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.
I make three trips between the shelter and the sled before I am finally ready. Ready for what? I think, realizing I have no idea where I’m going.
Until I get a sign of where my clan was taken, the best I can do is try to find Whit. His captors have got to be part of the same group of brigands. I peer up at the sun—already far to the west—and then at the shadow the boulder casts in the snow. I have at least three hours until sundown. In midsummer we have twenty hours of functional light, as compared to the short five-hour days of winter. I know the earth’s calendar like I know my own body’s. Today I have time to travel a good distance before the sun sets.
There is no time to lose. The temperature will drop with sunset, and although I have my arsenal against the cold, I will need every advantage I can get in a new terrain. “Hike!” I yell to the dogs. Unnecessarily. They are already running and we are once again off across the white expanse, heading south. Across the boundary. Out of the protection of my clan and into the wild.
* * *
We run for an hour before I attempt to Read.
Serenity. Your connection with the earth. A quiet spirit is essential. I hear Whit’s words in my mind, complete with his clipped, practical tone.
Serenity. Not quite my frame of mind at the moment. Panic, maybe. Insecurity . . . fear, definitely. It’s going to be a far stretch for me to reach serenity anytime soon.
I have no choice. The only thing directing me is my general knowledge that the ocean is south. I’m going to need more than that, or I could lose precious hours: Whit was already at the ocean when I saw him in present-time. And my clan was taken by air. I am moving at a snail’s pace compared to them. They might not even be in Alaska anymore. They might not even be alive. Reality slams me like a pickax.
Stop! I reprove myself, clenching my fists against the sled rail. In the distance, I spot a flock of Canada geese flying toward us in a perfect V. They’re flying north, returning to Alaska in their spring migration. I adjust our trajectory slightly to align with their path so that we’re pointing due south, and then yell, “Easy!”
The dogs slow down, and at “Whoa,” they come to a stop. I step off the sled and lean down to wipe the snow from the ground. Pulling my opal over my head, I press it to the earth. I think of my father and get nothing in response.
Fear courses through me. This has never happened. Does it mean he’s dead, I wonder, or just too far away?
I change the image in my mind to Whit and feel a sudden surge of anxiety. The fact that Whit is horribly worried shouldn’t be surprising, but I respond with my own fear. I jump back onto the sled and yell, “Hike,” and we are off, sprinting southward to the sea.
There are fifteen hours of daylight, and that is how long we run each day, resting enough to eat four meals, and stopping at twilight to pitch camp. The first two nights I sit outside in the darkness, watching the stars. On the third, I am rewarded with the aurora borealis. Its colorful lights shimmer like silk banners.
I have felt the earth a dozen times a day and cannot connect with my father. No emotions resonate through my fingertips as I press the sodden dirt with my opal. But now I stand under the aurora stock-still with my arms raised and my opal clenched in one hand and Read the wind. I ask if my father is still alive, and suddenly, in the middle of the barren tundra, the smell of a campfire reaches my nose along with the odor of cooking meat. And I know that, wherever he is, my father is alive and being fed. I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself, and am dizzy with relief. I smile as I watch the colors above me explode in pulses of blue and green. I return to the tent feeling comforted. And for the first time since I left our territory, buried deep under furs in my tent between the two huskies, I sleep well. I sleep deeply.
8
MILES
I’M DROPPING OFF SOME LETTERS WITH MY DAD’S secretary when I hear him yelling again.
“I don’t know why she’s so important, but she is! Apparently the whole deal hangs on her. . . . I don’t care what you tell your men! Say that she’s an industrial spy with information on the drug I want. That’s near enough to the truth. Just get as many people onto the street as you can!”
Dad’s secretary looks up at me and rolls her eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“He’s been agitated for the last few days. I guess some deal he really wants is falling apart.” She picks up her coffee mug and heads for the break room.
Dad has lowered his voice, so I scoot closer to his door.
“My informant says she’s probably coming from Alaska by boat,” he says. “Could be landing anywhere along the western seaboard. Everyone and their mother will be after this girl. We have to get her before our competitors do. Hell, I’d comb the streets myself, but you’re the security expert, so I’m trusting you to find her.”
