After the End (5 page)
“Round-trip that’ll be one thousand ninety-four dollars,” the boy says, “two thousand if you want a private cabin.”
“I only need to go one way,” I say, digging into my pack for money. “How long does it take?”
“Four days, eight hours,” he responds. “When do you want to leave?”
“Today.”
“You’re in luck. We have a boat embarking in a half hour,” he says, pointing to a shiny blue-and-white ship at the far end of the harbor. A thrill passes through me as I realize that I will actually be riding on a boat. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have even expected to see one. I feel like I’m in a dream—like I’ve suddenly been popped into some sort of strange new world.
A long line of people pull rolling suitcases up the boat’s lowered gangplank. I hoist my pack onto my back and shove the ticket the boy gives me into my parka pocket. “Have a good trip,” he says in a voice that indicates he couldn’t care less whether my trip is good or not.
I am three steps away from the ticket office when I see the men. They are dressed the same as the ones who held Whit in the fire-Reading vision. And they are seated yards away from the loading ferry.
Slowly, I back up behind the edge of the ticket office, careful not to draw their attention. Once I’m out of sight, I poke my head out to watch them and am paralyzed by fear. They are checking out every passenger who gets on the boat. Carefully.
I reach automatically for my dogs. It takes a second for me to remember that I no longer have Beckett and Neruda for protection, and at that thought I’m struck breathless by grief. They couldn’t help against these men anyway, I tell myself, remembering the bloody masses of fur throughout our village. I suck the cold air into my lungs and accept the fact that from now on, I am truly on my own.
I peer into the mirrored window beside me. I look like an adolescent boy. It’s only when I speak that I give myself away. Even so, I wonder how quickly it will take these men to figure out that the adolescent boy boarding the ferry by himself is actually the girl they’re searching for.
Not long,
I think.
I remove the baseball cap and run my fingers through my spiky hair. It is short—really short—but it’s still black. And it’s not like I was able to change my height—I’m still five foot five and fine-boned. From where they’re sitting, they’ll be too far away to notice my eyes. But if they come within a few feet of me, they’re sure to see the starburst.
My neck muscles tense as my fear is replaced with anger. At myself. For being naive enough to believe that I could fool my pursuers with these weak attempts at a transformation.
Transformation. The word plants a seed of inspiration in my mind, which springs into a fully formed idea. I plunge my hand into the backpack and rummage around until my fingers touch a soft lump of fur. I pull it from the pack to see Whit’s rabbits’-feet amulet: one foot white and another brown, bound together by a thin copper wire. The snowshoe hare in its winter and summer incarnations. I think back to the day when he taught me about transformation.
“An animal that changes color with the season. Nature’s metamorphosis. Can you get any more magical than that?” Whit said as he instructed me to bind the two feet together. “Camouflage is one of nature’s most crafty defenses,” he continued. “A temporary form of metamorphosis. Watch what the Yara allows, Juneau.” And taking the rabbit feet between his fingers he suddenly—and startlingly—changed color. His skin turned a dark earthen color like the yurt around him, and his hair transformed from black to chestnut brown. Even his hazel eyes morphed into a deep chocolate color. Then, setting the furry amulet down on the table, he instantly changed back.
“This is the amulet I use when I camouflage the yurts from brigands. You’ll need to know how. Try it,” he said, handing me the amulet, and showed me how to use it by visualizing the rabbit’s seasonal transformation.
That is the only Conjuring I have done by myself. Whit demonstrated things for me but was waiting until I turned twenty and underwent the Rite before letting me Conjure on my own.
Whit had explained that because Conjuring actually has an effect on nature, unlike Reading, it shouldn’t be used lightly.
But now I have no choice. I have to try. I hold the furry amulet between my fingers and open myself to the Yara. As usual, I feel the tingling the second my mind taps into the stream of nature’s consciousness, and begin picturing a snowshoe hare in summer with rusty brown fur and mahogany eyes.
I speed time up, flashing through a few months, and watch the animal forage for soft flower buds in the browning tundra grasses. I watch its fur begin its transformation just before winter’s first snowfall, and soon its pelt is pure white, except for the black tufts tipping its ears.
I switch my focus to my image in the mirrored glass and watch, astonished, as my body begins to take on the colors of the snowy harbor around me. My suntanned skin fades to milky white. My black hair transforms to a pearl-white blond. And as I lean toward the mirror I see that my eyes match those of the rabbit whose feet I hold: dark brown, almost black. No starburst in sight.
Size,
I think.
Make me bigger. Taller.
But my shape in the reflection stays the same. This is the extent of the Conjuring. Now I must make it last long enough to get me safely past the men and into the boat.
