Текст книги "After the End "

Автор книги: Amy Plum

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“What’s your family’s name?”

“Will you take care of my dogs for me?” I cross my arms over my chest. My heart hurts so much it feels like my brain is bleeding.

She stands. “Our boarding fees are five hundred dollars per month for one dog. For two it’s nine hundred. I take care of these dogs like they’re my own kids.”

“That’s what the woman at Beulah’s said.” My voice cracks. I can tell that Beckett and Neruda like her and, from that alone, I know she can be trusted.

“How long do you plan on leaving them?” she asks, her tone softening as she sees my emotion.

I clear my throat. I won’t cry in front of this stranger. “I don’t know. But I will be back for them.” I dig through my backpack, count the money quickly, and place it in her hand. “Here’s three thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of cash to be carrying . . . ,” the woman begins to say, and then gasps when she sees what I place in her hand on top of the money.

“And that’s insurance,” I continue. “In case I don’t make it back in three months. I want to know that these dogs will be well cared for and stay with you for the rest of their lives.”

“I can’t take that!” The woman’s face is white with shock.

“Trade it for cash if the money runs out. Otherwise, you can return it to me when I come back for the dogs.” I sink to my knees between Beckett and Neruda and pull their furry heads toward me. I can’t stop the tears now; they are streaming down my face. “Good-bye, friends,” I whisper.

And then, standing, I turn and walk out of the kennel, leaving its astonished director holding a gold nugget more than double the size of what I sold to the gold dealer.

* * *

The harbor’s ticket office is a small boxlike building with windows that look like mirrors from the outside but that are see-through on the inside. Above a counter hangs a board listing destinations, dates, and times. For the last few hours I have pushed from my mind every thought but those that facilitate my departure. But now, seeing three dozen cities listed on the departures board, my shock returns in full force. All those cities that we thought were destroyed in the war still exist.

I imagine how astonished my father must have been a few days ago when he discovered that the war never happened. All the protective measures we took to avoid brigands were in vain. Our isolationist mentality kept us from discovering that an outside world still existed.

The flame in my chest burns brighter. Once I’m reunited with my clan, we will discover together what’s actually happened to the world during the last three decades. But right now I have to find them.

I scan the names of the cities as I consider which could possibly be the answer to my oracle’s cryptic clue, “You must go to your source.” And then I see it. Seattle. That’s where my parents came from. Where they lived before I was born. It is my source, in a manner of speaking. And there’s a boat leaving for the city today.

“How much is a ticket to Seattle?” I ask the teenage boy behind the counter. I keep my eyes lowered. The startled reactions of the salespeople and the woman at the kennels when they saw me up close have confirmed to me that my starburst is not a common occurrence in the outside world. No one I’ve come across has eyes like mine, and Whit’s captors even used it to describe me.

“Round-trip that’ll be one thousand ninety-four dollars,” the boy says, “two thousand if you want a private cabin.”

“I only need to go one way,” I say, digging into my pack for money. “How long does it take?”

“Four days, eight hours,” he responds. “When do you want to leave?”

“Today.”

“You’re in luck. We have a boat embarking in a half hour,” he says, pointing to a shiny blue-and-white ship at the far end of the harbor. A thrill passes through me as I realize that I will actually be riding on a boat. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have ever expected to see one. I feel like I’m in a dream—like I’ve suddenly been popped into some sort of strange new world.

A long line of people pull rolling suitcases up the boat’s lowered gangplank. I hoist my pack onto my back and shove the ticket the boy gives me into my parka pocket. “Have a good trip,” he says in a voice that indicates he couldn’t care less whether my trip is good or not.

I am three steps away from the ticket office when I see the men. They are dressed the same as the ones who held Whit in the fire-Reading vision. And they are seated yards away from the loading ferry.

Slowly, I back up behind the edge of the ticket office, careful not to draw their attention. Once I’m out of sight, I poke my head out to watch them and am paralyzed by fear. They are checking out every passenger who gets on the boat. Carefully.

I reach automatically for my dogs. It takes a second for me to remember that I no longer have Beckett and Neruda for protection, and at that thought I’m struck breathless by grief. They couldn’t help against these men anyway, I tell myself, remembering the bloody masses of fur throughout our village. I suck the cold air into my lungs and accept the fact that from now on, I am truly on my own.

I peer into the mirrored window beside me. I look like an adolescent boy. It’s only when I speak that I give myself away. Even so, I wonder how quickly it will take these men to figure out that the adolescent boy boarding the ferry by himself is actually the girl they’re searching for. Not long, I think.

