Until the Beginning
Page 9
As I look closer, I notice something different about the room. A rectangle of white cloth hangs on the wall to the side of the kitchen, and in large letters across the top is written JUNEAU. Intrigued, I focus on the handwritten sign.
BEAUREGARD’S BONES SAID YOU’D BE CHECKING IN. BIRD MISSES YOU. SO DO I. TAKE CARE. A wide smile stretches across my face. How like Tallie to write me a note after reading her possum bones. She feels like an adopted aunt. A slightly crazy one: the best kind. She misses me. And so does Poe.
I wish I could call him back to me right now. And as that thought crosses my mind, the bird in the fire flaps his wings and squawks. Tallie glances up from her book, and then looks around the room as if she senses I am there. Which is impossible, I know. But for a second our connection is so strong that I can almost feel the warmth of her fire and smell the freshly cut pine branches. “You take care, too,” I whisper. I let my connection to the Yara fade until the image in the flames disappears and the night is silent once again.
The fire burns low before I finally rise to go to the tent. I lie down but can’t sleep. I want to be in the back of the truck, next to Miles, but am afraid of waking him. He needs sleep. Opening his eyes and talking as quickly as he did is a good sign. He’s already responding faster than most Rite-travelers. Although we need to get as far away from Whit, Mr. Blackwell, and their people as we can, Miles’s recovery will be faster if his rest is uninterrupted.
My body is tired, but in my mind ideas are hopping and spitting like beads of water on a hot skillet. I leave the tent and add a few sticks to the fire, blowing on the embers until flames lick upward. Taking a thick branch I had set aside, I get out my knife and begin stripping the bark. I sing as I carve—a post-Rite song that the children sing around the yurt—and hope the words and melody will reach Miles and comfort him.
10
MILES
I AM BACK IN THE DREAM I HAD WHEN I SLEPT IN my car in the desert near Vegas. Juneau stands before me in a snowy landscape, dressed head to toe in skins and furs. Her long black hair cascades over her shoulders halfway down her back. The small box she holds out toward me spills golden light that bonds with my skin, starting with my feet and inching up my body as the molten metal burns its way to my bones. I can’t move—I’m paralyzed.
“Juneau!” I cry, wanting her to close the box and turn off the lavalike liquid gold, but she just smiles at me. She is beautiful. Serene. “You are one with the Yara,” she says as the gold reaches my neck and begins strangling the life out of me.
I ignite. I am a burning effigy of myself, and the snow around me melts from the heat I send off. Juneau, cheeks flaring pink in the heat of my flames, leans in slowly until her lips meet mine. I disperse into a million tiny sparks and fly upward to join my light with those of the stars.
That’s where the dream ended last time. But now, the sparks stop and begin rushing back downward, fitting themselves together like a puzzle until I am standing there once again, whole, golden. And then the light fades and I regain my normal color and Juneau takes my hands and begins laughing. “You’re like us now,” she says. “Your life is the earth’s, and earth will preserve you. You’re Gaia’s own child—protected from illness.”
I look down at my hands—at my arms—and see the elements. I am made of water. Of earth and air and fire. I am no longer myself.
And upon that thought, I awake. I open my eyes and see a million stars scattered across the night sky above me. I try to lift my hand . . . to see if the dream was nightmare or reality . . . but can only move my fingers.
And then I remember. I died. And Juneau brought me back. I am struck by a wave of panic. What exactly have I become? Am I even human anymore? How do I know that Juneau’s Rite had the same effect on me that it did on her clan? I’m not a hippy. I’m not an environmentalist. I haven’t grown up talking to plants and seeing into the future.
It’s Juneau, my heart reminds me. The girl you gave up everything to run off with. The girl you . . . care for, more than you’ve ever cared for anyone else. If you can’t trust her, who can you trust?
And though I feel like I’m suffocating in fear and uncertainty, long fingers of sleep grab at me and begin pulling me under. I have one last thought before unconsciousness overtakes me. I am no longer what I was before.
11
JUNEAU
I AWAKE TO THE BUZZING OF BEES. SWATTING THE air around my head, I force open my sleepy eyes to a melon-colored sky. I sit up and see that it is dawn. The sun is barely visible behind the far-off horizon.
I have fallen asleep next to the now-cold fire. On the ground beside me is a pile of wood shavings and four smoothly carved pieces of wood, each gouged with a notch that will allow them to fit together to make two crossbows. They are almost as pretty as my last one, but have yet to be fitted with string, mirror, and spare parts carved out of bone, repair essentials that I always carry with me. I have a small arsenal of wooden bolts in my backpack. We won’t be weaponless for long.
The buzzing sound is fading, but now it alternates with a mechanical puttering noise. Could it be a motorbike? Something like the desert-ready motorcycles owned by the man who traded cars with me? I turn in a circle, scanning the horizon. And then I see it. A small airplane heading north. Although too far to have spotted us, it’s close enough for me to see the symbol painted on its tail: a black circle enclosing the letters BP, and between them a stick with a serpent wrapped around it. Ice flows through my veins as I recognize the logo of Blackwell Pharmaceutical—the same one that marked the airplane I was kidnapped in, the car I was driven in, and the building I was brought to against my will.
