“Whit is the one who came up with all this?” he asks.
“Yes, although a lot of what he found he says he gathered from traditions all over the world, especially eastern—like Buddhism and Hinduism. That was apparently all the rage in America back in the sixties. I read about Catholics using rosaries or icons to focus and Buddhists using prayer beads or mandalas or candles. I think these objects”—I gesture to the pile of stuff—“serve the same purpose for Whit. But I’ve begun to suspect that the objects themselves aren’t important. It seems more like the intent behind their use, the will of the user, makes the difference.”
“Then why do you still use the firepowder and your opal?” Miles asks.
“Just because I have my theory doesn’t mean I trust it to work,” I say. “Those are only things I’ve been thinking about. But my connection to the Yara seems to be getting weaker and weaker. I wouldn’t dare try to change the rules now.” I realize that I’ve been petting my opal comfortingly as I have been talking, and press it against my chest to reassure myself that it is still there, my link to the collective unconscious of the superorganism. The Yara.
I feel the need to change the subject and, reaching back into the pack, pull out the Gaia Movement book. Flipping to the back, I pull out the photo I’ve carried with me all the way from Denali. “These are my parents,” I say, handing it to him.
“Old picture?” he asks, peering at it.
“Before I was born,” I confirm.
As he studies it, I notice something different about him. There’s a softness that I haven’t seen before. And I realize it’s because he’s let his guard down. He actually looks kind.
Once again I see him through Nome’s eyes. “Checking him out,” she would say. He is handsome in a refined, pampered way, not earthy and rugged like Kenai. The lines of his face—his cheekbones, his chin, his aquiline nose—are as strong and defined as if they were carved from sculpting clay with a fettling knife.
He glances back and forth between me and the picture, comparing my face to those of my parents. And as his lake-green eyes flit over my features, something in me stirs. It feels like the tug in my chest that happened every time I stepped out of my yurt in the morning and witnessed the beauty of Mount Denali towering over our village. Even though I had grown up there and had seen the same view every day, I never failed to be overwhelmed by its splendor.
That’s it, I think. That’s the familiar tug inside me. Miles is beautiful. Without thinking, I raise my hand to my chest and press it with my palm like I did every morning, pushing the emotion back in so it wouldn’t spill out.
A leader must be strong. Must not let emotion affect action, I remind myself. I was soon to become clan Sage. I had responsibilities.
I have responsibilities. The realization startles me from my reverie. My goal is to find and save my people. I rise to my feet. I can’t allow myself to be sidetracked from the most important thing in my life.
The safety of my clan depends on my doing everything I can to find them. Not spending time chatting with a teenage boy who was kicked out of school for something even he admits was idiotic.
Miles takes my standing as a sign that the show-and-tell session is over and rises to his feet. He hands the photo back to me. “You look just like your mom,” he says.
“Thanks. Everyone says that we’d look like twins—if she hadn’t died when I was five,” I reply evenly, tucking the photo back into the book.
Miles hesitates, and then says, “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t actually remember her that well. My dad raised me with the help of the clan, and Whit’s been my mentor ever since Mom died.”
“So your dad must be what, in his fifties now? He looks pretty young here.” He points to the photo.
I laugh. “He’s fifty-eight. And he looks the same now as he did in the picture.”
“Except that he’s probably got gray hair and wrinkles,” Miles says.
“No. My dad’s one with the Yara. He hasn’t aged a day since this picture was taken,” I insist.
Miles narrows his eyes. “Yeah, right,” he says with a little twist of his lips. And just like that, his wall is back up and I can see that he hasn’t believed a word I have said. I’m supremely glad I stopped myself from going into more detail about the Yara. From trusting him with my beliefs.
“Are we going to have dinner tonight?” he asks, while it’s clear that his real question is, “When are you going to cook for me?”
“Not hungry,” I say, and then realize I’m famished. “If you want dinner, you cook. At least that’ll guarantee you won’t be forced to ingest lizard tonight.” I can’t help the frost in my voice.