I remove the baseball cap and run my fingers through my spiky hair. It is short—really short—but it’s still black. And it’s not like I was able to change my height—I’m still five foot five and fine-boned. From where they’re sitting, they’ll be too far away to notice my eyes. But if they come within a few feet of me, they’re sure to see the starburst.

My neck muscles tense as my fear is replaced with anger. At myself. For being naive enough to believe that I could fool my pursuers with these weak attempts at a transformation.

Transformation. The word plants a seed of inspiration in my mind, which springs into a fully formed idea. I plunge my hand into the backpack and rummage around until my fingers touch a soft lump of fur. I pull it from the pack to see Whit’s rabbits’-feet amulet: one foot white and another brown, bound together by a thin copper wire. The snowshoe hare in its winter and summer incarnations. I think back to the day when he taught me about transformation.

“An animal that changes color with the season. Nature’s metamorphosis. Can you get any more magical than that?” Whit said as he instructed me to bind the two feet together. “Camouflage is one of nature’s most crafty defenses,” he continued. “A temporary form of metamorphosis. Watch what the Yara allows, Juneau.” And taking the rabbit feet between his fingers he suddenly—and startlingly—changed color. His skin turned a dark earthen color like the yurt around him, and his hair transformed from black to chestnut brown. Even his hazel eyes morphed into a deep chocolate color. Then, setting the furry amulet down on the table, he instantly changed back.

“This is the amulet I use when I camouflage the yurts from brigands. You’ll need to know how. Try it,” he said, handing me the amulet, and showed me how to use it by visualizing the rabbit’s seasonal transformation.

That is the only Conjuring I have done by myself. Whit demonstrated things for me but was waiting until I turned twenty and underwent the Rite before letting me Conjure on my own.

Whit had explained that because Conjuring actually has an effect on nature, unlike Reading, it shouldn’t be used lightly.

But now I have no choice. I have to try. I hold the furry amulet between my fingers and open myself to the Yara. As usual, I feel the tingling the second my mind taps into the stream of nature’s consciousness, and begin picturing a snowshoe hare in summer with rusty brown fur and mahogany eyes.

I speed time up, flashing through a few months, and watch the animal forage for soft flower buds in the browning tundra grasses. I watch its fur begin its transformation just before winter’s first snowfall, and soon its pelt is pure white, except for the black tufts tipping its ears.

I switch my focus to my image in the mirrored glass and watch, astonished, as my body begins to take on the colors of the snowy harbor around me. My suntanned skin fades to milky white. My black hair transforms to a pearl-white blond. And as I lean toward the mirror I see that my eyes match those of the rabbit whose feet I hold: dark brown, almost black. No starburst in sight.

Size, I think. Make me bigger. Taller. But my shape in the reflection stays the same. This is the extent of the Conjuring. Now I must make it last long enough to get me safely past the men and into the boat.

I swing the pack onto my back and stride purposefully toward the boat, adding what I imagine to be a boyish gait to my steps. My stomach twists itself in knots as I near the men, but I keep my gaze steadfastly on the ferry and try to ignore them.

I near the base of the gangplank. My palm has coated the rabbits’ feet in sweat, and my heart hammers painfully in my chest. I feel the men’s eyes on me, studying my face as I wait my turn behind an elderly couple wearing fur-lined cowboy hats. My throat clenches as I see one of the men get up and walk toward me until he stands only a couple of feet away.

I can’t help myself: I look his way. As soon as his eyes meet mine, the aggressive hunch of his shoulders relaxes. He crosses his arms and nods at me, and then turns to go back to his partner. I am so numb with fear that I can barely move forward when the couple in front of me steps onto the boat. But I manage to hand my ticket to the woman at the door, and climbing into the artificially lit room beyond, I slump onto the first bench I see. Dropping the amulet, I feel my rabbit-invoked disguise disappear, and I become myself again.

14

MILES

I GET HOME TO FIND AN EMPTY HOUSE. THERE’S A note on the kitchen counter.

Miles, I’ve got a family emergency. Left you a casserole for tonight and will stop by tomorrow to check on you. Give me a call if you need anything.

Mrs. Kirby

I finally have a weekend alone . . . no, make that a long weekend, since on Monday the office is closed for a holiday. Three days to myself. I load my plate with chicken casserole and settle in front of the TV. I notice a light on in Dad’s office and go to turn it off, only to see that it’s the glow from his computer screen. When I touch the mouse, his screen saver disappears to show his open email account. Several unread messages sit in his in-box, and the subject of the last one is Re: the girl.

