Until the Beginning (4 page)

I AM BACK IN THE DREAM I HAD WHEN I SLEPT IN
my car in the desert near Vegas. Juneau stands before me in a snowy landscape, dressed head to toe in skins and furs. Her long black hair cascades over her shoulders halfway down her back. The small box she holds out toward me spills golden light that bonds with my skin, starting with my feet and inching up my body as the molten metal burns its way to my bones. I can’t move—I’m paralyzed.

“Juneau!” I cry, wanting her to close the box and turn off the lavalike liquid gold, but she just smiles at me. She is beautiful. Serene. “You are one with the Yara,” she says as the gold reaches my neck and begins strangling the life out of me.

I ignite. I am a burning effigy of myself, and the snow around me melts from the heat I send off. Juneau, cheeks flaring pink in
the heat of my flames, leans in slowly until her lips meet mine. I disperse into a million tiny sparks and fly upward to join my light with those of the stars.

That’s where the dream ended last time. But now, the sparks stop and begin rushing back downward, fitting themselves together like a puzzle until I am standing there once again, whole, golden. And then the light fades and I regain my normal color and Juneau takes my hands and begins laughing. “You’re like us now,” she says. “Your life is the earth’s, and earth will preserve you. You’re Gaia’s own child—protected from illness.”

I look down at my hands—at my arms—and see the elements. I am made of water. Of earth and air and fire. I am no longer myself.

And upon that thought, I awake. I open my eyes and see a million stars scattered across the night sky above me. I try to lift my hand . . . to see if the dream was nightmare or reality . . . but can only move my fingers.

And then I remember. I died. And Juneau brought me back. I am struck by a wave of panic. What exactly have I become? Am I even human anymore? How do I know that Juneau’s Rite had the same effect on me that it did on her clan? I’m not a hippy. I’m not an environmentalist. I haven’t grown up talking to plants and seeing into the future.

It’s Juneau
, my heart reminds me.
The girl you gave up everything to run off with. The girl you . . . care for, more than you’ve ever cared for anyone else. If you can’t trust her, who can you trust?

And though I feel like I’m suffocating in fear and uncertainty, long fingers of sleep grab at me and begin pulling me under. I have one last thought before unconsciousness overtakes me.
I am no longer what I was before
.

I AWAKE TO THE BUZZING OF BEES. SWATTING THE
air around my head, I force open my sleepy eyes to a melon-colored sky. I sit up and see that it is dawn. The sun is barely visible behind the far-off horizon.

I have fallen asleep next to the now-cold fire. On the ground beside me is a pile of wood shavings and four smoothly carved pieces of wood, each gouged with a notch that will allow them to fit together to make two crossbows. They are almost as pretty as my last one, but have yet to be fitted with string, mirror, and spare parts carved out of bone, repair essentials that I always carry with me. I have a small arsenal of wooden bolts in my backpack. We won’t be weaponless for long.

The buzzing sound is fading, but now it alternates with a mechanical puttering noise. Could it be a motorbike? Something
like the desert-ready motorcycles owned by the man who traded cars with me? I turn in a circle, scanning the horizon. And then I see it. A small airplane heading north. Although too far to have spotted us, it’s close enough for me to see the symbol painted on its tail: a black circle enclosing the letters
BP
, and between them a stick with a serpent wrapped around it. Ice flows through my veins as I recognize the logo of Blackwell Pharmaceutical—the same one that marked the airplane I was kidnapped in, the car I was driven in, and the building I was brought to against my will.

I prop myself up to see over the side of the truck. Miles is asleep under the blanket I draped over him last night. I shake him gently. “Miles?” I ask.

His eyelids flutter and open. He rolls his head toward me, and his groggy expression turns to one of alarm when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“We need to move,” I say. “A Blackwell Pharmaceutical plane just flew past. They were headed northward. But if they’re combing the park for us, they’ll be back soon, and might spot us this time.”

Miles clenches his hands into fists and strains as he lifts his head slightly off the truck bed. He holds the position for a second and then, groaning, eases his head back down. “I still can’t move,” he says.

“I could camouflage us,” I say, “but if they’re focusing on this area, I’ll have to either keep it up for hours or turn it off and on every time we hear them coming. And what we really need is to get out of here.”

“Can’t you just cover me with a blanket and hide in the tent next time they fly by?” Miles asks.

“The plane is flying low enough that they might notice a suspiciously person-shaped lump covered with a blanket in the back of a pickup truck.” I shake my head. “I’ll have to use the dirt bike loader to get you down.”

