Marin picked one up and lightly touched a blade with her thumb. A drop of blood welled out.

Marin cursed and returned the rod to the box. The drawer containing the scalpels lifted out, revealing six squat bottles of liquid underneath. Their metal tops were threaded. Marin lifted them out individually and held them to the light. Five of them were dyes—white, blue, green, gold, and black—the colors of her mother's skin markings. The sixth looked clear.

She stared at that particular bottle for several seconds, then tried screwing the top onto the end of its hollow rod. It fit. She held the rod as if it were a fountain pen, then ran the scalpel across the rough exterior of the mattress. The sharp blade cut the fabric immediately. Marin blew out the candle. The room fell into absolute darkness, except for a thin glowing line on the bed and a glowing bottle stuck to the end of the rod.

Marin stared at the scalpels, imagining herself cooped up in some dingy cellar in the Cloister, marking herself with these
tools for a whole year. She'd have nothing in common with the other desert girls. They wouldn't even speak the same tongue. And throughout that time, she wouldn't see Anton or Kana or Line. Only her mother would be allowed to visit.

“Never,” whispered Marin to herself. She was filled with rock-solid certainty. “I won't do it.”

A few minutes later, Marin returned to the parlor, standing alongside her mother and Kana, waiting for Anton to finish up. They were all dressed in their seafaring clothing: wool caps, cloaks, waxed canvas pants, and knee-high boots. Finally, they heard Anton's voice coming from the foyer. “The okrana just ordered us to the loading area.” There was a long pause. “I've been told to say that anybody who refuses will be dragged out.”

“Is that a joke?” asked Kana.

“No,” said their father as he appeared in the parlor. “Everyone is getting cranky. But don't worry. This happens every time we leave the island.” Anton grabbed a candle from the windowsill and handed it to Marin. They exchanged glances, and a hint of irritation lingered in his eyes. “No confirmation on Line yet,” he said. “I'm guessing he's down at the staging area.”

Marin nodded.

Together they walked outside and stood in front of the darkened house. Two members of the okrana were waiting
solemnly for them. They were both old—not as old as Palan, but from his generation. They each held high a blazing wick torch. Rivulets of sweat rolled down their faces, and they were trembling slightly.

“This is a new beginning for us,” said Tarae as she put her arms around Marin and Kana, drawing them tightly to her. “The Desert Lands are waiting.” The happiness in her voice was unmistakable. Neither Marin nor Kana replied.

“Remember the front door,” said one of the okrana.

“Of course,” said Anton. And very carefully, he closed the door so that it remained open just a crack.

The okrana helped them pile their luggage onto a small, rickety handcart. And then, together, with Anton pushing the handcart, they walked through the shadows—westward, toward the cliffs. Kana and Tarae brought up the rear. Tarae was walking slowly—she had a nagging fear of tripping in the dark—and Kana guided her gently, draping an arm across her back.

“You know, the Night is beautiful in the desert,” said Tarae. “The sky is clearer there and the stars are more numerous.” She smiled at Kana and ran a hand through his hair.

Kana said nothing. Three days of sunlight and three days of darkness. For Kana, this meant three days of vision and three of blindness. His mother had been fretting about this lately, as if she were personally responsible for the habits of the sun.

“Don't worry, Mother—it'll be fine,” Kana said. “It'll be easier than the years of daylight that I had here.”

“I know you'll miss all this,” said Tarae, gesturing vaguely
toward the darkness around them. “But I think a change of scenery might be good for you . . . you'll sleep better once we're off the island,” said Tarae with an air of certainty.

“Really? Why is that?” He sounded unconvinced. His mother was trying her best to tiptoe around his feelings, but somehow this extreme tactfulness made it worse.

She glanced at him sideways. “Just call it a mother's intuition.”

Several minutes later, they arrived at the cliffs. The area was always busy with people coming to and from boats, but today it was crowded with people, boxes, suitcases, sacks of flour, rolls of fishing nets, caged chickens, and other supplies of all kinds and quantities. Children ran wildly, caught up in the excitement of the moment, and dogs chased them. The noises—shouting, crying, talking, barking—were overwhelming.

Only the faintest pinprick of orange remained in the western sky. Marin walked over to the edge of the cliff and looked down. Several men were descending to the pier via a spiderweb of ropes secured to the cliff face. Nearby, a series of makeshift wooden cranes had begun lowering loads of crates. Down below, several dozen ships with bright yellow sails were moored along Bliss's docks.

“LOOK FOR YOUR FLAGS!” yelled a burly, gray-haired okrana. He wore a leather vest and the dark green clothing of a woodcutter. He spoke through a large, cone-shaped speaking trumpet. “CALMLY WALK TO YOUR FLAGS!”

“Which way is Glimmer Glen?” a woman called out, her long white hair escaping in strings from her shawl. She was cradling a suitcase to her chest.

“ALL THE WAY AT THE END,” boomed the man through his speaking trumpet.

Cloth banners were tied to the end of slender flagpoles, which were stuck in the ground at regular intervals throughout the staging area. Next to each pole stood an okrana with a bound codex in hand.

“Where's our flag?” asked Kana.

“Night Fire is down this way,” replied their father, pointing to a distant blue flag with two red swirling lines. “They always put it down there.”

Where is Line?
Marin looked around anxiously for any sign of him, or of the okrana who had been searching for him. “Excuse me,” said Marin, tapping a gray-haired okrana on the shoulder. “Have they found Line—the boy who went missing?” The man just stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign tongue. It was maddening. If Line's parents were alive, they would be raising hell.

She grabbed her father's arm. “I don't see Line—I'm going to go look around.”

“No,” replied Anton firmly. “Wait until we get to the flag, and then we'll make inquiries.”

It took several more minutes before Marin and her family arrived at the grassy knoll where their flag was fluttering. Standing rigidly next to the flagpole was one of the okrana's youngest members, a thin teenage boy with kinky black hair and crooked teeth. The boy nodded at Marin's parents solemnly, then opened up his codex and began flipping through pages of vellum until he found what he was looking for.

“Four of you?” asked the boy. He frowned. “It says here there are three.”

“No—it's four,” their mother quickly replied. She glared at the young okrana boy.

“Shadow House?”

“Of course,” she replied, glancing at Anton. They exchanged a look that Marin found hard to decipher. Fear, anger, annoyance, fatigue, sixteen years of marriage—perhaps all of it at once.

“That's your luggage?” asked the boy. He frowned again.

“Yes.”

The boy paused. “You may have to leave some behind.”

“Why?”

“I have no further information—these are my instructions. Please be patient,” he replied. The words coming from his mouth sounded dutifully rehearsed.

Their neighbors, young parents with a sleeping baby, approached the knoll, and the young okrana turned to them. Marin's mother moved several feet away and collapsed to the ground with an exhausted sigh. She called to Marin and Kana but was interrupted by the sound of shouting.

“They're coming!” someone yelled. “The furriers have climbed up from the cliffs.”

Similar shouts rang out along the cliffs.

“Stand up!” hollered the teenage okrana who stood by their flag. “On your feet now!”