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.
I make three trips between the shelter and the sled before I am finally ready. Ready for what? I think, realizing I have no idea where I’m going.
Until I get a sign of where my clan was taken, the best I can do is try to find Whit. His captors have got to be part of the same group of brigands. I peer up at the sun—already far to the west—and then at the shadow the boulder casts in the snow. I have at least three hours until sundown. In midsummer we have twenty hours of functional light, as compared to the short five-hour days of winter. I know the earth’s calendar like I know my own body’s. Today I have time to travel a good distance before the sun sets.
There is no time to lose. The temperature will drop with sunset, and although I have my arsenal against the cold, I will need every advantage I can get in a new terrain. “Hike!” I yell to the dogs. Unnecessarily. They are already running and we are once again off across the white expanse, heading south. Across the boundary. Out of the protection of my clan and into the wild.
* * *
We run for an hour before I attempt to Read.
Serenity. Your connection with the earth. A quiet spirit is essential. I hear Whit’s words in my mind, complete with his clipped, practical tone.
Serenity. Not quite my frame of mind at the moment. Panic, maybe. Insecurity . . . fear, definitely. It’s going to be a far stretch for me to reach serenity anytime soon.
I have no choice. The only thing directing me is my general knowledge that the ocean is south. I’m going to need more than that, or I could lose precious hours: Whit was already at the ocean when I saw him in present-time. And my clan was taken by air. I am moving at a snail’s pace compared to them. They might not even be in Alaska anymore. They might not even be alive. Reality slams me like a pickax.
Stop! I reprove myself, clenching my fists against the sled rail. In the distance, I spot a flock of Canada geese flying toward us in a perfect V. They’re flying north, returning to Alaska in their spring migration. I adjust our trajectory slightly to align with their path so that we’re pointing due south, and then yell, “Easy!”
The dogs slow down, and at “Whoa,” they come to a stop. I step off the sled and lean down to wipe the snow from the ground. Pulling my opal over my head, I press it to the earth. I think of my father and get nothing in response.
Fear courses through me. This has never happened. Does it mean he’s dead, I wonder, or just too far away?
I change the image in my mind to Whit and feel a sudden surge of anxiety. The fact that Whit is horribly worried shouldn’t be surprising, but I respond with my own fear. I jump back onto the sled and yell, “Hike,” and we are off, sprinting southward to the sea.
There are fifteen hours of daylight, and that is how long we run each day, resting enough to eat four meals, and stopping at twilight to pitch camp. The first two nights I sit outside in the darkness, watching the stars. On the third, I am rewarded with the aurora borealis. Its colorful lights shimmer like silk banners.
I have felt the earth a dozen times a day and cannot connect with my father. No emotions resonate through my fingertips as I press the sodden dirt with my opal. But now I stand under the aurora stock-still with my arms raised and my opal clenched in one hand and Read the wind. I ask if my father is still alive, and suddenly, in the middle of the barren tundra, the smell of a campfire reaches my nose along with the odor of cooking meat. And I know that, wherever he is, my father is alive and being fed. I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself, and am dizzy with relief. I smile as I watch the colors above me explode in pulses of blue and green. I return to the tent feeling comforted. And for the first time since I left our territory, buried deep under furs in my tent between the two huskies, I sleep well. I sleep deeply.
8
MILES
I’M DROPPING OFF SOME LETTERS WITH MY DAD’S secretary when I hear him yelling again.
“I don’t know why she’s so important, but she is! Apparently the whole deal hangs on her. . . . I don’t care what you tell your men! Say that she’s an industrial spy with information on the drug I want. That’s near enough to the truth. Just get as many people onto the street as you can!”
Dad’s secretary looks up at me and rolls her eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“He’s been agitated for the last few days. I guess some deal he really wants is falling apart.” She picks up her coffee mug and heads for the break room.
Dad has lowered his voice, so I scoot closer to his door.
“My informant says she’s probably coming from Alaska by boat,” he says. “Could be landing anywhere along the western seaboard. Everyone and their mother will be after this girl. We have to get her before our competitors do. Hell, I’d comb the streets myself, but you’re the security expert, so I’m trusting you to find her.”
