Downburst (25 page)

I feel Rye’s hand on my back. “Are you okay?” he asks. His face has grown paler.

I nod. “You?”

He doesn’t answer my question. “I’ll keep an eye out for food as we go, but the problem is we don’t have any weapons.”

“How close are we to the
Wakenunat
?”

“I think we can make it today, if we push ourselves.”

My arm aches, and the emptiness in my legs makes me stumble, but it doesn’t matter how tired or hungry or hurt I am—I
can’t
go to the fortress. I’m going to have to make a break for it when Rye’s ahead of me, not looking. I try not to think about what he’ll feel, what it will do to him.

Just then, Rye slips on the ice and crashes onto the ground, scratching his bare skin on the jagged snow. I bend down to help him, and my chest tightens when I see how violently his limbs are trembling, how much he struggles to stand back up. Why is he so much weaker than I am?

“Did you really catch two fish?” I ask, the suspicion dawning on me.

“It will be hard to connect to the wind,” Rye says, “but it will help the pain once we do.”

“Answer me,” I demand. “Have you eaten anything in the past three days?”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks away.
Oh no, Rye.

“Why?” I whisper.

“I couldn’t let you starve.”

Suddenly, I see it all, see him taking off his shirt to bind my wound, leading the Rangi away so I could escape, carrying me countless miles while I was passed out, building a shelter in the middle of a blizzard, giving me all our food so my body would have strength to heal.

And I was going to leave him.

I close my eyes. If I go through with my plan, he won’t be able to stop me. I can windwalk to the nearest city, stay alive. And Rye will die.

Or I can help him get to the fortress and give him a chance to live, which means they’ll probably catch me. Torture me. Hand me over to the police—if I'm lucky.

I open my eyes and look at Rye, his shivering body, his gentle hands, arms, face. His kind, wonderful face.

I exhale slowly, my mind made up.

“Show me how to find the coordinates on my Quil,” I say.
I have to come clean.
Not yet though. Soon. Before we get there.

He helps me find the screen with the GPS, and I move the map onto watch mode then loop my arm around his. “Ready?” I ask. He nods.

I reach for the airy swells. It’s difficult to separate the mental opening I create from the gnawing I feel inside my stomach, and it takes me at least a minute to find
honga
. But I finally jump off the ground, and the bond keeps me steady.

Arms linked, we carefully work our way up the streams of air. It doesn’t take us long to reach our normal altitude, and once we climb above the trees, I understand why, see what the snow had hidden from me. The landscape has changed, no more flat forest with thousands of lakes and tributaries. The earth has risen up to help propel us into the sky—these last two nights we were camped on top of a mountain.

We’ve entered the Rockies.

As we leave our hilltop, enormous peaks roll endlessly out in front of us. I’ve never seen anything like it. Some of the summits are higher than we are. They brush the fleecy clouds hovering overhead. Their rock faces are cut away in sharp, horizontal lines, plummeting into steep, swooping valleys. Huge drifts of snow cushion the stone ledges and climb up the canyon sides. In a gorge below us, a frosted river snakes its way through the range.

We pass over the ravine, and, for the first time, I’m frightened to windwalk. If I lose my connection now, I’ll fall to my death. Rye must be thinking the same thing because he points down into the chasm, and we soar past the sheer crags, winding our way above the icy water.

I soon discover another reason for Rye’s navigational choice. The canyon creates a natural wind tunnel. The air rushes between the cliffs at an accelerated rate, and we’re able to go faster without putting forth any extra effort.

For the first few hours, the crisp mountain air and the phenomenal views keep me distracted. The wind numbs my injuries and hunger. By midday, however, the rock walls are blurring into the snow and sky, and when I look at the Quil, I can’t read the screen. My wrist seems far away, like it’s not connected to my body. My body starts to tip back, and I feel like I’m floating.

I realize I’m falling and scramble to stay connected.

“Rye,” I mumble. “Pocketknife.” When I feel him press it into my hand, I fumble to open the blade and then jab it into my skin.

The sharp pain jolts along my nerves, attacks my brain. I blink rapidly and stare at my palm until I see the bulbous drop of crimson form on the surface. More alert now, I rebuild my link to the wind, strengthening my grip on Rye’s arm and pressing my palm hard into his skin, embracing the sting.

I steal a glance at Rye’s face. His eyes are glazed over, and he’s panting, but he’s hanging in there. For now. I hold him tightly, willing him to stay strong.

But when long shadows fill the valleys, and the temperature drops even more, I’m ready to give in. I open my cracked lips to tell Rye I’m sorry, but I can’t get the words to come out. I can’t even salivate.

He saves me the effort. “Let’s stop,” he gasps. “Just for a few minutes.”

The current we’re on rises up at an incline, and we ride it until we see a flat ledge on the closest summit. We crash onto the slab, collapsing against the rocky mountainside.

Now that I don’t have the wind to mask the pain, my arm is on fire, my head is splintering, and I can hardly support the weight of my skull. I close my eyes against the vertigo. The sharp breeze slaps my dry face. I lean into Rye, seeking his warmth, but his skin is as cold as mine.

I don’t know how long we stay there, huddled against the wind’s icy blows, struggling to keep our eyes from closing for good, but it’s more than a few minutes. Before long, I can’t move my fingers, nor do I want to. I peel my eyelids back one last time and see the blurry sun sinking behind the endless peaks.

