Elemental (24 page)

EPILOGUE

I
closed my eyes and savored the peacefulness. I was so distracted I didn't realize Griffin was standing behind me until he grabbed my sleeve and twisted me around.

Come. Look,
he signed.

He turned and headed through an open door behind him. I didn't follow, though. I just peered into the room and wondered how he'd managed to get in, when it had been so securely locked only a few strikes before.

I waited for Griffin to face me again.
How. You. Here?
I signed.

He understood me well enough.
Door. Open
.

Who. Open?

He had no answer.

I inspected the lock. There was no key, but the door handle turned freely. Had it just been stuck? Or had someone found a way to break in?

The room was remarkable: full of books on shelves, and maps on walls. Mechanical instruments had been tied down onto tables with elaborate knots. There wasn't any wasted space. Even the low bed in the corner was stuffed behind a desk. The blankets that lay neatly across it seemed undisturbed despite the ship having seesawed through the night.

Griffin stood at a desk to the left, poring over an open book. A small porthole near the ceiling cast a sliver of golden light across it, but most of the room's light came from the row of windows in the far wall.

Read
, he signed. He was breathing fast and shallow. The look on his face told me he'd already read it, and didn't like what he'd seen.

I took in line after line of handwritten words—neat and clear, not a single mistake or crossing-out. The first line was a series of numbers and letters I couldn't decipher:
35°52
o
N 75°40
o
W Y:18 D:38
. Then, underneath, it said:
Barometer readings suggest hurricane. Shelter W of Roanoke I. Children hiding in remains of Manteo. Solution within reach.

I pointed to the word
Manteo
.

Griffin nodded briskly.
Skeleton. Town,
he explained.

I knew he must be right. But in that case, the words must have been written the previous day. And if this was Dare's log, presumably the cabin was his too. Judging from the number of similar-sized books on the shelves, Griffin would have days of reading ahead of him.

Where. Find. Book?
I asked.

Griffin shook his head. Then he pointed at the desk, showed open hands with palms up, and finally stabbed the page with his finger. He'd found it right there, just waiting for him.

How convenient.

I imagined Dare working on it just before he left the ship. But how could a book stay in the middle of a desk during a hurricane? And how could he be sure we'd find it?

As soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew the answer: He was a seer. He may have seen it all already.

But then, why had he attacked during the night? If he'd already envisaged the outcome, surely he wouldn't have willingly gone to his death.

Griffin flicked back through the book and pointed to a new page:

35°54'N 75°35'W Y:18 D:36. Fortuitous timing. Tropical storm provided perfect cover. Islanders offered no resistance. Call themselves “Guardians” now. Such beautiful fiction! Refuse to surrender solution, of course—always did value their own lives above the multitude. Doesn't matter—he'll have to come out of hiding soon. Nowhere else to run
.

On the previous page, there was another passage:

Visions kicking in again—first time in years. Fuzzier than before, but promising. I see them both—indistinct, but so near. Eighteen years and thirty-five days, but the endgame is in sight now. I thank the Gods for this opportunity. I know They will not let us fail
.

Again, there was so much I didn't understand, but Griffin was pointing at the final figures on the top line:
Y:18 D:35
. Then he pointed to the words a few lines down:
“Eighteen years and thirty-five days,”
I read out loud.

Numbers. Time,
he signed.

I read the passage over and over. Eighteen years ago would have been around the time of the exodus and the Plague. How had Dare and his men escaped it?

Griffin ran a finger along the spines of the other books. Dust spilled from each one and swirled in the sunlight filtering through the window. When he reached the leftmost book, he pulled it from the shelf and placed it on the table beside the other. He opened it and flicked back through the pages until the top line read
D:2
.

He turned the final page.

35°54°N 75°40°W D:1. The day has come, as we predicted. They're calling it the end of the world, but they are wrong. It is the end of the human race, not the world. Now it is time for another new world to emerge, and we will build it, just as we built the first. The Gods have made us thus, and the Gods will ensure that we succeed. We are unique, we are perfect, and we will no longer hide. Today is Day One. Long live the elementals!

I was breathing faster than before. Something felt wrong—off kilter—and I didn't understand why. We already knew we were what remained of the world. We'd worked out what had caused the devastation, and when it had occurred. The only new information here was a precise date for those events.

Griffin moved his finger across the page and settled on three words:
We are unique
. He furrowed his brow.
We. Unique?
he signed.

Suddenly that word felt bigger than the others, loaded with meaning. And I knew exactly why. My mind flashed back to the night we'd spied on the pirates—how not one of them had realized we were so close. I recalled the pirates chasing Griffin and me; how they'd jumped off the bridge and thrashed about in the water, desperate to catch the solution, but unable to save themselves. I pictured the clan ships that never ventured into Hatteras waters, in spite of the fact that they were friends, fellow traders, possibly allies. But most of all, I thought of the pirates who had attacked the ship last night, and the way we'd repelled them with our elements.

Why hadn't
they
molded the wind, controlled the fish, threatened
us
with fire?

Pirates. No. Elements,
I signed. My hands shook. The gestures felt too large, but I couldn't help it. The world had changed again, and I was struggling to keep up. All this time, I'd thought the Guardians had been keeping people away because of the Plague. But that wasn't it at all.

They'd been
hiding
us, so that no one would find out what we could do. That we had powers other humans didn't possess.

Still Griffin rested his finger beside the words in Dare's log, as though waiting for me to make sense of them. Finally, he tapped the page in frustration. But now he wasn't pointing at the phrase at all, only one word:
We.

That's when I understood his true meaning. Griffin wasn't worried about being an elemental, or being unique. He was worried because Dare was an elemental too.

Dare was one of us. And only one family bloodline produced seers.

Ours.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

In roughly chronological order, I'd like to thank:

 

Ted Malawer—agent, sounding board, advisor, and friend—who got behind this novel the day it was conceived, and offered encouragement every day after.

 

Liz Waniewski, my inspiring editor, who believed that my seeds for a book might blossom into something special, and worked tirelessly to ensure that they did. Her influence is felt in every page of this novel, and each one is significantly better for it.

 

The many people on Roanoke and Hatteras Islands: Chris Wonderly, Park Ranger at Bodie Lighthouse, who answered questions, shared technical information, and even emailed photographs of the (closed) lighthouse, so that I could accurately portray it; the staff at the Outer Banks Visitors Bureau and the Whalebone Junction Information Station, who offered the kind of insights into tides, weather, and insect life that only locals can offer (oh, and maps; lots of maps); John and Connie Booth, who provided delightful accommodations on Roanoke Island; and Sue and Sadie Daniels, who ensured that I left Wanchese exceptionally well fed.

 

The indefatigable librarians of the Schlafly Branch of St. Louis Public Library.

 

Rick and the folks at Northwest Coffee, for caffeinating me and providing the ideal place to write.

 

Audrey and Clare—again—for reading every page, frequently many times. It's a true gift to have readers who really get what I'm trying to do, and are so willing to help me achieve it.

 

Tony Sahara, whose terrific cover expertly captures the world of Elemental.

 

The entire Dial team: Regina Castillo, my amazing copyeditor who continues to educate me on the finer points of the English language; Heather Alexander, who reads everything and never fails to offer great advice; Jasmin Rubero, who brings true artistry to every page; and Lauri Hornik, Kathy Dawson, and Scottie Bowditch, for whose behind-the-scenes efforts I remain extremely grateful.