After the End(6)

Juneau, run! My father’s words shake me back into action, and I sweep bags of dried herbs, vials of plant extracts, powders, and precious stones off Whit’s shelves into my pack. I don’t know what he will need, so I take a bit of everything. I grab a stack of his treasured books off his desk and shove them in with the rest.

I whistle and the dogs come running. “Good boys,” I say as they sit in front of the sled, waiting for me to clip them on. I secure the pack to the sled, and then, glancing back at my home, I tell the dogs to wait and push my way through the flaps.

I see the fire and am tempted to Read it. But I can’t ignore the words on the ground and choose to wait until I reach Whit. And although I know that the fire will burn itself out, I take the pail of melted snow water and throw it onto the embers.

I pick up the framed photograph of my parents that sits on my nightstand. It was taken the month before our clan’s emigration. A month before the war. My mother and father stand in front of their house in Seattle. Mother’s head rests on my father’s shoulder, and he has both arms around her.

In the picture she looks just like me. Long, straight black hair, courtesy of her Chinese mother, wide-set full-moon eyes and high cheekbones from her American dad. Dad said that if she hadn’t drowned when I was still a young child, we would look like twins now.

In this old photo, my father looks exactly the same as today, except for one difference: He is happier. More carefree. “The calm before the storm,” Father says when he refers to those days.

I slip the picture out of its frame and carefully slide it into my coat pocket. And before I leave the yurt, I bend down and brush out my father’s message, erasing everything but the letter “J.” If he comes back, he will know I have seen it.

I steer the dogs toward the woods. The moment we hit the trees, I hear the flying machine again. The chopping winglike noise coming from far away, barely audible but getting louder by the second. The brigands are returning, I realize with terror.

It takes great effort to push my fear aside. Stay calm, I think, and bring the huskies to a stop. I glance back at our camp and hesitate a second before leaping off the sled and running back toward the clearing. Breaking a low branch off a tree, I use it as a broom to sweep away the sled’s tracks, following my own footsteps well back into the trees. I look back at my handiwork—no one could see that we had been there or how we had left.

“Hike!” I yell, and we are off, streaking across the wooded path as fast as a hawk at hunt. And just in time. The noise is almost on top of us. Although I’m grateful for the thick tree cover, it prevents me from seeing what is flying overhead. All I get is a glimpse of metal shining through the branches.

We cover a distance that should have taken an hour in almost half the time. I don’t even have to tell the dogs how fast to go. They feel my fear and fly.

Whit’s cave is empty when we arrive. Not only is it empty, but from the cobwebs and the dank smell, it’s clear that there hasn’t been a fire here for months. I try to ignore the sharp sting of disappointment, the lump in my throat. Pulling the sled into the mouth of the cave to hide it from outside view, I stand trembling as the huskies clean themselves and scamper around.

I recall the mechanical chop chop chop of the flying machine’s wings, and it triggers a memory of reading an article in our school’s encyclopedia: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 15th Edition, printed in 1983, the year before World War III. “The EB,” we call it while quoting it dozens of times a day. Like all the clan children, I am so wildly curious about the world outside ours—a world now extinct—that I’ve practically memorized the whole thirty-volume series.

But the specific memory about the flying machines stays out of reach. I gather a bunch of kindling from Whit’s stack and pile it in the middle of the cave floor, on a spot already black from a hundred former fires. I place only two logs on it. I won’t be staying here long enough to need a roaring fire for warmth.

Once the flames catch and the dogs drape themselves close to the fire, I empty my pack. Placing the books to one side, I fish through the bags and rocks and bundles of leaves until I find what I’m looking for—Whit’s firepowder—and pour some into my hand.

One of the first things Whit taught me was how to connect to the Yara. In order to Read—to make your will known to the Yara and receive an answer, if the Yara decides to grant you with one—you must go through nature. We use animal bones to locate prey. Firepowder helps provide a good visual connection with fires, since you can’t actually touch them. But I use my opal for most other things. Whit says these objects are conduits, helping the information move back and forth.