Decision made, I spring into action. Unhitching the back of the pickup, I pull it open and hop up into the bed. Miles presses his eyes shut as I shuffle him away from where the metal ramp is attached. I take it firmly in my hands to lift it off its supports, and . . . nothing. I yank it again. It doesn’t budge.

I wiggle it around, trying to get it unstuck, but it only becomes more firmly attached. I lean over to see that one of the pins the ramp hangs on is bent out of shape. I’ll need a hammer or some kind of wedge to bend it outward before the ramp will come free.

Far away, it sounds like the aircraft is turning. As the buzzing gradually becomes louder, my heart thuds hard against my rib cage. I feel my hands tremble and realize that I’m afraid. The close shave with the helicopters that kidnapped my clan, and my own traumatic experience in Mr. Blackwell’s private plane have shaken me. I break out in a cold sweat. Even if I tried to camouflage us now, I’m not sure I could reach the Yara in my current state of anxiety.

I jostle the ramp again and run through my inventory in my mind: There are some tools in my repair kit that might work. I’ll need to run back to the tent to get my pack. But the buzz of
the plane is getting louder, and panic grabs me by the throat and squeezes hard.

I force myself to move, running for the tent. I eye my pack, but know there’s not enough time to use tools now. Instead, I grab the pillows and covers and, sprinting back to the truck, I spread them on the ground beneath the tailgate.

I roll Miles to the edge, and lying down on top of him, press my chest to his and wrap my arms and legs around his body. His eyes are wide with alarm. “Juneau, what are you trying to—” he begins, but I interrupt.

“Just shut up and try to relax any muscles that are working,” I say. And with all of my strength, I use my right arm and leg to wrench Miles’s body up from the truck bed, and roll us off the back of the tailgate. For a split second we are falling, and then we land hard, Miles on top of me.

The cushion I made from the pillow and blankets breaks the worst of the landing, but my breath is completely knocked out, and it takes all of my strength to push Miles off me and sit up. Five heartbeats go by and then I am gulping in air.

The plane is closing in—the sound is coming directly toward us. I scramble to haul Miles beneath the truck. His feet leave furrows in the dry earth. Scoot and pull. Scoot and pull. The truck sits high up on big wheels, giving me enough room to sit crouched over underneath it as I drag his body.

My mouth is full of dust as I grasp Miles under his arms and give one last pull, then I clamber forward to hide my legs and
feet under the cover of the truck. The airplane is on top of us: Its insect whine fills my ears as it passes overhead and continues on southward.

I lie for a moment, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath. I cough, and my mouth tastes like dirt. I roll my head sideways to look at Miles, and there he is, inches away, his body turned slightly toward mine, arms limp by his side. His face is covered with sand, and there’s a large scratch on his forehead. He watches me with that wide-eyed look and then licks his dry lips. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, are you?” I ask, panting.

“Of course I’m okay,” he says. “I landed with my full weight on top of you. I’m surprised you weren’t crushed.”

I can’t talk, so I just shake my head as I close my eyes and press my chest hard with my palms. We are silent as the sound of the plane becomes distant and disappears.

My breathing slows to normal, and my heart no longer feels like it’s going to explode. A sliver of pain shoots up the back of my neck, blooming poppy red behind my eyes. I’m going to be very sore tonight.

“Juneau?” I hear Miles say.

“Yes,” I respond, turning toward him.

“You’re amazing,” he says, with an awestruck expression. “Trust me when I say you are, hands down, the toughest girl I’ve ever met. And I mean that as a compliment—in my most heartfelt please-don’t-hurt-me-anymore kind of way.” His teasing smile has returned, and this time it fills me with a happiness that
makes me forget my aching back and mouthful of desert dust. This feels like complicity. Like we’re a team. Like we’re together.

I smile and reach over to touch his hair. “I promise not to hurt you if you promise never to get shot again.”

“Deal,” he whispers, and closes his eyes.

WHEN I WAKE UP, I AM IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE
pickup, held upright by a very tight seat belt.

Juneau stares intently ahead as she drives, and the gold of the starburst in her right eye flashes in the desert sun. Her finger-length hair is dusted with dirt, and stands up on end. Reddish clay caked on her arms has dried into a crinkled pattern. Right now she would fit perfectly into the postapocalyptic world she believed existed until a few weeks ago. Like Mad Max’s extremely dirty sidekick.

I look down and see that I am shirtless, dressed only in my blood-spattered jeans and tennis shoes. I assume my shirt is too blood drenched to ever use again. I focus on my Converses and try to wiggle my feet. No go.

