Chapter 9

9

K aitlin

For the next day, I push my worries about the meeting out of my mind to tend to Mazon. Even though he woke up, which was a big relief, he's still not healed. He tries to hide the way he winces with every sudden movement, but it isn't lost on me.

So even though we're about to face the biggest challenge of our life, I insist that he rest. I make him focus on his healing, bringing him soothing tea to drink and making warm compresses for his aches. Not only does it seem to make Mazon feel better, but it helps me ignore my many fears about the future. Our future, if there can even be such a thing.

But the next morning, Mazon insists on getting out of bed so that we can try out our Hail Mary pass. The only chance either of us can think of is trying to follow the map of my grandmother's we found. According to the label on the map, it may be the only thing that can bring our people together.

Or, of course, we could spend the next two days on a wild goose chase and it could be nothing. But what choice do we have?

The morning sun filters through the forest canopy as Mazon and I make our way along the winding path, following the faded lines on the map. The compass feels heavy in my hand, the brass still shining despite its age.

"I think we need to head west once we reach the river," I say, tracing my finger along the delicate paper. With a loud exhale, I blow away the strands of hair falling loose from my braid into my face.

Mazon nods, glancing up at the sun's position. "Then we follow the white stones. Your grandmother's clues were quite precise."

We walk in thoughtful silence with the forest coming alive all around us. Birds trill overhead, while small creatures dart through the underbrush. Shafts of light illuminate our way, guiding us onward.

The sound of rushing water reaches our ears. Moments later, we push through a tangle of vines to find ourselves at the pebbled shore of a wide, fast-moving river. I carefully fold the map and tuck it in my pack before looking at the compass.

"West," I say with determination, pointing across the swirling rapids to a narrow gravel beach on the far side. I watch in awe as Mazon easily fords the river before turning to lift me across, the chill water kissing our ankles.

On the far bank, a faint trail winds up through mossy boulders. We climb in companionable quiet, the only sounds our measured footfalls and the roaring water behind us. The trees thin as we gain elevation, until we emerge onto a rocky outcropping.

"The white stones," I breathe, rushing forward. Before us stand two pillars of quartz, catching the sunlight. Beyond them, steps cut into the mountain lead up and inward, toward some ancient secret I can only guess at.

But as we climb, I feel certain we are on the threshold of something momentous. If we have the courage to keep following the map, to navigate the winding trails of the past, we may yet find the treasure that has waited so long to be discovered. The treasure of understanding between two kindred peoples.

The stone steps lead up into the heart of the mountain, curving gently to match the natural contours. Our footsteps echo off the walls as we climb, the compass our guiding light.

Finally, the passage opens up into a high-ceilinged cavern, rays of sunlight filtering down from some hidden crevice above. My eyes widen as I take in the contents of the rocky chamber.

"It's some kind of... shrine," he murmurs.

She's right. Woven mats and burnished metal dishes adorn the smooth floor. Dried herbs hang from the walls alongside painted images of forest spirits. And in the center sits a simple stone plinth.

Nestled beside it, we find the true treasure of a leather-bound book engraved with two names. Rose Charles and Oak Heart.

With a gasp, I lift the journal, opening it to find page after page filled with two sets of handwriting, one ink, one charcoal.

"Oak Heart was my father," Mazon stammers out, sounding amazed.

"This is it," I exclaim, feeling tears of joy welling in the corner of my eyes. "Proof of their friendship, of the bond our kinds shared."

I read on, utterly stunned, as Mazon looks over my shoulder. The journal tells the tale of an unlikely alliance formed in a time of tragedy. Of a human healer called Rose who dared approach one of Mazon's kind, offering aid when the sickness struck. He was a healer like she was. And that was the start of how she and Mazon's father worked tirelessly, side by side, to heal the sick.

One of the final entries is in Oak Heart's strong, steady hand. "Rose has given us back hope after so much darkness," it reads. "She asks nothing in return, only peace between us. The medicine made from plants cultivated in her cabin have saved many of my people."

A tear slips down my cheek when the very last entry is Rose's, despondent that despite all her efforts, she could not save her friend. Oak Heart, she wrote, succumbed to the illness he had fought so hard to protect others from. I feel transported back in time all those years ago, her heartbreak tangible even through the ink on the page.

I look up at Mazon, who looks just as amazed as me. "Your father knew my grandmother," she says in wonder. "It's as if there's always been a connection between us, just waiting to be uncovered."

Mazon clasps my hand, and the truth of it settles on my spirit. "And now that legacy falls to us," he replies. "Come, we have the opinion of a council to change."

Taking up the compass and journal, we make our way back down the winding passage, our hearts lighter. The treasures of the past have shown us the way forward to a future where fear and mistrust are but distant memories.

We prepare and review our speech for tomorrow, all evening. Mazon and I go round and round, reading and rereading the journal as we formulate our plan. What will we say? What will convince them? In the end, I know we will have to speak from the heart.

If this doesn't move them, nothing will. My greatest fear, though, is that very thing could really be possible and nothing will ever move them.

The clearing is hushed the next morning as Mazon and I enter, all eyes turning to us. In my hands, I cradle the journal, its timeworn cover gleaming in the dappled light.

Grandmother Willow inclines her head. "You know why you have been called here. What argument or defense have you brought before this council?"

Mazon steps forward. My pulse is pounding so hard I can feel the vibrating in my neck as I listen to him speak. "I bring proof that friendship between our kinds is not only possible - it is our legacy."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd as he takes and holds up the journal, displaying the engraved names. "Many years ago, Oak Heart, my father, and Rose Charles forged a bond that healed many and brought peace." He and I quickly take turns to recount the story inked on those pages.

When I finish, Koru stands, his eyes burning. "How do we know this tale is true? The word of a human means nothing to me." Angry rumbles echo his skepticism.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I knew all along this could be his reaction. I try to steady my face and maintain my compassion, seeing it from his point of view. He distrusts me, and some part of me understands that.

"We promise everything we read from this journal was told just as it is written," I assure. "But we understand your doubt. It proves that unification between our people is possible if we just let it happen. Let us walk the path of our ancestors to a new beginning, as they did."

I bow my head, praying they will listen. Mazon bows his as well, taking my hand and squeezing it reassuringly. The crowd waits, restless, as Grandmother Willow considers. At long last, she nods.

"We shall go to this sacred place, see these traces of the past with our own eyes. If what you say is true, it shall be the first step toward trust between us once more."

The journey is tense but without conflict. At the shrine's entrance, the elders pause, overcome. In reverent silence we file inside, each viewing the painted images, the engraved compass, the journal's fragile pages. Grandmother Willow weeps as she finally reads the journal for herself and runs one gnarled hand over the lettering.

"Oak Heart was like a son to me," she says, closing the book with care. "We lost so much to the sickness. But thanks to your Rose, the rest of us survived." She turns to me, emotion in her eyes. "We owe your family a great debt."

Koru is subdued as we emerge into the sunset. "Forgive me," he says, head lowered in shame. "I let hatred blind me."

I study him, realizing he is sincere. I falter for a moment, unsure what to say in response to such an unexpected admission. In the end, I simply embrace him, knowing he sees the truth now.

That night, the clearing rings with celebration instead of anger. I dance openly, proudly, with Mazon. Though I never would have imagined it possible, even a week ago, I realize I don't have to be afraid of anyone seeing me. The gratitude and joy fills my heart and makes me feel ten pounds lighter.

And during all the revelry stands the compass that led to healing truth. Our peoples are not the same, but we are family. And the light of forgiveness is bright enough to guide us home.