Once again I see him through Nome’s eyes. “Checking him out,” she would say. He is handsome in a refined, pampered way, not earthy and rugged like Kenai. The lines of his face—his cheekbones, his chin, his aquiline nose—are as strong and defined as if they were carved from sculpting clay with a fettling knife.
He glances back and forth between me and the picture, comparing my face to those of my parents. And as his lake-green eyes flit over my features, something in me stirs. It feels like the tug in my chest that happened every time I stepped out of my yurt in the morning and witnessed the beauty of Mount Denali towering over our village. Even though I had grown up there and had seen the same view every day, I never failed to be overwhelmed by its splendor.
That’s it, I think. That’s the familiar tug inside me. Miles is beautiful. Without thinking, I raise my hand to my chest and press it with my palm like I did every morning, pushing the emotion back in so it wouldn’t spill out.
A leader must be strong. Must not let emotion affect action, I remind myself. I was soon to become clan Sage. I had responsibilities.
I have responsibilities. The realization startles me from my reverie. My goal is to find and save my people. I rise to my feet. I can’t allow myself to be sidetracked from the most important thing in my life.
The safety of my clan depends on my doing everything I can to find them. Not spending time chatting with a teenage boy who was kicked out of school for something even he admits was idiotic.
Miles takes my standing as a sign that the show-and-tell session is over and rises to his feet. He hands the photo back to me. “You look just like your mom,” he says.
“Thanks. Everyone says that we’d look like twins—if she hadn’t died when I was five,” I reply evenly, tucking the photo back into the book.
Miles hesitates, and then says, “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t actually remember her that well. My dad raised me with the help of the clan, and Whit’s been my mentor ever since Mom died.”
“So your dad must be what, in his fifties now? He looks pretty young here.” He points to the photo.
I laugh. “He’s fifty-eight. And he looks the same now as he did in the picture.”
“Except that he’s probably got gray hair and wrinkles,” Miles says.
“No. My dad’s one with the Yara. He hasn’t aged a day since this picture was taken,” I insist.
Miles narrows his eyes. “Yeah, right,” he says with a little twist of his lips. And just like that, his wall is back up and I can see that he hasn’t believed a word I have said. I’m supremely glad I stopped myself from going into more detail about the Yara. From trusting him with my beliefs.
“Are we going to have dinner tonight?” he asks, while it’s clear that his real question is, “When are you going to cook for me?”
“Not hungry,” I say, and then realize I’m famished. “If you want dinner, you cook. At least that’ll guarantee you won’t be forced to ingest lizard tonight.” I can’t help the frost in my voice.
He shakes his head sourly, as if he regrets having listened to me for the last half hour. Grumbling, he heads to the car to rifle through the groceries in the trunk.
It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m lying. I know it’s true. Walking around in Seattle, seeing elderly and sick people, made me feel I had been living in a utopia in Alaska. After the Rite completes our union with the Yara, no one experiences aging. No one dies, unless it’s in an accident like my mother’s or the elder who was killed by the bear. Here in this outside world, everyone is disconnected from the Yara. They can become old, get sick, and die.
I wonder if our special relationship with the Yara has anything to do with the disappearance of my clan. If someone wants what we have. But how would they have even known about us? We’ve been in hiding for decades.
Whit, I think. Everything comes back to him. It’s still too hard to imagine that he engineered the capture of my clan. But maybe he talked about us when he was out in the world. Maybe he unwittingly betrayed us.
30
MILES
“SO TELL ME, WHAT’S THE LAST READING OR CONJURING or whatever that you successfully did?” I take a bite of the crispy potato that I, yes I, Miles Blackwell, cooked wrapped in aluminum foil in the campfire. In fact, I cooked tonight’s whole meal.
All right, so the first can of beef stew exploded. How was I supposed to know you can’t cook food in the can? Luckily, we had a few backups, so I opened them and heated them up in a pan.
“Why does it matter?” Juneau asks, blowing on the piece of steaming beef speared on her fork. “You won’t believe a word of it anyway.”
“True,” I respond, holding my spoon up for emphasis. “However, in debate team, I was often tapped to play devil’s advocate. So I don’t mind suspending disbelief if it’s going to, one, get you out of your lethal mood and, two, let us leave this creepy waterfront. It’s starting to remind me of the Jason-infested lake in Friday the 13th.” I glance over the fire to see Juneau’s familiar expression of incomprehension, and my heart falls. “Why do I even try with the cultural references?” I moan.
“I don’t know, why do you?” she snaps. And then says, “Reading Poe’s emotions in the car yesterday.”
“That was the last time you felt like you read?” I clarify, making an effort to keep up with her conversation hopping.
“Yes, although it took me a long time to connect,” she states. “I’m used to it being immediate.”
“Then when was the last time it was immediate?” I ask.
“When I Read the fire at Mount Rainier.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s happened between then and now?”
She looks at me blankly and shakes her head.
I think. “How about Whit?” I ask. “When the bird didn’t come back to him, do you think he could have blocked you from connecting to the Yara?” I try my best not to let a sarcastic inflection creep into my words. If she thinks I’m making fun of her, she’ll clam right up and this conversation will be over. Along with my effort to soften her up so that we can leave.