“Where are we?” I ask, and Juneau jumps. My voice sounds
like gravel, and I clear my throat and ask again.

“We’ve been driving parallel to the Colorado River, and are about to cross over it into Arizona.”

We pass a sign that says
NEEDLES FWY
and then onto a bridge crossing high over a wide aqua-green river. “How did I get in the car?” I ask.

“I got the motorcycle ramp unstuck and used the winch to pull you in,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road.

I watch as she expertly handles a pickup truck after teaching herself to drive barely a week ago. “Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask, only halfway joking.

She considers. “There are plenty of things I’ve never done. Fly a plane. Speak Chinese. But nothing I can think of that I couldn’t either learn or find a way around.”

“Like lifting a hundred-seventy-five-pound man into the front seat of a truck,” I say.

“For example.” She glances over and smiles before focusing back on the road.

Just. Wow. This girl is so confident. Capable. Self-reliant. And generally kick-ass. I wonder what she could ever see in me. “Maybe, once I’m unparalyzed, I could impress you with my mad video game skills,” I offer.

She laughs. “You’ve got to be good at something besides that.”

“What,” I ask, “besides dazzling chicks with my keen wit and striking good looks?” And I give her the smile that I used to use to charm people, which now seems more than a little ridiculous. Juneau rolls her eyes and I laugh. “Okay . . . skills . . . I can lift
one eyebrow, put my entire fist in my mouth, and say ‘cheers’ in twenty-three languages.”

Juneau looks over at me in disbelief and then bursts out laughing.

“Okay . . . if I have to toot my own horn, I used to be really good at lacrosse. In fact, I was the junior varsity captain.” I clarify: “That means head of the team.”

“Lacrosse was in the EB,” she says, and digs into her literally encyclopedic memory. “Competitive sport, modern version of the North American Indian game of baggataway, in which two teams of players use long-handled, racket-like implements (crosses) to catch, carry, or throw a ball down the field or into the opponents’ goal.”

“Do you have a photographic memory?” I can’t help but ask.

“No. As I said, we didn’t have much to read,” she responds. “And the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
was our only window on the world.”

She glances down to check the atlas sitting open on the seat between us. Clicking on the turn signal, she pulls off the bridge and into a picnic area on the edge of the river. A couple of cars are parked nearby, and out in the water a speedboat pulls some shouting kids on an inner tube.

Juneau rolls down the windows, cuts the motor, and turns toward me.

“You played lacrosse. So you must have good reflexes. And if you were captain you must have leadership skills.”

“The operative word here is ‘were.’ I kind of lost the taste for
lacrosse when Mom’s mental health started getting patchy. Kind of lost the taste for everything else, too.”

I turn away from the pity in Juneau’s eyes and lean my head back against the seat. I remember the abyss that opened up inside me after Mom left. The things I enjoyed before—my interests, my passions, everything else that I loved—were sucked right down into it. It was easier to feel nothing. The only activities that interested me were the ones that helped me forget the pain. Temporarily, of course. It always came back with a vengeance.

I wonder where the pain is now, and poke around inside myself like I’m hunting out a bruise. It’s still there, but it seems smaller. More manageable. I wonder if that’s because of Juneau. Or because, for once, I feel like I have a purpose. Or maybe it has something to do with the dream.

“What are you thinking of?” Juneau asks.

I start to say something funny—comedy being my favorite defense mechanism—but decide I don’t need to do that with her. Not anymore. “I’m remembering . . . thinking about Mom. What it was like when she was sick, and then when she left,” I respond truthfully.

“Want to talk about it?” she offers.

I shake my head. “Not yet.” Without thinking, I raise a hand to rub my forehead. My eyes shoot open. “Hey, I can move my hand. And arm!” I exclaim.

“Not bad,” Juneau says, offering me a happy smile. She knows full well I’m changing the subject, but gamely plays along. “Can you use your legs?”

I focus again on my feet, but only succeed in wiggling my toes inside my shoes. “No.”

“I hope you don’t mind, then, if I leave you here in the truck.” She runs a hand through her hair, releasing a mini–dirt cloud. “I could use a swim.” Opening her door, she steps out of the cab and goes around to the back of the truck to get some clothes and a towel out of her backpack. Then, walking onto the beach, she kicks off her shoes, strips off her tank top and jeans and dives into the water wearing only her bra and panties. They’re blue. Not sky blue—a darker blue, like the ocean.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised to see her strip. Juneau’s underwear has more material than most of the bikinis you see in L.A. Maybe it’s just the fact that she’s wearing lingerie at all. Maybe I was expecting her to go commando, being raised by hippies and all. Or maybe I expected her to be super-modest. Then again, she’s not only seen me naked, but dressed me while I was unconscious. Kind of a strange situation for two people who have only kissed. Okay, rolled around on the ground in a mad passionate kiss, but whatever.