I click on it and read the two-sentence message it holds. Source says she’s taken a boat from Anchorage to Seattle. Sending men there.

I mark it as unread so Dad won’t know I saw it. It’ll come up on his cell phone anyway.

I turn the screen off and go back to the couch. And sit motionless for about five minutes. Because an idea’s forming in my head that’s too crazy to entertain. But maybe Dad won’t find out. If I keep checking in with Mrs. Kirby by phone, I could be gone for the whole weekend, and back to work on Tuesday without anyone knowing.

This could actually work. I mean, they’re looking for a teenage girl. Who better to find her than another teenager?

And then my rational mind kicks in. I check the distance on my iPhone—it’s a nineteen-hour drive from L.A. And Seattle’s a big city. And I’m not only grounded, I’m on lockdown—only allowed to leave the house to go to work and back.

But if I can pull this off, Dad will be so impressed that he might excuse me from the whole mail-room torture scheme. He might even pull strings to get me into Yale in the fall. And with that thought, I’m decided.

I scarf down the casserole and then throw some clothes in a suitcase. I don’t need much. I’ll only be gone for three days.

15

JUNEAU

I HAVE BEEN HIDING IN MY ROOM—MY “CABIN”– since we embarked two days ago. As soon as we launched, I found the ship’s self-service dining area and stocked up on enough bread, fruit, and plastic-wrapped sandwiches to last me a few days. I haven’t ventured out since then.

I have never felt loneliness before. Even the time I got snowed in overnight on a hunting trip, I knew my father and clan were waiting for me, and actually enjoyed the time alone. Not now. I want to be home in my yurt with my father and dogs, knowing that Kenai’s and Nome’s families are within shouting distance. I hate this room where everything is made of plastic, on a boat in the middle of an unending ocean, among complete strangers.

I glance over at the photo of my parents, which is propped atop a tiny table. It is surrounded by the remaining supplies from the emergency shelter and the pile of things I brought from Whit’s yurt: feathers, fur, stones, powders, dried plants, and books. The objects are familiar. Soothing.

I return to the book I am reading on the history of the Gaia Movement of the 1960s. It’s about how earth is a superorganism, which I know was one of the theories that led Whit to the discovery of the Yara and the tapping of its powers. Normally I’m not allowed to browse freely through his books—he has me on a learning schedule and is very strict about revealing things in “the right order.” So this book is new to me, and I am greedily gobbling up every tidbit of new information.

I set the book down on my bunk to get a bottle of water, and when I come back, the pages have flipped to the front. I begin turning back to my place, but I see something that makes me hesitate. I go back to the copyright page.

The book was published in 2002.

I stare at the number. And then I drop the book, recoiling as if it had transformed into a rattlesnake. I stumble to my feet and back up as far as I can, wedging myself into a corner of the room.

My head spins and I feel like I’m going to keel over. Unthinkable thoughts keep careening around inside my mind. The elders said they escaped just before war broke out in the spring of 1984. Yet Whit had a book published in 2002.

Suddenly, I remember the expression on my father’s face whenever I asked him about the war. About his and my mother’s flight to safety. He never looked me in the eye when he told me that story. I always thought it was because the memories disturbed him. But that wasn’t why.

It was because there was no war.

He knew. They all knew, and someone—probably Whit—had even gone off-territory to get this book. The elders lied to us. Whit lied to us. My father . . . lied to me.

For the last twenty-four hours, my heart has known what my mind couldn’t admit. They knew.

I sink to the floor. Putting my head between my knees, I wrap my arms around my folded legs and rock back and forth. My mouth is dry and metallic tasting.

If the fundamental elements of my life—who I am, why and where my clan lived as we did . . . are all lies, then what can I believe? I have no idea what is truth and what is fiction. I have been brainwashed my entire childhood.

I’m all I’ve got now. I can’t trust anyone.

16

MILES

HOW DO YOU SEARCH AN ENTIRE CITY FOR SOMEONE you’ve never seen? You try to get into their head and think of where they would go. This is a teenage girl I’m talking about, so my first thought is shopping. But when I arrive in Seattle Saturday night, the stores are already closing.

My second thought is to check the city’s popular hangout spots. My internet search of Seattle told me to go to Capitol Hill, Belltown, and here, Pioneer Square, where I am sitting on the steps, eating a sandwich. For an hour, I watch people come and go, and don’t see anyone who fits the description on Dad’s notepad.

