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.
I settle myself on the floor in front of the blaze. Bowing my head, I exhale and try to relax. To let the panic and terror of the day fall away from me. I open my eyes and stare into the flames and feel my heart slow and my breath become shallow. I toss the powder onto the fire.
“Father.” My lips move. The word comes out. But I know it isn’t the sound that matters. It’s focusing on who he is that directs the elements. That communicates to the Yara my desire to see him.
As images of my father appear in my mind, I do as Whit has taught me—looking just above and to the right of the flames—and see something forming in the fire’s glowing aura. I’m inside a flying machine, members of my clan sitting all around with their hands attached behind their backs. My heart lurches as I see Nome sitting next to her mother, sobbing, but unable to wipe her tears. The view must be through my father’s eyes. Out the windows there are four other flying machines: two in front and one on either side.
As I study them, it comes back to me: “choppers” was the colloquial word listed in the EB; the chopping sound comes from their spinning blades cutting through the air. Helicopters, I remember. But the machines in the fire are much bigger than those in the picture I remember from the EB. And from the size of the vehicles in the flames, there would be plenty of room for the entire clan onboard. The image is right there in front of me, but my brain can’t accept what it is saying: that there is a brigand troop large and organized enough, with working vehicles and fuel, to sweep in and take my clan.
I wish the Yara would show me more. Give me an idea of where my father is headed or even show me his face. But as Whit often reminds me, the Yara doesn’t always give you what you want. You take what it offers you.
I try to think of what the brigands could be after. It doesn’t make sense. They took my people. Not our resources. Besides the slaughter of our dogs, who were probably defending their masters, the camp was left untouched. Whatever they wanted, it seemed like they hadn’t gotten it. Because they came back. And if all they wanted was my clan, then the only reason they would come back would be to find its missing members: Whit and me.
I close my eyes and change my focus to Whit. I speak his name and picture him in my mind. Boyish face with high cheekbones. Eyes staring off into space, as if he sees a whole world that others can’t.
And in the flames I see what he sees. Pressed against either side of him stand two massive men in camouflage, who hold him by the arms. They must be in league with the brigands who kidnapped my clan, I think, and then focus harder. Whit is being led somewhere by the men, and there is water beside them. A lake? No. My heart races. The ocean. Far from our territory. Three days’ journey by dogsled, my father has said. Three days away from everything I have ever known. But that’s where I am going. What other choice do I have?
6
MILES
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S DISAPPEARED?” MY dad roars into the phone.
I’m in front of the TV eating a massive plateful of homemade lasagna that Mrs. Kirby left in the oven. I lean back in my chair and look through the open door into Dad’s office. As usual, he’s eating his dinner at his desk in front of his laptop, both home phone and cell phone within easy reach.
“I thought we had a deal!” My dad is turning puce. Which is strange for him. As is the yelling. He’s usually one of those stone-faced guys who scares the shit out of everyone by acting so calm. I grab the remote and turn the sound down so that I can listen to his freak-out.
“I didn’t send you all the way from Los Angeles to Anchorage just to have this deal slip through my fingers. I knew I should have gone myself.” Dad runs his hand through his hair and stands up to pace around the room. Glancing my way, he sees me watching him. He stomps over to the door and slams it, shutting me out.
I feel my face burn, and lift the remote to up the sound, blocking out my dad’s now-muffled yelling. I don’t know why I let him get to me. I should be used to feeling shut out by now.
7
JUNEAU
WE RACE ACROSS THE FROZEN TUNDRA, CHASING the ghosts in the fire and listening for the danger from the sky. Now that we have left the woods, there is no cover. It is mid-April. In just a month the snow will be gone and the landscape will transform overnight from the brown and white of tundra and snow to the green and purple of thick grasses and wildflowers. But for now, we are a moving target against the crystalline fields veined with frozen streams.
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.