I try to erase all thoughts of Juneau and her soft mouth and our steamy make-out session. We’re not only on a mission—we’re fugitives. Even if both of us wanted to, there won’t be much time for rolling around anywhere in the near future. I lean my head out the window for some fresh air to cool me down.

Juneau splashes around for a moment, rubbing her hands over her hair and up and down her arms, washing off the dirt. Then she turns and swims toward the river’s far bank, using broad
strokes as her body glides through the water. In ten minutes she’s across a river that would have taken me twice that time to swim. Without taking a break, she turns and heads back.

I lay my head back against the seat and finally let myself think about what has happened to me. I died. And then came back to life. So I’m basically undead. I’m a zombie.

An immortal zombie,
I remind myself. One that doesn’t smell like rotting flesh or have limbs falling off. I congratulate myself for looking on the positive side of things, but still can’t help feeling like a freak.

I watch Juneau’s head bob up and down as she executes a perfect crawl.
She saved your life,
I think, and feel torn. Part of me is just happy to be alive. To have survived a fatal gunshot wound. But another part is pretty freaked out. I’m something else now. Something that even Juneau isn’t, since she isn’t supposed to undergo the Rite until she turns twenty.

I’ve taken a drug that my dad would give his left arm to have, and it’s changed me forever. I don’t even know what it means. Do I have magical powers? Does this slowed-aging thing make me immortal? Awe and fear fuse inside me and rise like lava, scalding my chest and my throat.

I close my eyes and breathe out deeply, then inhale another lungful of air and blow it out as slowly as I can. I’m okay. I’m alive. And I’m with a girl I’m falling for. Okay, let’s be honest, have fallen for. Past tense.

Opening my eyes, I watch as Juneau strides out of the water, dripping wet as she reaches for her towel. She rubs it over her
head, wipes down her body, and then does a trick where she wraps the towel around herself, takes off the wet clothes and puts on dry ones without showing skin. Finally, she’s walking toward the pickup wearing black jeans and a red tank top. Her cheeks are flushed from the swim.

She spreads out the towel and wet clothes in the back, combs her hair down so it’s pixie instead of punk, and climbs into the driver’s seat, leaning back on her door to face me. “I’d unstrap your seat belt if I didn’t think you’d fall over,” she says with a ghost of a smile.

“How long will I be paralyzed?” I ask.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve got a while to go,” she says. “You won’t need food while you’re still under the influence of the death-sleep. Most of my clan members stay in the medicine hut for four days, sleeping the whole time with two or three short awakenings. You’re awake for long stretches, talking and making sense. It’s like the fact that you were already on death’s door has given you superpowers.” Juneau says it jokingly, but spots the look on my face and pauses. “What?” she asks.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s kind of frightening to hear that I’m an anomaly: no longer a ‘normal’ human, but not like the rest of your clan. I don’t even understand what my ‘new and improved’ body can do.” My joke falls flat. I shake my head. “Okay. What this means is I’m eighteen years old and I’m never going to get
older. I won’t grow another inch, won’t develop past where I am right now. Right?”

She nods. “Pretty much. But you’re alive. And
I
happen to like you the way you are right now.” She leans over and wraps her arms around me, and I rest my head on hers.

We sit there for a full minute, her soft hair cushioning my cheek. Finally she pulls back, enough so that our faces are mere inches apart. She closes her eyes and leans in to give me a warm, soft kiss, and then stays close, running her fingers through my hair. I breathe in her breath and it calms me. Centers me.

“I promise to tell you everything I know about the Rite I gave you,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything the elders taught me about the Yara—the truth along with the lies.

“Then you can do what I’m doing now . . . figure out what makes sense to you. Which parts you believe—which parts make a difference to who you are. Who you can become.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m so tired all of a sudden, I don’t know if it’s the conversation, the death-sleep, or both. It all seems too big for me. I lean back against the headrest and run my hand through Juneau’s hair. Pull her to me and close my eyes. I feel unconsciousness grip me and sleep tug me under.

Juneau’s words come from outside the warm, still place I’m sinking into: “Old Miles, new-and-improved Miles, it doesn’t make a difference—I’m just glad you’re here.”