I drive north to Capitol Hill and begin combing the streets, looking for a girl with two huskies. How hard can that be? I think. But as I walk I begin to get an idea of the scale of the city and start to realize how stupid my plan is. It would be like trying to spot a friend at the Super Bowl without having a clue where their seat is. How in the world am I going to find one girl in the middle of this enormous city? I am well and truly fucked.

17

JUNEAU

THE DAY I ARRIVE IN SEATTLE, I WANDER FOR hours watching the city, trying to understand how it works: the cars and the different-colored lights that show them when to stop or go, the people dressed in the same dark colors, walking swiftly and looking worried, as if they are all about to miss something important. I move past them, unremarkable in my boy’s clothes, cap pulled low over my eyes so that people won’t stare at them.

I stalk the city like an animal until I understand its rhythm and can walk through its streets as invisible as I am when I hunt my prey. Once I am able to navigate with confidence, I decide to try to reproduce my most successful Reading so far and set out to find another oracle.

“Look, it’s Crazy Frankie,” I hear a little boy say to his mother. She shushes him and walks quickly away. I look to where he was pointing and see him sitting against a building on a street corner: A broken man, wizened skin like moose-hide leather left for months in the sun. A hat sits in front of him with coins inside, and empty metal cans with BEER printed on them are scattered around him.

I approach. His odor is pungent. Rancid. “May I sit next to you?” I ask, and he looks up at me with watery red eyes.

“Sure,” he says, and knocks a few of the cans out of the way. I ignore the stares of the passersby who look at us oddly.

“Can I ask you some questions?” I ask.

“Well, why not? Shoot away!” he says, and I reach for his hand. His fingers are caked with grime; his fingernails outlined in dirt. I grasp my opal with my free hand and look him straight in the eyes. “Do you mind being my oracle?” I ask. “There is some information I need to know.”

“Well, I can sure as hell try,” he says with a shattered-glass voice. And as the tingling of the Yara connection moves through me to him, his breathing grows calm and his eyes clear.

“I am picturing my father in my mind. Could you tell me how I can find him?”

The man sits silently for a moment, looking at a space above my head. “You can’t do it alone,” he says finally. “You must find someone to take you on your journey.”

“Who?” I ask. “How will I find them?”

Frankie leans his head to one side like he’s thinking, and then says, “You will know who he is because his name will take you far.”

My heart drops. It’s a riddle. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. I can’t expect a clear answer from a divination. “Can you tell me anything else about this person?”

“Yes,” responds Frankie. “You must be completely honest with him. Tell him everything he wants to know. But whatever you do, don’t trust him. He needs you as much as you need him.”

I push a little further. “Once I find the person you’re talking about, where do we go to find my father?”

“South . . . southeast. A place that is the exact opposite of here,” Frankie says, and an image forms in my mind of a barren landscape with cactus and strange rock formations.

He’s given me more than I was hoping for. “Thank you,” I say.

“One more thing,” the man says, and I can feel our link weakening and see the watery haze start to return to his eyes. “When you find the one who will accompany you, don’t let him use his cell phone.”

“What’s a cell phone?” I ask, releasing his hand and letting our connection break. He leans his head back against the wall and begins chuckling.

“Thank you for helping me,” I say, and fishing in my bag, pull out a few bills and place them carefully in his hat.

He picks up the money and looks up at me, surprised. “Hey, missy, that’s way too much,” he says as I walk away.

“It’s not, believe me,” I say, and set out to find a place to sleep for the night.

18

MILES

I’VE BEEN WANDERING FOR HOURS WITH NO LUCK, feeling like the biggest fool on earth. I want to give up, but remember the look on my father’s face when he said I needed to prove myself to him. That’ll never happen in the mail room. I’ve got to find this girl.

I try to think like a detective would. If you’re new to a city, you most likely go to touristy areas. I walk up a road with several restaurant terraces and sit down on a street bench to watch the people passing by.

At least I got out of the house for the weekend. When I told Mrs. Kirby I would be fine on my own, she actually sounded relieved. And I answered Dad’s Is everything okay? text this morning with: Just watching TV in my jail cell. Don’t worry, I’m fine.

I finally get up and begin following signs for Pike Place Market, the one spot in Seattle that I’ve actually heard of. Across the street a rowdy crowd sits at tables outside a sports bar. I doubt this girl will be in that group. I sigh. This is worse than finding a needle in a haystack.

“Hey, Starry Eyes, baby! Come back, I was just kidding!” someone yells.

I’m suddenly on high alert, my eyes scanning the crowd across the street. I home in on a group of college-age guys wearing identical Greek letter T-shirts and drinking pints of beer. It was one of them who shouted “starry eyes.” But walking away from them is what looks like a small-built boy with a kind of fuzzy crew cut.

