After the End (11 page)
“SO TELL ME, WHAT’S THE LAST READING OR CONJURING or whatever that you successfully did?” I take a bite of the crispy potato that I, yes I, Miles Blackwell, cooked wrapped in aluminum foil in the campfire. In fact, I cooked tonight’s whole meal.
All right, so the first can of beef stew exploded. How was I supposed to know you can’t cook food in the can? Luckily, we had a few backups, so I opened them and heated them up in a pan.
“Why does it matter?” Juneau asks, blowing on the piece of steaming beef speared on her fork. “You won’t believe a word of it anyway.”
“True,” I respond, holding my spoon up for emphasis. “However, in debate team, I was often tapped to play devil’s advocate. So I don’t mind suspending disbelief if it’s going to, one, get you out of your lethal mood and, two, let us leave this creepy waterfront. It’s starting to remind me of the Jason-infested lake in
Friday the 13th
.” I glance over the fire to see Juneau’s familiar expression of incomprehension, and my heart falls. “Why do I even try with the cultural references?” I moan.
“I don’t know, why do you?” she snaps. And then says, “Reading Poe’s emotions in the car yesterday.”
“That was the last time you felt like you ‘read’?” I clarify, making an effort to keep up with her conversation hopping.
“Yes, although it took me a long time to connect,” she states. “I’m used to it being immediate.”
“Then when was the last time it was immediate?” I ask.
“When I Read the fire at Mount Rainier.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s happened between then and now?”
She looks at me blankly and shakes her head.
I think. “How about Whit?” I ask. “When the bird didn’t come back to him, do you think he could have blocked you from connecting to the Yara?” I try my best not to let a sarcastic inflection creep into my words. If she thinks I’m making fun of her, she’ll clam right up and this conversation will be over. Along with my effort to soften her up so that we can leave.
She sets her bowl on the ground and shakes her head pensively. “That would be like blocking me from breathing the air around me. ‘No one can come between human beings and the Yara except the disbelief of humans themselves.’ That’s a direct quote from Whit,” I say.
I’m feeling sorry for her again. She really believes this crap. I have an overwhelming urge to hold her hand and tell her that it’s okay. That she’s been brainwashed, and the longer she’s away from the hippie cult, the more normal she’ll get.
“Well then, maybe you’re blocking your own connection to the Yara,” I offer, feeling slightly proud of myself for making sense out of her cult gibberish. “Maybe now that you’re away from the influence of Whit and your dad, you’re beginning to doubt the things they taught you. Which would totally make sense, seeing that they lied about World War III and all.” I am only trying to draw logical conclusions from her completely illogical beliefs, but she looks like I just slapped her.
“Or maybe it’s not that at all,” I offer weakly. “Maybe the farther you get from your land, the less of a connection with the Yara you have?”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head in a how-could-you-possibly-know-anything-about-it gesture. “The Yara isn’t just in Alaska. It’s everywhere.”
She stands and, wrapping her arms around her waist, paces slowly beside the fire. “What you said about doubting,” she says finally. “That does make sense. It was after I found out that Whit was working with the people who abducted my clan that my Reading was affected. His blatant spying on me confirmed my suspicions of him . . . if I needed further confirmation.” She rubs her fingers distractedly across her forehead. “I guess I can pin it to that instant that I definitely lost all trust in him. And yes, I suppose I’m questioning what he taught me as well.”
“Did they have children’s books in your commune?” I ask. Juneau looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “I swear this is relevant,” I promise.
“Yes, we had a small collection of children’s books.”
“Did you have
Peter Pan
?” I ask.
She furrows her brow, trying to guess what I’m getting at.
“What you’re saying is kind of like Wendy and her brothers flying with fairy dust. They had to believe it or they couldn’t fly.”
She nods pensively but still has that hurt look on her face. “You might be right,” she admits. She sighs loudly and turns to head for the woods. Looking back at me, she says, “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to go for a walk and think about things.” The bird sees her going and flaps over to land on her shoulder like a freaking trained monkey.
As for me, I sit watching the fire and think about how she seems like a really nice person. How I’m actually starting to like her. Why else would I have put off calling Dad whenever I’ve had access to a phone? Because, for once, I feel like I’m enjoying myself. Having fun.
It’s just sad how messed up Juneau was raised. Like a cult member. Totally brainwashed. Totally delusional. It almost makes me want to help her. If saving my own skin wasn’t of utmost importance, I would be tempted to try.
