Whit was injured in the wreck, and is being kept in some type of medical clinic or hospital. Which means he’s not after me. For the moment.
My anger mounts as I watch him. He’s a traitor. Using me and my clan as a “field test” so that he could sell the drug—the powerful mix of herbs, powdered minerals, and blood that we use in the Rite—to the outside world.
I wonder how much the other elders knew of what Whit was doing. I am more convinced than ever that the elixir was the reason they hid us all in the Alaskan wilderness. It was because of the Amrit that they made up the story they told us about an apocalypse. They didn’t want us to leave. But why?
Maybe they wanted to hide the fact that they didn’t age from the outside world. But that could have gone undetected for years. Having studied clan history, I know the date that they gave us for the onset of World War III, 1984, coincided with the birth of the first child to clan elders. Did they hide because they discovered Amrit caused a visible mutation in their offspring? That seemed a little more plausible. But even so, isn’t it easier to hide a few children than entire families of well-connected scientists and theorists?
Maybe they needed the time to see how a second generation of Amrit users would fare. They wanted to make sure that the children’s mutations were limited to the gold starburst in our eyes. As for Whit, he must have decided that if the elixir didn’t prove to have more serious side effects, he would expose our secret . . . for a price.
I can’t imagine that my parents were in on Whit’s plans. I can’t imagine them bringing me into this world as a field test.
My parents loved me. And they loved the rest of the clan. They would never do something that would expose our people to harm. Especially if it was just to make a profit in the commercial world that they shunned.
As my thoughts return to the here and now, I see that Whit’s image has disappeared from the flames. I concentrate once more, picturing Miles’s father in my head. “Mr. Blackwell,” I say, and watch the flames. Nothing happens. I wonder if it only works with people I am close to. I never had to test this before—I knew all of my clan members as well as I knew myself.
I try my father, but only see the dark interior of an adobe hut. He must be asleep.
I try one more name. “Tallie,” I say, and up from the fire rises the image of a woman with long curly hair the same color as the flames. She sits with a book in her one-room cabin, before her own blazing hearth. And just beside her, peering into the flames as if he himself could Read, is a black raven, as big as a cat.
Poe. I can’t stop the smile that comes at the sight of him. I miss my huskies, Neruda and Beckett. They were such a fundamental part of my everyday life that I feel naked—exposed—without them. And although nothing can fill the hole that they left, I was a little less lonely the few days Poe was with me.
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