Wait, no. It’s a girl.

I jog across the street toward the frat boys, watching as the girl stops at another table, leans in, and talks with them.

“Hey, what’d that girl ask you for?” I ask the first table.

One of the guys looks me up and down and then, satisfied that my button-down and jeans meet his dress code or something, says, “You don’t want her, man. She’s crazy.”

“You’ve got that right,” the guy next to him says, and laughing, they lift their mugs to clink in agreement.

“What do you mean, crazy?” I ask.

“Chick’s been showing up every night, wandering around asking everyone their name,” another guy says. He shakes his head and wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“And what about that creepy star-shaped contact lens?” the first guy says. “Weird, right?”

Star-shaped contact lens? Excitement rises in my chest. I walk away from their table. “You’re welcome!” one of the frat boys calls after me, and his friends laugh.

The girl is watching something across the street, and I turn to see what she’s looking at. My heart stops in my chest. It’s two of Dad’s security guards from work, and they’re staring straight at her.

A car speeds by, forcing them to wait before they jog across the road. I look back at the girl, but she’s gone, and Dad’s guards are looking around like Where’d she go?

I take a quick right onto the next road, and then I see the girl dart out of an alleyway a block away. She moves so smooth and fast it looks like she’s gliding.

I spend the next hour trailing her around town while I run over Dad’s description in my mind: starburst eye, long black hair, probably traveling with two huskies. Looks like she lost the dogs and the hairdo sometime during the last week, but according to the frat boys, she kept the weird contact lens. She doesn’t seem like an “industrial spy” who everyone’s dying to get his hands on. She looks more like a lost little boy.

As I watch her, I realize there’s something wrong with her. She flinches at the smallest provocation. A street cleaner goes by and she looks ready to climb the nearest tree to escape. She stands outside the Apple store and stares at the window for so long it looks like she’s planning a major electronics heist. You’d think she was seeing everything for the first time. Like she’s Tarzan or something—raised by wolves in the deepest, darkest forest. And then there’s the fact that she keeps stopping people and asking their name.

I follow her as she roams the streets until well after dark, and watch as she finally walks into a guesthouse with a sign outside reading CATCHING DEW GUESTHOUSE: NO VACANCIES. I jog back to where I parked my car, hoping she doesn’t leave while I’m moving it. Once parked in front of the guesthouse, I settle in and keep an eye on the front door. That’s when my phone rings. Dad’s yelling before I even have a chance to talk.

“. . . called the home phone and when you didn’t answer, I got Mrs. Kirby on the line. She went straight over to the house and then called to tell me you weren’t there. Now you better have a good reason to—”

“I found her,” I say, cutting him off.

“You found her? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” my dad asks, confused.

“I’m in Seattle, and I think I found the girl you’re looking for.”

Dad is silent for a whole thirty seconds, and I wait to hear whether he’s going to start yelling again or if he’ll take me seriously.

“Where are you?” he asks, his tone clipped. Unreadable.

“I’m parked in front of a guesthouse I saw her go into,” I say.

“Where? Give me an address.”

Within minutes, one of Dad’s company Saabs comes down the street and parks a few places away. I stay in my car and watch as one of the men I saw earlier today walks up to my window and taps on it.

I roll the window down and stare at him. “Your father says for you to check into a hotel and then drive straight back to L.A. in the morning,” he says.

“Got it,” I say, and roll the window up in his face. I make no move to leave. He shakes his head and walks back to his car.

The guards and I spend the night in our cars. Finally, around 10:00 a.m., one of them goes into the guesthouse and comes back out at a jog. “She’s gone,” he calls to his partner, and throws me a scowl as they speed off.

Dad calls five minutes later and commands me to head home. Now I’m in a bind: if I go home without the girl, Dad will definitely kill me. I have to find her before his security team does and somehow convince her to come back to L.A. with me. I rest my head on the steering wheel and experience a moment of pure panic. What have I gotten myself into?

I breathe deeply and reason with myself. What worse can happen? I’m already grounded. I’m already going to be kept out of Yale until Dad feels like greasing some palms. I can’t think of a fate worse than the mail room, although I’m sure Dad could. I have to do this, I think, and start the car.

Three hours later I finally spot her, crouched down outside an ultramodern glass building, talking to a street person. Just then it starts pouring down rain. The girl stands, pulls her hood over her head, and sprints into the building.

I turn the car around, park in the building’s parking lot, and make a dash to the door she disappeared through. I just hope she’s still here. If she’s not, I’m going to seriously consider admitting failure and going home.