I WALK INTO THE WOODS HOLDING POE ON MY arm, feeling as disoriented as if I had stepped through a door into an alternate universe. For the second time in a month. I’m losing my faith, so I’m losing my skills—that must be the answer. And if that happens, there’s no way I’m going to be able to save my clan, much less find them. But with all the lies I’ve been fed, how can I believe anything I’ve been taught? How do I separate truth from fiction?
Poe flies off and perches far above in a tree as I head straight for a clump of giant holly bushes, letting them scratch my arms as I pass. The pricks from their spines reassure me that I’m not sleepwalking.
I get to the water’s edge and begin circling the lake.
I need to figure out what, if anything, I have left. I pull my opal from under my shirt, loop it over my head, and press it to the ground. “Dad,” I say, and focus on Reading his emotions. A chorus of crickets launches into their night song on the far side of the lake, and a thick fog levitates inches above the water’s surface. I wait. Somewhere out in the lake, a fish jumps, splashing as it breaks the water’s surface. I wait. Nothing happens.
I loop the cord back over my head and tuck my opal under my shirt. Then, squatting, I place my bare hand against the moist, cold earth and try again. I get nothing. Not even the slightest tingle of connection.
The sky is pitch-black and the temperature has dropped. I continue my walk around the lake, rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself, but I resolve not to return to camp until I figure this out.
I ran through my entire repertoire of Reading skills today, and none worked except the simplest stone-throw Readings. In which I confirmed things that I already knew: like my father was still far away and Whit was still trying to reach me.
If Miles’s off-the-cuff theory has any bit of truth to it, then it’s a vicious cycle—the more I disbelieve in the Yara, the less it will work. I can’t just pick and choose what to believe.
Yes, you can!
I reassure myself. Surely not everything my clan told me was false. I have seen the Yara work. I have manipulated it myself.
But I also know that much of what I was taught was lies.
I feel my belief flicker like a flame in wind.
I know the Yara exists,
I insist, and imagine myself cupping my hands around the flame to protect it.
I whistle toward the woods and click my tongue, and Poe flaps down from a nearby tree to stand next to me on the pebble beach. Crouching, I comb my fingers over his ebony feathers, formulate what I’m going to do in my mind, touch my opal, and try to connect to the Yara.
I believe, I think, and I try my hardest to push all doubts, all feelings of betrayal, as far from me as possible. Nothing happens. Not even a tingle.
I exhale deeply and imagine my tiny flame of faith expanding to the size of a forest fire, and after a second I feel the slightest of buzzes in my fingertips.
Yes!
I think excitedly, and try to center myself.
I look at Poe and then picture my father in my mind.
Poe, can you find my father for me?
I think. I imagine the desert setting and try to pass the image to Poe.
Poe stares at me and then shuffles away and starts pecking at some pebbles as if to say he couldn’t care less. Okay, I’ll try something easier then. I grasp my opal and place my hand on Poe once more, this time picturing Miles in my mind.
Where is he?
I think.
Take me to Miles.
Poe cocks his head to one side, as if saying,
You know as well as I do where Miles is
. But he fluffs his wings and takes off, heading toward the camp. Adrenaline percolates through my veins, and I set off at a run, following Poe through the woods. When we get to the clearing, Poe circles the car once and then lands on the roof. He squawks and, his job complete, begins picking something from his wing with his beak.
Panting, I lean over and, looking into the car window, see that Miles has fallen asleep in the passenger’s seat with a book on his chest and the overhead light on. I ignore the fluttering in my chest as I peer in at him: his lips are slightly parted and his chest rises and falls with his shallow breaths.
I need to focus. My Conjuring worked. My powers are linked to my faith—that much is clear. And I am progressively losing my faith, not in the Yara, but in Whit and what he taught me. I have to start at square one and test what I think is true. And until I can figure out for myself what I really believe, I will need to gather every last thread of faith I still have in order to continue using my gift.
But what if my problem is much worse? What if my doubt slams down like iron bars and locks me out of my powers for good? If there’s even the slightest chance of that, I have a lot to do before it happens.
I AWAKE WHEN THE COOL AIR OF THE EVENING smacks me in the face. Juneau is offering me her arm. “You’re going to have a crick in your neck and be no good for driving if you sleep like that,” she says. She shuffles me out of the car and over to the tent, where I groggily lie down on my side.
Juneau leaves and then returns with a mug of steaming liquid. “I made some tea. This will help you sleep better.” It tastes like licorice and marshmallow, and I drain the whole thing before lying back down.
