After the End
Page 9
I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. I have to sit down. My face and palms feel clammy, and I think I’m going to throw up. I return to my park bench and put my head between my knees until the nausea passes. I see the man leave, throwing a worried look my way before pushing through the metal gate and disappearing. I try to reason through what he told me.
There was no war. I still can’t believe we were so close to this city, yet we knew nothing. How could my father and the other elders have been so mistaken?
There’s no way they could know what happened, I realize. They’ve been isolating themselves for thirty years.
I push these thoughts aside. I have to find my clan. Even if their kidnappers aren’t brigands, they took my people and killed our animals. And I still have to find Whit. I need a clear sign to know what to do.
And suddenly the right person comes along. Someone whose thoughts are free of the restrictions of reality. Whose mind is open enough to access the collective unconscious shared by all humans past, present, and future.
She is an old woman dressed in a coat of rags. She pushes her way through the iron gate, dragging behind her a metal cart piled high with strange objects: old shoes, stacks of paper, aluminum cans laced on a string that clatter as they drag behind her.
She crosses the park and, seeing me, approaches. Beckett and Neruda glue themselves to either leg but don’t growl. She stops at the other end of my bench and slowly lowers herself to sit. Stowing her cart next to her, she pats it lovingly, like it is a baby in a carriage instead of a mountain of garbage. Then, turning, she looks vaguely in my direction. Her expression is glazed-over. Opaque.
“The men—they put a movie camera inside my television and watched everything I did,” she says matter-of-factly. “They even put a camera in my shower.”
I ignore her disheveled appearance and paranoid speech and see her for what she is. A gift from the Yara. “Can I hold your hand?” I ask. She hesitates, and suspicion flashes across her face. Leaning forward, she holds my gaze in hers. Then, finding what she is looking for, she gives a satisfied nod and pulls her right glove off. Removing my mittens, I take her gnarled, chapped hand in my own and hold my opal in the other.
“Thank you,” I say, “for being my connection to the Yara. I need to ask you some questions. Very important questions. Are you willing to answer them for me?”
“Of course, dear.” The woman’s eyes begin to look more focused, and a serene expression settles upon her face.
“I am looking for a friend. His name is Whittier Graves. I am picturing him in my mind right now. Can you see him?”
The old lady closes her eyes abruptly and then, opening them slowly, focuses on a spot in midair to the left of my head. “I see your friend,” she says.
“Where is he?”
“He is on a boat. Leaving our harbor.” She lifts her free hand and gives a distracted wave toward the invisible boat floating over my shoulder.
“What!” I exclaim, and then quickly control my emotions before I pass the shock on to my oracle. “When did he get on the boat?” I ask, my heart pounding painfully, but my voice as steady as I can manage.
“Moments ago.”
“Was he alone?” I ask, my already-cold face turning numb with fear.
“No, he was with a group of big men. Bad men. Two went with him and the others stayed.”
I fight to stay calm. “Do you know where his boat is going?” I ask. This is asking a lot of the woman. Using her to see the present and recent past is well within the bounds of realistic expectations. But from the oracle-reading exercises that Whit used to practice with me, I know this question verges on divination. The woman has to see into the future or even tap into Whit’s subconscious to give me an answer. The response I get will be cryptic at best. I focus on her, ready to catch every vital word.
The woman’s face crinkles in concentration. “Say it another way,” she responds after a few seconds.
I consider that, and finally ask, “Where must I go to find Whit and my clan?”
“You must go to your source,” she answers immediately.
“My source?” I ask, confused. “Denali?”
“No.” She shakes her head, frustrated by my incomprehension. “No, before that.”
“But I was born in Denali,” I respond.
Her frown deepens. “Aren’t you listening? You have to take a boat.” She is getting upset, and I know that her link with the Yara is fading if not already gone. I have so many questions I still want to ask. I flail around for the most important.
“Can you see my father? Do you know if he’s okay?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she says stubbornly, and tugs back the hand I am holding.
Disappointed, I take her glove and fit it carefully back over her fingers. She has returned to the mad world in her mind. She blinks, as if surprised, and I clasp her gloved hand until she is oriented.
“Thank you for your help,” I say, standing. The dogs are at my side in a flash.
“They’re watching me. They know everything I’m thinking,” the lady says.
“Tell them to go away, and maybe they’ll leave you alone,” I respond.
“Now that’s an idea,” she says, her lips forming a surprised smile. Her smile broadens as her mind recedes into some pleasant memory, so that when the dogs and I leave her, she looks almost happy.
12
MILES
IT LIES THERE ON HIS DESK LIKE AN INVITATION: The notepad with my dad’s writing:
The girl is the key. No drug without her. Possibly still in Alaska, but coming by boat to the continent. Around 17. Shortish: 5’5”. Long black hair. Two huskies. Gold starburst in one eye.
What’s a gold starburst? I wonder.
I push the notebook back to where it was when I found it. And then I get the hell out of there before Dad comes back.
13
JUNEAU
IF I HAVE TO TAKE A BOAT, I WILL NEED MONEY. Currency. “The root of all evil,” Dennis called it in our history class. He claimed that it was the cause of World War III. That capitalism and greed set the whole thing off, beginning with a war over oil and ending with the destruction of the environment. Although he was wrong about the war, everything I have read and heard about the world confirmed that money has always caused corruption. Now I have to find some money of my own. Just the thought of it makes me feel compromised.
