Shadows Cast by Stars by Catherine Knutsson Page B

as anything else, and if a fir that has weathered five hundred years of existence can be toppled, so can we.
    A whistle from behind makes me whirl around, and there Paul is, stepping out from the forest, covered in scrapes. He holds his left forearm with his right hand and the dark seep of blood stains his shirt. A piece of wood is embedded in his skin.
    We run to him.
    “Leave it,” he says when I move to examine his arm.
    I give him my sternest look. “Only if you want it to fester. You’ll lose your arm.” I can’t tell him how relieved I am, how worried I was.
    “Fine,” Paul snaps. “Get it out, then.”
    We head back down the driveway and stop at the truck. Paul paces, waiting as my father fishes our precious supply of whiskey out from behind the seat, as I stare at the house, looking to see how it fared. In the predawn darkness, it looks okay, but what damage will daylight reveal? None if we’re lucky, though I know that’s too much to hope for.
    “Here, Cass,” my father says, handing me his jackknife. “Use this.”
    Paul watches as I dig the wood from his flesh, and doesn’t wince—not once, not even when I pour whiskey over the wound and stitch it with deer-gut thread.
    “Another scar,” I murmur as I tie off the knot.
    He grins. “Good.”
    Our house, by some miracle, is unscathed. Below, the boathouse has come loose from its moorings and the dock is partially submerged, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.
    Only then, after we’ve surveyed the damage, do I let myself think of Bran, of Madda, of the people in the town. If the wind listens, if the sky hears my words, surely they will see them all safe.
    Paul touches my arm. “Relax,” he says. “It’ll be okay.”
    But I see the raven in my brother’s eyes, and I know more is yet to come.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    D aylight breaks after we’ve begun the long walk into town. Fallen trees litter the road. Our father makes us stop at each one, inspecting it carefully while Paul and I pace. We’ve been through earthquakes before, and we all know what the aftermath brings. Our house might be safe and we might be unharmed, but what about everyone else? What about Bran? Helen? Madda?
    Paul carries an ax, and my father a machete and a shovel. I bring a basket holding bandages, a bottle of whiskey, needles, and thread. No one speaks, allowing me to run through the things my mother taught me: how to start a heart. How to stanch a wound. How to tie a tourniquet. How to stitch a person back together. Someof these things I’ve never done, but my mother made sure I knew how to, just in case.
    The smell of smoke reaches us long before we arrive in the town. Something’s burning. When we finally emerge from the forest, we see it’s the church. The roof has already collapsed and smoke billows from its shell. People have formed a fire line and swing buckets of lake water from hand to hand, dousing the house next to the church, but I fear it, too, will go up in flames before long. Someone will then have lost a home, and all their belongings along with it. My heart squeezes tight at the thought. I know what that feels like.
    Down the way, in the park, a tent has been set up. It seems to be a hub of activity, so my father steers us there, but once we step under the canvas awning, we realize the tent is a hospital. My father pats me on the shoulder before he and Paul step back outside. He knows I’ll be able to help here.
    A huge woman barking orders spots me and waves me over. “What’s wrong with you?” she says.
    “Nothing.” I hold the basket I carry out to her so she can see inside.
    She cocks an eyebrow at me. “You know about healing?” She plants her hands on her wide hips andassesses me with muddy eyes. “What do you know?”
    “I can stitch wounds and set bones.”
    “Good enough. I got work for you.” She nods at a man in the corner with a bad burn on his hand. “See to him. Oh, and my name’s Adelaide Corry. Holler if you need