Until the Beginning

My father urged me to consider what I believed. To make my own choice about the nature of Gaia and the Yara. And I realize that I already have.

 

I know—from the depths of my being—that Gaia is made up of more than atoms. Gaia is more than mere science. Gaia—the superorganism—is a living, sentient being that uses its children—those who are one with the Yara—to protect her. Gaia empowers us for a reason and rewards us by preserving us—keeping us safe from disease. From typical human aging.

 

Whit thought that Amrit would work on anyone—even those who are not Gaia’s children. But I watch Avery drop to one knee and begin shooting at the marble stags atop his fountain, and know that Whit was wrong. Gaia knows who will serve her and who won’t.

 

I look up to where the moon glows through the storm clouds and discover that a truth has been born in my mind. Is on the tip of my tongue. Our relationship with Gaia is symbiotic. She uses us to protect her, and in turn she protects us. It is the power of Gaia that I am meant to invoke.

 

And with that realization, I throw my head back and stretch my arms wide, like I do when I Read the wind. And with everything I am, I call the mother. The source. The vessel for everything that exists. I call her to come to the aid of her people. To protect herself and her own. And, when I open my eyes, she has responded.

 

The rain intensifies, and torrential winds make it difficult for the fighters to stand their ground. It looks like a monsoon has descended on this patch of the New Mexico desert.

 

My people know how to deal with the elements. We’ve lived our lives outdoors. I watch as they use rocks and trees as hunting blinds and the weather as camouflage as they move from position to position. Meanwhile, Avery’s army falls apart, scrambling for shelter while shooting haphazardly in all directions.

 

And then—barely visible through the streaking rain—dark shapes begin to emerge from the forest, slowly separating from the trees. Animals! Gaia has sent the animals. And they are heading directly toward us.

 

The rain is whipping down, animals are chasing guards out of the woods, and all hell is breaking loose. I make out the forms of large cats, wolves, and even a bear. But the only action that can be clearly seen is within the circular areas lit up by the floodlights stationed around the lawn.

 

Avery and four guards crouch behind the fountain, guns raised, trying to get a bead on the animals without shooting their own men.

 

A shot rings out from Avery and his group, and I see a tiger drop to the ground, snarling and injured. “They’re killing the animals!” I yell.

 

Miles has been standing beside me this whole time, but I was so concentrated on my task that I forgot he was there until he takes a step in front of me. He seems to be calculating something as he peers out at the scene, and then I see him narrow his eyes. Suddenly, one of the floodlights explodes, plunging the area around it into pitch dark. My mouth drops open. “Miles!” I exclaim. “Did you do that? Did you Conjure?”

 

Miles turns his head and gives me this look . . . one I’ve never seen. It must be what my dad was referring to when he said Miles had the makings of a leader. This is strong Miles. Proud Miles. Miles who is in his element. And I am overwhelmed by a fierce pride. He is with me, this self-assured man who cares for me. Maybe even loves me, I think. Because I’m beginning to realize that’s what I feel for him.

 

He sees my emotion and, taking my hand, pulls me next to him. “It’s a conversation for another time,” he says and points to one side of the yard. “You take those, and I’ll get the rest.” In under a minute, we have disabled all of the floodlights and submerged the scene into darkness.

 

“I hope your people can see in the dark,” Miles says.

 

“Oh, trust me . . . they can,” I respond, as a familiar whistle comes from behind us. Through the open door I see my dad running down the stairs with Holly, who is carrying a wide-eyed Badger. The white-uniformed housekeeper is with them, leading them down the stairs and then right into the trophy room.

 

“You go with them,” Miles says, and rockets out into the dark, keeping against the front of the house, well out of the line of fire.

 

“Be safe!” I call.

 

“Always!” I hear him yell.

 

I leave the porch and run in after my father, following them through the animal-head room, into the hallway, and through a door into the parking garage. “We’ll take the Hummer,” the housekeeper yells. “They leave the keys in the ignition.” She weaves her way past the other cars toward a monstrous vehicle. She opens the back door for Holly, who climbs in and begins attaching a seat belt around Badger. The housekeeper jumps into the passenger seat, and my father climbs in behind the wheel.

 

From outside, yells and screams, both human and animal, split the night air. My father turns to me. “Juneau. Come with us.”

 

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