I swing the pack onto my back and stride purposefully toward the boat, adding what I imagine to be a boyish gait to my steps. My stomach twists itself in knots as I near the men, but I keep my gaze steadfastly on the ferry and try to ignore them.
I near the base of the gangplank. My palm has coated the rabbits’ feet in sweat, and my heart hammers painfully in my chest. I feel the men’s eyes on me, studying my face as I wait my turn behind an elderly couple wearing fur-lined cowboy hats. My throat clenches as I see one of the men get up and walk toward me until he stands only a couple of feet away.
I can’t help myself: I look his way. As soon as his eyes meet mine, the aggressive hunch of his shoulders relaxes. He crosses his arms and nods at me, and then turns to go back to his partner. I am so numb with fear that I can barely move forward when the couple in front of me steps onto the boat. But I manage to hand my ticket to the woman at the door, and climbing into the artificially lit room beyond, I slump onto the first bench I see. Dropping the amulet, I feel my rabbit-invoked disguise disappear, and I become myself again.
I GET HOME TO FIND AN EMPTY HOUSE. THERE’S A note on the kitchen counter.
Miles, I’ve got a family emergency. Left you a casserole for tonight and will stop by tomorrow to check on you. Give me a call if you need anything.
Mrs. Kirby
I finally have a weekend alone . . . no, make that a long weekend, since on Monday the office is closed for a holiday. Three days to myself. I load my plate with chicken casserole and settle in front of the TV. I notice a light on in Dad’s office and go to turn it off, only to see that it’s the glow from his computer screen. When I touch the mouse, his screen saver disappears to show his open email account. Several unread messages sit in his in-box, and the subject of the last one is
Re: the girl
.
I click on it and read the two-sentence message it holds.
Source says she’s taken a boat from Anchorage to Seattle. Sending men there.
I mark it as unread so Dad won’t know I saw it. It’ll come up on his cell phone anyway.
I turn the screen off and go back to the couch. And sit motionless for about five minutes. Because an idea’s forming in my head that’s too crazy to entertain. But maybe Dad won’t find out. If I keep checking in with Mrs. Kirby by phone, I could be gone for the whole weekend, and back to work on Tuesday without anyone knowing.
This could actually work. I mean, they’re looking for a teenage girl. Who better to find her than another teenager?
And then my rational mind kicks in. I check the distance on my iPhone—it’s a nineteen-hour drive from L.A. And Seattle’s a big city. And I’m not only grounded, I’m on lockdown—only allowed to leave the house to go to work and back.
But if I can pull this off, Dad will be so impressed that he might excuse me from the whole mail-room torture scheme. He might even pull strings to get me into Yale in the fall. And with that thought, I’m decided.
I scarf down the casserole and then throw some clothes in a suitcase. I don’t need much. I’ll only be gone for three days.
I HAVE BEEN HIDING IN MY ROOM—MY “CABIN”—since we embarked two days ago. As soon as we launched, I found the ship’s self-service dining area and stocked up on enough bread, fruit, and plastic-wrapped sandwiches to last me a few days. I haven’t ventured out since then.
I have never felt loneliness before. Even the time I got snowed in overnight on a hunting trip, I knew my father and clan were waiting for me, and actually enjoyed the time alone. Not now. I want to be home in my yurt with my father and dogs, knowing that Kenai’s and Nome’s families are within shouting distance. I hate this room where everything is made of plastic, on a boat in the middle of an unending ocean, among complete strangers.
I glance over at the photo of my parents, which is propped atop a tiny table. It is surrounded by the remaining supplies from the emergency shelter and the pile of things I brought from Whit’s yurt: feathers, fur, stones, powders, dried plants, and books. The objects are familiar. Soothing.
I return to the book I am reading on the history of the Gaia Movement of the 1960s. It’s about how earth is a superorganism, which I know was one of the theories that led Whit to the discovery of the Yara and the tapping of its powers. Normally I’m not allowed to browse freely through his books—he has me on a learning schedule and is very strict about revealing things in “the right order.” So this book is new to me, and I am greedily gobbling up every tidbit of new information.
I set the book down on my bunk to get a bottle of water, and when I come back, the pages have flipped to the front. I begin turning back to my place, but I see something that makes me hesitate. I go back to the copyright page.
The book was published in 2002.
I stare at the number. And then I drop the book, recoiling as if it had transformed into a rattlesnake. I stumble to my feet and back up as far as I can, wedging myself into a corner of the room.
My head spins and I feel like I’m going to keel over. Unthinkable thoughts careen inside my mind. The elders said they escaped just before war broke out in the spring of 1984. Yet Whit had a book published in 2002.
Suddenly, I remember the expression on my father’s face whenever I asked him about the war. About his and my mother’s flight to safety. He never looked me in the eye when he told me that story. I always thought it was because the memories disturbed him. But that wasn’t why.
