My mother had a diary too. It didn’t stop Elara from doing . . . what she did. But it seemed to ground her, in the beginning. Maybe it will help me too.
I’m not exactly good at writing. I certainly read a lot, but it hasn’t rubbed off. And I really don’t want another liability for the Nortan States. Things are precarious enough.
Or am I just being vain, thinking that anything I scribble down could somehow threaten the reconstruction? Probably.
How does anyone do this? Journals are impossible. I feel idiotic.
* * *
Mare wasn’t kidding about the Paradise Valley. It’s gorgeous and dangerous. We had to wait for a storm to clear out before we could get up here. Had to burn a hole in a snowdrift just to get to the cabin door. And we heard wolves all night long. I wonder if I can lure any to the cabin with dinner scraps?
* * *
Do not lure wolves with dinner scraps.
* * *
The States and the Scarlet Guard are cooperating well even without me running between them. I was expecting Nanabel to drag me out of the cabin after twenty-four hours, but it looks like we’ll get the full time away. And we got to celebrate my birthday properly, despite the bison interruption. They are very noisy.
* * *
Third day cooped up inside the cabin. Normally wouldn’t mind, but Mare insists on doing puzzles, and I think they’re all missing pieces. Seems rudely symbolic.
* * *
Fell in a geyser. Very happy to be heatproof. My clothes, not so much. Gave a bison a real show on the jog back to the cabin.
* * *
Another snowstorm last night. Mare couldn’t help but get involved. Thunder snow is incredible. And she’s a show-off.
* * *
Convinced the supply-drop pilots to take us on a quick tour around the valley. The whole of Paradise is on top of a caldera and a dormant volcano. Bit unsettling. Even for me.
* * *
No bad dreams for the last two weeks. Usually I’d blame exhaustion, but we’re not doing much more than lying around and hiking nearby. I think something about the wilderness is settling me. The question is, am I healing—or is this just stasis? Will the nightmares come back when we leave? Will they be worse?
* * *
Worse.
And always the same thing.
Maven, alone on that island, standing just out of reach no matter how hard I try to move.
* * *
She doesn’t want to come with me. And I’d rather she didn’t.
I need to do this alone.
Cal
The fog lifts slowly. I wish it wouldn’t. I wish visibility would be too poor for a landing, and I’d have to turn back to the mainland.
I could always lie and turn back anyway. No one would question it. No one would care if I made it to Tuck or not. No one would even know.
No one but me.
And him.
The island is gray this time of year, as the autumn days bleed toward winter. It barely stands out in the steel-colored ocean, little more than a smudge against the rising sun. I buzz the northern cliffs, maneuvering my small dropjet with a few easy movements of the controls. It looks the same as it did last year. I try not to think, to remember. I peer down at the landscape, focusing on that instead. Few trees, the dunes, slopes of yellowing grass, the docks of the small harbor, the abandoned base—it unfurls below me in a second. The runway bisects the island and makes for an easy target. I try not to look at the squat barracks as I wheel the dropjet into position, its propellers whipping up a cloud of sand and dune grass. This place holds enough bad memories—I can only handle so many at a time.
Before I can change my mind, I drop altitude. The landing is rougher than it should be, the craft jarring as it touches down. But I’m eager to be finished, and my hands shake, even as I flip the necessary switches and levers. The roar of the propellers lessens as they slow but don’t stop. I won’t be here long. I can’t bear it.
Julian offered to come, as did Nanabel. I refused both.
The island is without any sound but the wind in the grass and the seabirds calling out over the water. I’m tempted to whistle, just to make some human noise. It’s odd, knowing I’m the only living person on the island. Especially with the remains of barracks and such human memories all around.
Tuck has been without people since the Scarlet Guard evacuated, fearing a raid after Mare’s capture. They still haven’t come back. While the base has been worn by wind and the changing seasons, the rest of the island looks content to be left alone.
My feet follow the path from the runway, winding into the tall grass and up the gentle hills. Soon the trail fades, gravel giving way to sandy soil. There are no markers to lead the way—only people who know what they’re looking for will find him.
Shade is on the other side of the island, his grave overlooking the dawn. That was Mare’s request, when the time came. To make sure he was as far away from her brother as the island allowed.
There was talk of burying him elsewhere. He asked to be buried with his mother, but he did not specify a place. Elara was on Tuck, in a shallow grave. Despite the state of decay, she would have been easy to dig up and move to the mainland. Of course, there was opposition to the idea. Not only because of the gruesome nature, but because, as Julian quietly pointed out, he didn’t want Maven’s grave to be well known or easily accessible. It could become a rallying point or a monument, giving strength to anyone who might take up his cause.
In the end, we decided Tuck was best. An island in the middle of the ocean, so isolated that even Maven might find peace.
The loose ground shifts beneath me, sucking at my boots. The steps become more difficult, and not only because of the terrain. I force the last few yards and crest the rise beneath the gray light of autumn. I can smell rain, but the storm hasn’t hit yet.
The field is empty. Even the birds don’t come here.
At first glimpse of the stones, I drop my eyes, focusing on my feet. I don’t trust myself to keep walking if I have to watch it get closer. The dream rattles in my head, haunting me. I count off the last few feet, looking up only when I must.
There is no silhouette, no impossible shadow of a lost boy waiting to be found.
Elara’s headstone is unmarked, a single gray slab already worn smooth by the wind. There will be no record of her here. Not her name, not her house. Not a word of who she was in life. She doesn’t deserve a memory. She stole so many others’.
I refused to give Maven the same treatment. He deserves something at least.
His stone is milky white, with rounded edges. The letters are cut deep, some already filled with dirt or dead grass. I clean them out with a few swipes of my fingers, shivering as I touch the cold, damp stone.
MAVEN CALORE
Beloved son, beloved brother.
Let no one follow.
He is without his title, with little more than his name. But every word on the stone is the truth. We loved him—and he strayed down a path no one else should pursue.
Even though I’m the only person on the island, the only one for miles and miles, I can’t find the strength to speak. My voice dies; my throat tightens. I couldn’t say good-bye to him if my own life depended on it. The words simply won’t come.