Until the Beginning (11 page)

AFTER POE LEAVES, ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS
the note he’ll bring back. What will Dad say? No doubt he and the rest of the clan have Read that I was coming. Hopefully he can give me some indication of where they are. That is, if they’ve been allowed to move outside of their immediate area. The only images I’ve gotten of them show them near the adobe huts.

I wonder if they’ve even seen Whit or know of his betrayal. I suppose that they Read him, too, and probably saw images of him with the guards. From that, I’m sure the elders could hypothesize as to his part in this story.

Miles builds the fire in silence as I take the rabbits from the cloth I hurriedly wrapped them in and prepare them for roasting. I am grateful that he leaves me with my thoughts instead of asking worried questions about how I am doing (like Kenai would)
or drilling me for every single thought I had about the encounter with Whit (like Nome would).

Miles gets me. I mean, he didn’t at first. But he knows what I’ve gone through in the last few weeks. He was there. And he finally understands—as well as he can—what I come from.

He knows I need to be left alone right now. And I love him for that.

I noticed some spinach-like greens growing nearby, and picked some to go with our meal. Once enough fat has dripped off the rabbits into the pan, I add the greens and stir until they have wilted. All the while I am thinking. Hashing over what Whit told me in my mind. Picking it apart. Trying to sort what I know to be truth from what I suspect to be lies. Weighing everyone’s motivation: my mother and father’s, Whit’s, the other elders’.

When the rabbits are done, I come out of my daze and see Miles sitting across the fire from me. He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I found the perfect spot for dinner,” he says. “If you’d like to take the rabbits, I’ll take”—he looks down at the pan—“whatever that is, and we’re on our way.”

I wrap one of the rabbits in cloth—it will be our meal tomorrow—and taking the other, follow Miles to the top of the hill and out onto a rocky outcropping. One of our blankets is spread on the ground, with camping plates, knives, and forks laid out on it beside paper napkins. In the center is a small mountain of wildflowers, arranged in an impromptu bouquet. “When did you
do all this?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise at this un-Miles-like gesture.

“You were off in la-la land for a good half hour. I was just trying to be useful.” Miles plays it off like it’s nothing, but I reach over and take his hand, and we sit for a minute looking at the vista that he planned for us: an unimpeded view of the hunting reserve. Spaced at even intervals, the fence’s red lights flash slowly . . . eerily . . . like ghoulish beacons declaring humankind’s dominion over nature.

But then I look up and see the night sky practically spilling over with twinkling stars, backlit by the glowing haze of the Milky Way, and humanity’s feeble attempt at supremacy seems laughable.
All this will end,
I think, looking back down at Avery’s electrified barrier,
but nature will go on forever
.

We eat in silence, and afterward lie back on the blanket, watching the celestial display as if it were entertainment for our pleasure alone. I reach over and feel for Miles, and he grasps my hand in his.

“Tell me about your dream,” I say, and even though we’ve been quiet for so long, it feels like we’ve been communicating the whole time. Like my out-of-the-blue request was a continuation of a conversation we were already having.

“Which one?” Miles asks, turning his head to look at me.

“The one from your death-sleep,” I respond. “I wanted to ask you before, but thought you might need time.”

“I had a few dreams in the death-sleep,” he says, and a haunted
look drifts across his features.

I hesitate. “You don’t have to . . .”

“No,” Miles says, turning his head back to the stars. “I want to tell you.”

“You probably had dreams on your way down the Path and on your way back. But the most important one . . . the defining one . . . is what you see when you reach death, touch it, and turn to come back.”

Miles knows which one I’m talking about. He nods, and then closes his eyes. “It’s a dream I’ve had before. It’s one that’s based in reality, but happened differently in the dream.”

He sighs and squeezes my hand more firmly, like he’s using it for support. “I told you my mom was depressed. That she left us last year and is living with her sister in New Jersey. Well, she did that after a suicide attempt—tried to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills. It was Mrs. Kirby, our house cleaner, who found her and called nine-one-one. I was at school. I didn’t see it happen. But in my dreams, I’m the one who finds Mom. And it’s so clear, so detailed—the way she lies curled up on the floor by her bed, the fact that she’s been sick . . . vomited, the chattering of her teeth being the only indication she’s alive—that when I awake, I can’t believe it didn’t really happen that way. That I wasn’t really there.”