There was no war. I still can’t believe we were so close to this city, yet we knew nothing. How could my father and the other elders have been so mistaken?
There’s no way they could know what happened, I realize. They’ve been isolating themselves for thirty years.
I push these thoughts aside. I have to find my clan. Even if their kidnappers aren’t brigands, they took my people and killed our animals. And I still have to find Whit. I need a clear sign to know what to do.
And suddenly the right person comes along. Someone whose thoughts are free of the restrictions of reality. Whose mind is open enough to access the collective unconscious shared by all humans past, present, and future.
She is an old woman dressed in a coat of rags. She pushes her way through the iron gate, dragging behind her a metal cart piled high with strange objects: old shoes, stacks of paper, aluminum cans laced on a string that clatter as they drag behind her.
She crosses the park and, seeing me, approaches. Beckett and Neruda glue themselves to either leg but don’t growl. She stops at the other end of my bench and slowly lowers herself to sit. Stowing her cart next to her, she pats it lovingly, like it is a baby in a carriage instead of a mountain of garbage. Then, turning, she looks vaguely in my direction. Her expression is glazed-over. Opaque.
“The men—they put a movie camera inside my television and watched everything I did,” she says matter-of-factly. “They even put a camera in my shower.”
I ignore her disheveled appearance and paranoid speech and see her for what she is. A gift from the Yara. “Can I hold your hand?” I ask. She hesitates, and suspicion flashes across her face. Leaning forward, she holds my gaze in hers. Then, finding what she is looking for, she gives a satisfied nod and pulls her right glove off. Removing my mittens, I take her gnarled, chapped hand in my own and hold my opal in the other.
“Thank you,” I say, “for being my connection to the Yara. I need to ask you some questions. Very important questions. Are you willing to answer them for me?”
“Of course, dear.” The woman’s eyes begin to look more focused, and a serene expression settles upon her face.
“I am looking for a friend. His name is Whittier Graves. I am picturing him in my mind right now. Can you see him?”
The old lady closes her eyes abruptly and then, opening them slowly, focuses on a spot in midair to the left of my head. “I see your friend,” she says.
“Where is he?”
“He is on a boat. Leaving our harbor.” She lifts her free hand and gives a distracted wave toward the invisible boat floating over my shoulder.
“What!” I exclaim, and then quickly control my emotions before I pass the shock on to my oracle. “When did he get on the boat?” I ask, my heart pounding painfully, but my voice as steady as I can manage.
“Moments ago.”
“Was he alone?” I ask, my already-cold face turning numb with fear.
“No, he was with a group of big men. Bad men. Two went with him and the others stayed.”
I fight to stay calm. “Do you know where his boat is going?” I ask. This is asking a lot of the woman. Using her to see the present and recent past is well within the bounds of realistic expectations. But from the oracle-reading exercises that Whit used to practice with me, I know this question verges on divination. The woman has to see into the future or even tap into Whit’s subconscious to give me an answer. The response I get will be cryptic at best. I focus on her, ready to catch every vital word.
The woman’s face crinkles in concentration. “Say it another way,” she responds after a few seconds.
I consider that, and finally ask, “Where must I go to find Whit and my clan?”
“You must go to your source,” she answers immediately.
“My source?” I ask, confused. “Denali?”
“No.” She shakes her head, frustrated by my incomprehension. “No, before that.”
“But I was born in Denali,” I respond.
Her frown deepens. “Aren’t you listening? You have to take a boat.” She is getting upset, and I know that her link with the Yara is fading if not already gone. I have so many questions I still want to ask. I flail around for the most important.
“Can you see my father? Do you know if he’s okay?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she says stubbornly, and tugs back the hand I am holding.
Disappointed, I take her glove and fit it carefully back over her fingers. She has returned to the mad world in her mind. She blinks, as if surprised, and I clasp her gloved hand until she is oriented.
“Thank you for your help,” I say, standing. The dogs are at my side in a flash.
“They’re watching me. They know everything I’m thinking,” the lady says.
“Tell them to go away, and maybe they’ll leave you alone,” I respond.
“Now that’s an idea,” she says, her lips forming a surprised smile. Her smile broadens as her mind recedes into some pleasant memory, so that when the dogs and I leave her, she looks almost happy.
12
MILES
IT LIES THERE ON HIS DESK LIKE AN INVITATION: The notepad with my dad’s writing:
The girl is the key. No drug without her. Possibly still in Alaska, but coming by boat to the continent. Around 17. Shortish: 5’5”. Long black hair. Two huskies. Gold starburst in one eye.
What’s a gold starburst? I wonder.
I push the notebook back to where it was when I found it. And then I get the hell out of there before Dad comes back.
13
JUNEAU
IF I HAVE TO TAKE A BOAT, I WILL NEED MONEY. Currency. “The root of all evil,” Dennis called it in our history class. He claimed that it was the cause of World War III. That capitalism and greed set the whole thing off, beginning with a war over oil and ending with the destruction of the environment. Although he was wrong about the war, everything I have read and heard about the world confirmed that money has always caused corruption. Now I have to find some money of my own. Just the thought of it makes me feel compromised.