“I’m sorry if it seemed like I didn’t believe you,” I say sleepily. “It’s just a lot to hear all at once. But I definitely wasn’t making fun of you. I’m only trying to help.”
Her lips curl at the edges and she looks almost embarrassed. “I know. I could tell,” she says, and takes my hand in hers.
The touch of our skin sets off a reaction in me. I am immediately awake . . . 100 percent present. And it feels like a whirlwind of thorns is whipping around in my chest, stinging me all over from the inside. That makes it sound painful. It isn’t. It’s the kind of itching sensation that makes you want to do something crazy. That spurs you forward to act on an idea you didn’t even know was in your head.
Or maybe I did know it, but have pushed it away because Juneau was my ticket to redemption with my dad and I didn’t want to mess that up. Now that she’s told me her story, I’m certain there’s been some kind of mix-up. No matter what Dad says, she’s no spy. Okay, she’s been raised to believe some pretty weird things, but that’s clearly not her fault. And for her to have gone through what she has, Juneau must be incredibly strong. And brave.
I realize all this just as I notice that, for once, she’s dropped her defenses. Her tawny eyes brush my face with compassion, and I have an overwhelming urge to pull her to me, take her in my arms, and kiss her.
I SHOULDN’T HAVE HELD HIS HAND. IT DID SOMETHING to him. It did something to both of us. It set off this kind of lightning storm all over my body. The electricity generated when our skin touched was like the tingle I feel when I connect with the Yara. Multiplied by a thousand.
I was just trying to reassure him. To get him to trust me. Saying I might have overdone it would be an understatement. Because one second I was holding his hand, seeing him once again like Nome would—I couldn’t help it. He looked so sleepy and defenseless . . . and, to be honest, utterly gorgeous.
And the next second his hand is behind my head and he’s eased me down on top of him and we’re kissing . . . kissing like crazy. My whole body’s buzzing, and all I want is to keep pressing my chest against his and lacing my legs through his and winding my fingers through his beautiful curly hair and feeling his lips brush mine for the rest of the night. But I can’t. I can’t do this. I have to . . .
“Stop,” I say, and push myself up onto my hands and knees, perching above him. Miles reaches up for me, yearning written all over his face, but I shake my head. “No,” I say, and pivot so that I’m sitting next to him in the tent.
His expression is a mixture of regret, confusion, and disappointment.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say.
“No, that’s totally okay,” he says, raising his hands to his forehead and squeezing his eyes closed. We’re both breathing heavily, and my heart is hammering a million miles an hour. I scramble to the mouth of the tent, push through the flap, and then peer in at him once I’m safely out.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod and zip the tent flap up behind me, shutting him in from the night.
I walk over to the fire and flop down in front of it. This is too much. Too much at once. I run my tongue over my burning lips and think of Miles’s mouth on mine, and my body flares with heat.
Miles wasn’t my first kiss. But kissing Kenai was different. He was a friend, and Nome and I had talked him into trying it out. It’s not like we had a large selection of potential kissing partners in our clan. Besides, Kenai was the only boy I could kiss without it meaning anything. It was kind of nice, in a friendly, warm-hug kind of way. But it was nothing like the searing heat of kissing Miles.
Stop thinking about it,
I urge myself. I have to stay in control. Miles is nothing more to me than a means to an end. I can’t get attached to him. I ready myself for what I’m about to do.
I cast all thoughts of Miles and his soft mouth and his strong arms out of my mind. There’s no way I can slow my heart rate if I let myself remember the kiss. I think of what I need to ask. This might be my last chance.
If we are being chased, every moment is precious. I need better instructions to find my clan than a general direction of southeast and a desert setting. And I need to know not only how to elude Whit, but if he manages to catch me, how I can fight him. And win.
I unzip the tent flap and look at Miles’s motionless form. The special tea I made has done its work. He is deep asleep and will not awake. I almost falter—this is strictly forbidden. No one would consider Reading another human being without their agreement. I remind myself I am doing this for the good of my clan. For the protection of my people.
I duck down into the tent and sit cross-legged by Miles’s side, taking his hand in mine and cupping my opal in the other. He doesn’t stir and keeps breathing deeply. My heartbeat slows to match his.
I do still believe that the Yara exists,
I think, summoning all my positive thoughts and funneling them into our joined hands. I shudder as we connect to the Yara. Miles’s eyelids fly open. They are unseeing and stare hollowly at the tent above.
“Miles,” I say. “You are my oracle.”
His head moves slightly as he nods, a thick wave of hair tumbling off his forehead. “Yes, Juneau. I am your oracle.”