BEAUREGARD’S BONES SAID YOU’D BE CHECKING IN. BIRD MISSES YOU. SO DO I. TAKE CARE. A wide smile stretches across my face. How like Tallie to write me a note after reading her possum bones. She feels like an adopted aunt. A slightly crazy one: the best kind. She misses me. And so does Poe.
I wish I could call him back to me right now. And as that thought crosses my mind, the bird in the fire flaps his wings and squawks. Tallie glances up from her book, and then looks around the room as if she senses I am there. Which is impossible, I know. But for a second our connection is so strong that I can almost feel the warmth of her fire and smell the freshly cut pine branches. “You take care, too,” I whisper. I let my connection to the Yara fade until the image in the flames disappears and the night is silent once again.
The fire burns low before I finally rise to go to the tent. I lie down but can’t sleep. I want to be in the back of the truck, next to Miles, but am afraid of waking him. He needs sleep. Opening his eyes and talking as quickly as he did is a good sign. He’s already responding faster than most Rite-travelers. Although we need to get as far away from Whit, Mr. Blackwell, and their people as we can, Miles’s recovery will be faster if his rest is uninterrupted.
My body is tired, but in my mind ideas are hopping and spitting like beads of water on a hot skillet. I leave the tent and add a few sticks to the fire, blowing on the embers until flames lick upward. Taking a thick branch I had set aside, I get out my knife and begin stripping the bark. I sing as I carve—a post-Rite song that the children sing around the yurt—and hope the words and melody will reach Miles and comfort him.
10
MILES
I AM BACK IN THE DREAM I HAD WHEN I SLEPT IN my car in the desert near Vegas. Juneau stands before me in a snowy landscape, dressed head to toe in skins and furs. Her long black hair cascades over her shoulders halfway down her back. The small box she holds out toward me spills golden light that bonds with my skin, starting with my feet and inching up my body as the molten metal burns its way to my bones. I can’t move—I’m paralyzed.
“Juneau!” I cry, wanting her to close the box and turn off the lavalike liquid gold, but she just smiles at me. She is beautiful. Serene. “You are one with the Yara,” she says as the gold reaches my neck and begins strangling the life out of me.
I ignite. I am a burning effigy of myself, and the snow around me melts from the heat I send off. Juneau, cheeks flaring pink in the heat of my flames, leans in slowly until her lips meet mine. I disperse into a million tiny sparks and fly upward to join my light with those of the stars.
That’s where the dream ended last time. But now, the sparks stop and begin rushing back downward, fitting themselves together like a puzzle until I am standing there once again, whole, golden. And then the light fades and I regain my normal color and Juneau takes my hands and begins laughing. “You’re like us now,” she says. “Your life is the earth’s, and earth will preserve you. You’re Gaia’s own child—protected from illness.”
I look down at my hands—at my arms—and see the elements. I am made of water. Of earth and air and fire. I am no longer myself.
And upon that thought, I awake. I open my eyes and see a million stars scattered across the night sky above me. I try to lift my hand . . . to see if the dream was nightmare or reality . . . but can only move my fingers.
And then I remember. I died. And Juneau brought me back. I am struck by a wave of panic. What exactly have I become? Am I even human anymore? How do I know that Juneau’s Rite had the same effect on me that it did on her clan? I’m not a hippy. I’m not an environmentalist. I haven’t grown up talking to plants and seeing into the future.
It’s Juneau, my heart reminds me. The girl you gave up everything to run off with. The girl you . . . care for, more than you’ve ever cared for anyone else. If you can’t trust her, who can you trust?
And though I feel like I’m suffocating in fear and uncertainty, long fingers of sleep grab at me and begin pulling me under. I have one last thought before unconsciousness overtakes me. I am no longer what I was before.
11
JUNEAU
I AWAKE TO THE BUZZING OF BEES. SWATTING THE air around my head, I force open my sleepy eyes to a melon-colored sky. I sit up and see that it is dawn. The sun is barely visible behind the far-off horizon.
I have fallen asleep next to the now-cold fire. On the ground beside me is a pile of wood shavings and four smoothly carved pieces of wood, each gouged with a notch that will allow them to fit together to make two crossbows. They are almost as pretty as my last one, but have yet to be fitted with string, mirror, and spare parts carved out of bone, repair essentials that I always carry with me. I have a small arsenal of wooden bolts in my backpack. We won’t be weaponless for long.
The buzzing sound is fading, but now it alternates with a mechanical puttering noise. Could it be a motorbike? Something like the desert-ready motorcycles owned by the man who traded cars with me? I turn in a circle, scanning the horizon. And then I see it. A small airplane heading north. Although too far to have spotted us, it’s close enough for me to see the symbol painted on its tail: a black circle enclosing the letters BP, and between them a stick with a serpent wrapped around it. Ice flows through my veins as I recognize the logo of Blackwell Pharmaceutical—the same one that marked the airplane I was kidnapped in, the car I was driven in, and the building I was brought to against my will.