“Miles,” I whisper. I can feel the horror of the scene through the tremor in his voice, and my heart aches for him.

He squeezes my hand and goes on. “Each time I dreamed it, there was an invisible wall that kept me from going to her. But
this time—in the death-sleep dream—the wall wasn’t solid. I could feel it, like curtains brushing past me, as I walked through it. I was able to go right over to her, pick her up, and sit down on the bed, cradling her in my arms.

“I sat there with her for a long time, and the longer I stayed the less I wanted to leave. I felt this overwhelming urge to lie down on the bed next to my mom, close my eyes, and go to sleep. I felt so tired. Tired of trying. Tired of living. Sleep was so tempting. So inviting.

“It took every ounce of strength I had to stand up, my mother in my arms, and walk back through the invisible barrier and leave the room. I walked outside into the sunlight and laid her down in the grass. She opened her eyes and saw me and smiled. The sun became so bright it was blinding, and then it was over.”

I exhale. “You chose life over death. You protected your mother even though she didn’t protect you. You became the parent and chose to be strong enough to care for her as well as yourself.” Miles sighs and looks back toward the stars.

“Things aren’t supposed to be like this,” I say. “We shouldn’t have to be stronger than our parents—it’s not the natural order. Somehow along the way everything got all messed up, and now we’re the ones to inherit it. We’re left to clean up the mess.”

Miles is silent.

“I dream about my mom a lot,” I say. “I wish I had known her for longer. I wish she could see me now. I have a feeling that everything I do is for her. So that she’ll be proud of me. So that I can live up to the example she set: a leader with powerful gifts.
I’ve never even asked myself if that’s what I really wanted. If carrying the burden of my clan’s welfare is the role I want to have.”

“You shouldn’t have to live up to anything,” Miles says. “You shouldn’t have to live your life in response to your mother.” He thinks for a moment. “Although, who am I to talk? Since Mom left, all I think about is how I must be a bad person if she didn’t even love me enough to stay. That’s the role I’ve taken.”

“No, Miles—” I start to say, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

“So I’ve let myself be someone I’m not. But I’m done with that now. I’ve walked through the invisible wall in more ways than one.”

He looks over at me. “You make me want to be a good person, Juneau. I see how you are and it makes me want to be strong.” He sees my expression and stops. “What?”

I wipe a tear away. And then I roll onto my stomach and scoot over until our faces are a whisper’s distance apart. And I kiss him.

The stars come down from the sky, so low that they surround us. They land like sizzling embers on our skin, and stick, glowing, to our bodies as we lose ourselves in each other.

JUNEAU LIES BESIDE ME, EYES CLOSED AND THE
ghost of a smile on her lips, as I trace circles on the petal-soft skin of her lower back. A flapping of wings invades our blanket-padded island of tranquility. And although Juneau opens her eyes, she takes her time sitting up.

She doesn’t even bother to cover herself as she reaches out to greet Poe.
Juneau, queen of nature,
I think, and have to brace myself against the surge of emotion that accompanies that image.

Poe lands smoothly on Juneau’s wrist, like they’ve been practicing it for months. She sets him down on the blanket between us, and opens the pouch on his back. She pulls out the same piece of paper that she sent, and turns it over, holding it up in the moonlight to read what’s written on the back. And then she hands it to me.

Juneau. Do not come. You are the bargaining chip. Without you, Whit can’t have what he needs, and in the end will have to let us go. Besides, we can’t escape. We tried to—once. After that, Avery took Badger, and is keeping him as insurance that no one will try to leave. I reiterate—do not come. They can’t keep us forever. Go as far away as you can, hide yourself from Whit, and wait until they release us.

I wait to see what Juneau will say, but she’s silent. “Is Badger a pet?” I ask finally.

“He’s one of the clan children. Three years old.”

“I thought the kids were named for towns in Alaska,” I say, realizing that I’m going off topic, but too curious to let it slide.

“They are,” she says. “Badger is a town in Alaska. You don’t have to know geography to get into Yale?” She gives me a teasing push with her elbow and then stands and stretches. She is glorious.

