I don’t yet know which path we’ll take to the ocean, but it doesn’t matter. I have a stop to make before I leave clan territory.
Beckett and Neruda slow as we near the emergency shelter. They’ve been here before and sense where we are going. They stop at the boulder marking the edge of our clan’s boundary, and I leap off the sled to clear the snow from an indentation at the base of the boulder. Shoving my mittens into my pockets, I scrabble with my fingertips to dig out the edge of the loose sod. I feel the tarp and, grasping it with both hands, pull it back to expose the trapdoor.
Whit made the door spring-activated so even the smallest of the children could access the shelter if necessary. All it takes is a light pull on the ring and the heavy plank swings upward, revealing a wooden staircase descending into the dark. I walk down a few steps and then detach the lantern from its hook under the cave ceiling. Using my flint, I light the wick, although I don’t really need its glow: I know this place by heart. Nome, Kenai, and I check it once a month, year-round, to make sure that scavengers haven’t discovered our stores. We restock the dried meats and make sure the worms haven’t gotten the rest.
We are taught where this shelter is as soon as we can drive a dogsled. “Just in case,” our parents tell us. We all know what the unspoken “case” is. Attack by brigands. Discovery by survivors of the war. The shelter has hidden us the handful of times that Whit has Read brigands nearby. It’s been an integral part of our security since the beginning.
What we never planned on was an abduction of the entire clan. So there is no one here to meet me. No one to wait for. Only supplies to pick up before I flee.
I take one of the empty bags and fill it with enough provisions for the dogs and me. Three . . . no, four days of food, unhooking dried meat and fish from where it hangs from hooks in the ceiling, well out of reach of rodents. Dried beans that can be hydrated in melted snow. A cooking pot. My sled already holds survival basics in case I get trapped while hunting: furs and a tiny caribou-skin pup tent. But for three days in the outdoors, I take one of the winter tents: its white-cured leather will be invisible against the snow.
And finally, in case I am captured, I bring insurance. Something valuable I can use to negotiate with brigands.
I make three trips between the shelter and the sled before I am finally ready. Ready for what? I think, realizing I have no idea where I’m going.
Until I get a sign of where my clan was taken, the best I can do is try to find Whit. His captors have got to be part of the same group of brigands. I peer up at the sun—already far to the west—and then at the shadow the boulder casts in the snow. I have at least three hours until sundown. In midsummer we have twenty hours of functional light, as compared to the short five-hour days of winter. I know the earth’s calendar like I know my own body’s. Today I have time to travel a good distance before the sun sets.
There is no time to lose. The temperature will drop with sunset, and although I have my arsenal against the cold, I will need every advantage I can get in a new terrain. “Hike!” I yell to the dogs. Unnecessarily. They are already running and we are once again off across the white expanse, heading south. Across the boundary. Out of the protection of my clan and into the wild.
* * *
We run for an hour before I attempt to Read.
Serenity. Your connection with the earth. A quiet spirit is essential. I hear Whit’s words in my mind, complete with his clipped, practical tone.
Serenity. Not quite my frame of mind at the moment. Panic, maybe. Insecurity . . . fear, definitely. It’s going to be a far stretch for me to reach serenity anytime soon.
I have no choice. The only thing directing me is my general knowledge that the ocean is south. I’m going to need more than that, or I could lose precious hours: Whit was already at the ocean when I saw him in present-time. And my clan was taken by air. I am moving at a snail’s pace compared to them. They might not even be in Alaska anymore. They might not even be alive. Reality slams me like a pickax.
Stop! I reprove myself, clenching my fists against the sled rail. In the distance, I spot a flock of Canada geese flying toward us in a perfect V. They’re flying north, returning to Alaska in their spring migration. I adjust our trajectory slightly to align with their path so that we’re pointing due south, and then yell, “Easy!”
The dogs slow down, and at “Whoa,” they come to a stop. I step off the sled and lean down to wipe the snow from the ground. Pulling my opal over my head, I press it to the earth. I think of my father and get nothing in response.
Fear courses through me. This has never happened. Does it mean he’s dead, I wonder, or just too far away?