It was because there was no war.
He knew. They all knew, and someone—probably Whit—had even gone off-territory to get this book. The elders lied to us. Whit lied to us. My father . . . lied to me.
For the last twenty-four hours, my heart has known what my mind couldn’t admit. They knew.
I sink to the floor. Putting my head between my knees, I wrap my arms around my folded legs and rock back and forth. My mouth is dry and metallic tasting.
If the fundamental elements of my life—who I am, why and where my clan lived as we did . . . are all lies, then what can I believe? I have no idea what is truth and what is fiction. I have been brainwashed my entire childhood.
I’m all I’ve got now. I can’t trust anyone.
HOW DO YOU SEARCH AN ENTIRE CITY FOR SOMEONE you’ve never seen? You try to get into their head and think of where they would go. Considering she’s a teenage girl, my first thought is shopping. But when I arrive in Seattle Saturday night, the stores are already closing.
My second thought is to check the city’s popular hangout spots. My internet search of Seattle told me to go to Capitol Hill, Belltown, and here, Pioneer Square, where I am sitting on the steps, eating a sandwich. For an hour, I watch people come and go, and don’t see anyone who fits the description on Dad’s notepad.
I drive north to Capitol Hill and begin combing the streets, looking for a girl with two huskies.
How hard can that be?
I think. But as I walk I begin to get an idea of the scale of the city and start to realize how stupid my plan is. It would be like trying to spot a friend at the Super Bowl without having a clue where their seat is. How in the world am I going to find one girl in the middle of this enormous city? I am well and truly fucked.
THE DAY I ARRIVE IN SEATTLE, I WANDER FOR hours watching the city, trying to understand how it works: the cars and the different-colored lights that show them when to stop or go, the people dressed in the same dark colors, walking swiftly and looking worried, as if they are all about to miss something important. I move past them, unremarkable in my boy’s clothes, cap pulled low over my eyes so that people won’t stare at them.
I stalk the city like an animal until I understand its rhythm and can walk through its streets as invisible as I am when I hunt my prey. Once I am able to navigate with confidence, I decide to try to reproduce my most successful Reading so far and set out to find another oracle.
“Look, it’s Crazy Frankie,” I hear a little boy say to his mother. She shushes him and walks quickly away. I look to where he was pointing and see him sitting against a building on a street corner: a broken man, wizened skin like moose-hide leather left for months in the sun. A hat sits in front of him with coins inside, and empty metal cans with
BEER
printed on them are scattered around him.
I approach. His odor is pungent. Rancid. “May I sit next to you?” I ask, and he looks up at me with watery red eyes.
“Sure,” he says, and knocks a few of the cans out of the way. I ignore the stares of the passersby who look at us oddly.
“Can I ask you some questions?” I ask.
“Well, why not? Shoot away!” he says, and I reach for his hand. His fingers are caked with grime; his fingernails outlined in dirt. I grasp my opal with my free hand and look him straight in the eyes. “Do you mind being my oracle?” I ask. “There is some information I need to know.”
“Well, I can sure as hell try,” he says with a shattered-glass voice. And as the tingling of the Yara connection moves through me to him, his breathing grows calm and his eyes clear.
“I am picturing my father in my mind. Could you tell me how I can find him?”
The man sits silently for a moment, looking at a space above my head. “You can’t do it alone,” he says finally. “You must find someone to take you on your journey.”
“Who?” I ask. “How will I find them?”
Frankie leans his head to one side like he’s thinking, and then says, “You will know who he is because his name will take you far.”
My heart drops. It’s a riddle. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. I can’t expect a clear answer from a divination. “Can you tell me anything else about this person?”
“Yes,” responds Frankie. “You must be completely honest with him. Tell him everything he wants to know. But whatever you do, don’t trust him. He needs you as much as you need him.”
I push a little further. “Once I find the person you’re talking about, where do we go to find my father?”
“South . . . southeast. A place that is the exact opposite of here,” Frankie says, and an image forms in my mind of a barren landscape with cactus and strange rock formations.
He’s given me more than I was hoping for. “Thank you,” I say.
“One more thing,” the man says, and I can feel our link weakening and see the watery haze start to return to his eyes. “When you find the one who will accompany you, don’t let him use his cell phone.”
“What’s a cell phone?” I ask, releasing his hand and letting our connection break. He leans his head back against the wall and begins chuckling.
“Thank you for helping me,” I say, and fishing in my bag, pull out a few bills and place them carefully in his hat.
He picks up the money and looks up at me, surprised. “Hey, missy, that’s way too much,” he says as I walk away.
“It’s not, believe me,” I say, and set out to find a place to sleep for the night.