I exhale and try to ignore my instincts, which are to pull her back down to the blanket and start over again. I focus on our banter and push more enticing thoughts from my mind. “Alaskan geography doesn’t count,” I say, rising to my feet. “Nothing ever happens there. Obviously, if forty people can hide there for three decades and no one notices.”

Juneau smiles, seemingly grateful for the levity as we gather the plates, blanket, and scattered clothes. I slip on my boxers and jeans before making my way down the path, but Juneau strides ahead, naked and regal. Poe scavenges a rabbit bone and flies ahead of us to the clearing.

We do a water-bottle washing of dishes and put everything away while the fire dies down. “So are you going to listen to your dad?” I ask.

“Of course not,” Juneau replies. She’s put her panties and tank top back on and is sitting in front of the dwindling flames, jotting something in her notebook. She tears off the page and makes a clicking noise to call Poe. He drops the bone he’s pecking at and goes to her, letting her tuck the note into his pouch. Following her whispered directions, he flies off into the night.

“A note to Tallie,” she explains. “Asking her to find a computer and look some things up for us.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Anything she can find about the hunting reserve, especially a map if one exists. Details about Hunt Avery. And the old Hindu story about Amrita—I want to double-check what Whit told me.”

I nod. “When are we leaving?”

Juneau stares at the fire and gets that focused look she does when she Reads. After a second, she says, “Whit’s in a bedroom by himself, reading. He’s obviously not coming back for us tonight.” She looks up at me. “How about first thing in the morning?”

“Let’s sleep, then,” I suggest. I shake out the blanket we used
for our picnic, and spread it out inside the tent on top of the other one, making one bed for the two of us instead of the usual one blanket roll each.

Juneau crawls into the tent with her crossbow, and lies down on her side facing it. I zip the door up behind us, and lie down behind her. Curling myself around her, I drape my arm around her shoulder and lace my fingers through hers. “We’ll leave before daybreak,” she says.

“Yes, sir,” I say, and rub my nose in the back of her hair, savoring her earthy, herbal smell. Wishing I never had to move again, I breathe her in and close my eyes.

What feels like moments later, I open them again. Sunlight is streaming through the sides of the tent.
It’s already morning
. “Juneau, wake up,” I say, and pat around in the blankets for a second before I realize I’m by myself.

I unzip the tent door and look outside. “Juneau?” I yell. I scan the woods around the tent and see no sign of her. And then I spot a piece of paper skewered on a tree limb right in front of the tent. It’s a note from Juneau. I know what it says before I even read it. I know what she’s done. She’s gone ahead and left me behind.

Miles,

I have decided to follow my heart instead of my head. To barge in like gangbusters. It doesn’t make sense and
isn’t strategically sound, but maybe I’m not the great leader I’m supposed to be. Maybe I’m just a girl who misses her family.

I can’t take you with me. I’ve chosen the dangerous route—the one that will require me to use all of my gifts in order to hide, find my people, and survive. I’ve chosen to place myself in danger, but I won’t choose the same for you—not when you aren’t equipped with the same advantages I have. I almost lost you once. I won’t take that risk again.

If you wait here, you won’t be in danger: Whit wants me, not you. If I succeed, I promise to return. But if you need to leave the mountain, for whatever reason, I will come and find you.

There is, of course, the chance that I won’t succeed. That I will be imprisoned with my clan. Or worse. You have your own battles to fight, Miles. Your own parents to save. You still have your mother, and, once she gets better, she will need you.

This is my fight. My clan’s fight. You
are not yet a part of our world, and I won’t pull you in before you’re ready. I won’t risk your life.

Don’t forget that you’re my desert island friend.

Juneau

SWEAT STINGS MY EYES. I WIPE THEM AND GLANCE
up to measure the angle of the sun. If it’s this hot at 10:00 a.m., the afternoon is going to be sweltering.

I peer out from behind the boulder that hides me and watch the jeep full of camouflaged guards drive slowly along the inside of the perimeter fence. One sweeps the landscape with his binoculars, looking for anything that stands out against the brown-on-brown landscape.

They are the first sign of life I’ve seen today, besides a band of wild dogs I spotted early this morning, jogging just inside the fence as if they were doing their own surveillance of the land. They looked like the picture of hyenas in the EB, which, considering Avery’s collection of zebras and antelope, fits right into the African theme.