And then, as the golden orb disappears beyond the distant crests, I see a tiny, beautiful spark of green light.

Green. Green like the pine trees. Green like Rye’s eyes. Green like the Northern Lights.
Brief flashes of jade
.

Brief flashes of jade. Where have I heard that before? It has something to do with Rye.
Yes, his song. This morning.
So long ago. The Yakone sing it when their warriors leave. It’s about the Aurora Borealis.

The green light is gone now, so fleeting, so brief.
Wait.
I blink slowly.
Brief. A brief flash.
Could it be? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the song isn’t about the Northern Lights. Maybe it’s a song about home, about returning to that place high in the mountains, the only place where you can see a brief flash of green when the sun sets.

Maybe we’re close.

I look at the Quil, and my heart begins to thud. It says we’re here. I look around, but I don’t see anything—just mountain peak after mountain peak.

“Rye?” My voice is so gravelly, so distant, it seems to be coming from someone else. “Rye, wake up.” I shake him weakly.

He mutters something I can’t make out, and I shake him again. “We’re really close. The Quil says we’re here, and I just saw the green flash, but I don’t know where to go. You’ve got to help me.”

“What?” he mumbles.

I try to clear my throat. “I saw the green flash. On the horizon. You know, the song.”

He opens his eyes. “You did?” he croaks. “Where?”

I point ahead. “There.”

“So close,” he rasps. “But … can’t do it.”

“We have to. Come on, stand up.” I try to climb to my feet but stumble and slam back into the cliff face. My injured arm hits the rock, and pain courses through my body, making me cry out.

Cringing, I tug on Rye’s arm. “Stand up,” I order again. At first I don’t think he’ll be able to do it, but after clutching my hand and the rocks, he manages to pull himself onto his feet. “Which way?” I ask.

“Northwest … tallest peak to the northwest.”

“Can you windwalk?”

He shakes his head. “I—I don’t think so.”

“Hold onto me,” I say, and we stagger to the edge of the cliff. I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to support us—this could very well be a jump to our deaths. But we don’t have a choice.

“Hold onto me,” I repeat, my voice dropping to a whisper. Rye wraps his arms around my shoulders, leans against my back. I open myself to the wind.
Help us
, I plead. I feel the air’s strong threads entwine themselves within me.

We step off the ledge.

Immediately, Rye’s weight sends us plummeting down. I scramble for a current and barely retain my hold on the wind. We shoot forward, but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep going with Rye dangling from my neck, nearly strangling me. I grasp his arms and search through the darkness for the mountain he described, praying it’s nearby, but they all look the same. Enormous black shapes in the sunless sky.

I feel Rye’s fingers slip and clutch his arm more tightly. I make myself go faster, ignoring everything else—the pain, the cold, the hunger. And then I see a tremendous mountain peak, taller than all its neighbors. That must be it.

My fingers start to slide off Rye’s damp skin, and I dig my nails into his arm.
Don’t let go of me,
I will him.
Don’t let go.
If only the wind were faster.

As if it heard me, the breeze suddenly picks up speed, and we zoom directly toward the summit. I don’t even have to change currents.
Don’t let go. Don’t let go
, I repeat in my mind, over and over. We’re almost there. So close.
Don’t let go.
It’s difficult to think, to see, to breathe.

And then we’re crashing onto the mount’s sloping side, our weak feet slipping on the rocks, rolling down the incline. With my bad hand, I reach into the snow and curl my fingers around a rock. Rye’s body tugs hard on my arm, sending tears to my eyes. The sharp stone rips blood from my skin, but we stop sliding, and I don’t let go. I cling to him with my other hand.

I wait for the wave of pain to subside, make sure we won’t fall any further. Then I sit up, slowly, haltingly, and check on Rye. “Are you okay?”

He groans. I touch his forehead and feel blood on my fingers. I can’t tell how bad it is.

“Where’s the
Wakenunat
?” I ask. “Do we have to climb up or down?”

“Hillside,” he mumbles.

“What? We’re on the hillside. I don’t see anything.”

“No. Inside.” Slowly, he raises his head. Then he picks up a rock and throws it weakly against the mountain.

I watch the rock tumble down, listen to its long echoing clatter. Then I slump forward onto the snow. It’s over now, for certain. Rye is delirious. He doesn’t know where the
Wakenunat
is. He’s trying to break into a mountain. By throwing rocks at it. The beckoning darkness seeps into my brain.

A mechanical groan makes me open my eyes. Above me, to the left, light spills into the dark night, and I hear voices. I try lifting my chin, calling out, but my tongue won’t move. Then my head drops back into the icy rocks, and I know no more.

When the downburst touches the ground, it spreads out in all directions, creating high-speed winds known as thundergusts. Thundergusts can cause as much damage as a tornado—and they produce deadly conditions for flying.

The Horned Serpents are our enemies. They are very dangerous, for they also control the skies. The Sioux call these monsters the Unktehila. In old times, the Thunderbirds fought the Unktehila on behalf of man. There was war on the earth for many years until finally the Thunderbirds won, and the Unktehila were destroyed. Now all that remains of their kind are the snakes that slither along the ground and strike at our feet.