She sets her bowl on the ground and shakes her head pensively. “That would be like blocking me from breathing the air around me. ‘No one can come between human beings and the Yara except the disbelief of humans themselves.’ That’s a direct quote from Whit,” I say.
He glances back and forth between me and the picture, comparing my face to those of my parents. And as his lake-green eyes flit over my features, something in me stirs. It feels like the tug in my chest that happened every time I stepped out of my yurt in the morning and witnessed the beauty of Mount Denali towering over our village. Even though I had grown up there and had seen the same view every day, I never failed to be overwhelmed by its splendor.
That’s it, I think. That’s the familiar tug inside me. Miles is beautiful. Without thinking, I raise my hand to my chest and press it with my palm like I did every morning, pushing the emotion back in so it wouldn’t spill out.
A leader must be strong. Must not let emotion affect action, I remind myself. I was soon to become clan Sage. I had responsibilities.
I have responsibilities. The realization startles me from my reverie. My goal is to find and save my people. I rise to my feet. I can’t allow myself to be sidetracked from the most important thing in my life.
The safety of my clan depends on my doing everything I can to find them. Not spending time chatting with a teenage boy who was kicked out of school for something even he admits was idiotic.
Miles takes my standing as a sign that the show-and-tell session is over and rises to his feet. He hands the photo back to me. “You look just like your mom,” he says.
“Thanks. Everyone says that we’d look like twins—if she hadn’t died when I was five,” I reply evenly, tucking the photo back into the book.
Miles hesitates, and then says, “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t actually remember her that well. My dad raised me with the help of the clan, and Whit’s been my mentor ever since Mom died.”
“So your dad must be what, in his fifties now? He looks pretty young here.” He points to the photo.
I laugh. “He’s fifty-eight. And he looks the same now as he did in the picture.”
“Except that he’s probably got gray hair and wrinkles,” Miles says.
“No. My dad’s one with the Yara. He hasn’t aged a day since this picture was taken,” I insist.
Miles narrows his eyes. “Yeah, right,” he says with a little twist of his lips. And just like that, his wall is back up and I can see that he hasn’t believed a word I have said. I’m supremely glad I stopped myself from going into more detail about the Yara. From trusting him with my beliefs.
“Are we going to have dinner tonight?” he asks, while it’s clear that his real question is, “When are you going to cook for me?”
“Not hungry,” I say, and then realize I’m famished. “If you want dinner, you cook. At least that’ll guarantee you won’t be forced to ingest lizard tonight.” I can’t help the frost in my voice.
He shakes his head sourly, as if he regrets having listened to me for the last half hour. Grumbling, he heads to the car to rifle through the groceries in the trunk.
It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m lying. I know it’s true. Walking around in Seattle, seeing elderly and sick people, made me feel I had been living in a utopia in Alaska. After the Rite completes our union with the Yara, no one experiences aging. No one dies, unless it’s in an accident like my mother’s or the elder who was killed by the bear. Here in this outside world, everyone is disconnected from the Yara. They can become old, get sick, and die.
I wonder if our special relationship with the Yara has anything to do with the disappearance of my clan. If someone wants what we have. But how would they have even known about us? We’ve been in hiding for decades.
Whit, I think. Everything comes back to him. It’s still too hard to imagine that he engineered the capture of my clan. But maybe he talked about us when he was out in the world. Maybe he unwittingly betrayed us.
30
MILES
“SO TELL ME, WHAT’S THE LAST READING OR CONJURING or whatever that you successfully did?” I take a bite of the crispy potato that I, yes I, Miles Blackwell, cooked wrapped in aluminum foil in the campfire. In fact, I cooked tonight’s whole meal.
All right, so the first can of beef stew exploded. How was I supposed to know you can’t cook food in the can? Luckily, we had a few backups, so I opened them and heated them up in a pan.
“Why does it matter?” Juneau asks, blowing on the piece of steaming beef speared on her fork. “You won’t believe a word of it anyway.”
“True,” I respond, holding my spoon up for emphasis. “However, in debate team, I was often tapped to play devil’s advocate. So I don’t mind suspending disbelief if it’s going to, one, get you out of your lethal mood and, two, let us leave this creepy waterfront. It’s starting to remind me of the Jason-infested lake in Friday the 13th.” I glance over the fire to see Juneau’s familiar expression of incomprehension, and my heart falls. “Why do I even try with the cultural references?” I moan.
“I don’t know, why do you?” she snaps. And then says, “Reading Poe’s emotions in the car yesterday.”
“That was the last time you felt like you read?” I clarify, making an effort to keep up with her conversation hopping.
“Yes, although it took me a long time to connect,” she states. “I’m used to it being immediate.”
“Then when was the last time it was immediate?” I ask.
“When I Read the fire at Mount Rainier.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s happened between then and now?”
She looks at me blankly and shakes her head.
I think. “How about Whit?” I ask. “When the bird didn’t come back to him, do you think he could have blocked you from connecting to the Yara?” I try my best not to let a sarcastic inflection creep into my words. If she thinks I’m making fun of her, she’ll clam right up and this conversation will be over. Along with my effort to soften her up so that we can leave.
She sets her bowl on the ground and shakes her head pensively. “That would be like blocking me from breathing the air around me. ‘No one can come between human beings and the Yara except the disbelief of humans themselves.’ That’s a direct quote from Whit,” I say.