I turn my attention back to the jeep, and watch the guards stop parallel to my hiding place and jump out. My heart seizes as the one with the binoculars yells and points in my direction. Even though I have masked myself to match the desert behind me, I duck down and shuffle sideways so my entire body is hidden. There is complete silence for a full ten seconds, and I am about to stick my head back up to see what they are doing, when I hear a rifle crack, and a few yards to my right something goes flying up in the air.

I hear triumphant shouts as I watch the rattlesnake fall to the ground, twisting in nerve-damaged death throes. Easing myself up, I see the shooter being clapped on the back by one of his fellow guards, and bumping knuckles with another.

“Ah, man, I want that rattle!” he yells, eyeing the dead but still-writhing snake through the fence.

“Yeah, well, we’re not going to cut off the juice just so you can go get your trophy,” says another.

“Why not?” the snake slayer asks. “We’ll just tell the boss another deer got stuck in the wires and we had to reboot the section.”

Two guards get bored with the conversation and head back to the jeep, leaving the shooter and his buddy to argue. “If anyone double-checks the video, they’ll know we fooled with the fence. And I’m the one who’ll catch shit for it.”

The men stare at each other, one unsure and the other pleading. “Come on, Sergeant, I’ll give you a bottle of my bootleg Oaxaca.”

“Is that the tequila Sully drank when he mistook the cactus for a bear and unloaded a semiautomatic into it?”

“Same poison,” the shooter says.

The sergeant rubs his chin, and then says, “Hell, Sanders, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He pulls from his pocket an object that looks like Miles’s cell phone, and aims it at the metal box affixed to the top of the fence. The red light underneath it stops its slow flashing and turns a steady green. Letting out a whoop, Sanders climbs three times his height to the top and scrambles halfway down the other side before dropping to the ground in a crouch. I squeeze myself tightly behind the boulder, my brown, cracked skin blending in like an extension of the rock as the man jogs over to the dead snake. Mere feet away from me, he draws a long hunting knife from a sheath at his waist and chops the rattle off the snake, leaving the stump spurting blood in the dust.

I can almost taste my anger: It is coppery like the taste of fear. My nose wrinkles in repugnance as I look at the rattlesnake’s remains. Killing for sport is something I will never understand. Killing for protection . . . for food . . . that is the way of nature. Killing for fun is the vilest of crimes.

As Sanders pockets his prize he scans the landscape, looking right through me as he does, and then jogs back to the fence. In a minute he has scaled it and is climbing back down the other side. I see the guards joking among themselves, and the sergeant points the black box at the green light. “Let’s see you jump, Sanders!” he calls, and the light switches to red. Sanders immediately lets go and drops the final ten feet to the ground.

Face scarlet, he turns to the sergeant and his two companions, who climb into the jeep roaring with laughter. “Goddamn it, you could have killed me, Sarge!” he yells, and though I can see he is shaking, I’m not sure if it’s from fear or rage. Probably both.

“Get your fat ass in the jeep,” the driver calls, and starts driving off slowly without him. Sanders runs, grabs the side of the vehicle, and swings himself over to land in the backseat.

I sit down, my back to the boulder. Unscrewing the top of my canteen, I take a swig, careful not to drink too much. I’ve been hiking since before dawn, and have eight more hours before nightfall. If my estimates are right, I’m halfway to where the two rivers end. And if my hunch is correct, that is where I’ll find my people.

I think of Miles and wonder what he thought of my letter. I’m sure it hurt his feelings, but I didn’t want him to follow me. And although I didn’t come out and say it, I’m sure he read between the lines. I had no other choice. Miles would only have slowed me down. He could have gotten us captured. Or worse. Besides, knowing that he’s alive and waiting for me is additional motivation for me to find my clan and get them out of there as soon as possible.
And after that?
I wonder.

I will go wherever my clan decides. Miles and I will say good-bye, and he will return home, make amends with his dad, and go to college. Get on with his life. That’s what has to happen—I know it like I know my own name. So why does it make my heart twist painfully in my chest?

I can’t think about that now. I need to stay focused. I scan the
horizon and spot my next hiding place—a large patch of yucca in the distance. I adjust my backpack, and, unable to maintain my camouflage without concentration, I let it fade and get ready to run.