Until the Beginning
Page 39
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There is something about this passage that calls out to me, but I’m not sure what it is. I turn the page over and see more of Tallie’s scribbling. Giving Poe my rabbit bone, I take another swig of water and begin to read.
I spent half the night throwing the bones for you. Thought of how my and my ancestors’ readings are similar to yours, and more than ever I’m convinced that our answers come from the same source: the collective wisdom of all things, past and future. So I suppose you can consider me an oracle from your Yara. In any case, the answer I’ve been getting for you has been the same, no matter how many times I throw.
You will be captured. There will be a battle. Whether a battle of wills or an actual physical struggle, I can’t tell. But I see you at the center of it. And when the end comes, your regular weapons won’t help you—I read that as meaning both physical and mental weapons . . . meaning your Reading and Conjuring. Instead you must Invoke.
Invoke! As in “call upon,” but more powerful. And invoke who . . . or what? Damned if I know what it means, and I think it would be unwise for me to try to translate a message that is meant specifically for you. But you will need to figure it out—Beauregard’s never been this specific. Otherwise, let’s just hope that the message becomes clear when the time comes.
I lower the paper and stare out over the desert, thinking. So many new concepts. And somehow, they blend together. But with only a few notes of the melody, it’s hard for me to decipher the song.
Poe squawks and reminds me that I’m not alone. I fold the papers and slip them into my back pocket—I’ll have plenty of time to mull over things while I’m running. But there’s no reason for me to keep Poe out here in this baking desert. I scrawl a message thanking Tallie and telling her I’ll call Poe back when I need her help.
I send him off. Then, throwing everything into the pack, I swing it onto my back and leave my oasis of shade for the ruthlessness of the desert sun.
30
MILES
I HEAD OVER THE CREST OF THE MOUNTAIN LOOKING for one of the streams I saw yesterday. I hear it before I see it, and follow the sound of flowing water until I’m standing on the bank of a crystal-clear mountain stream. Taking the empty water bottle from my improvised backpack, I fill it, take a long drink, and then fill it again.
I eye the perimeter fence a few yards away. Do I try to get inside the ranch or do I follow along outside the fence, like Juneau suggested? I’ve decided that my role will be distracting the Avery guy and his guards away from wherever it is that her people are being held. But I won’t be able to do a damn thing if I don’t figure out where he is.
I pull out the area map and trace the two rivers that Juneau pointed out yesterday. She thinks that both the Avery mansion and the adobe huts where her people are being kept will be in that vicinity, and she’s heading there following the southern edge of the perimeter fence. At least I think she is. Doubt strikes me. How can I know what to do if I’m not even sure of her plan?
Juneau would try to Read, I think. She would try to get her direction from the earth. So maybe it’s time to see how far my Reading ability works. I feel weird just thinking about it. This is so out of my comfort zone. Everything from now on is going to be out of your comfort zone, I remind myself. Buck up.
Closing my eyes, I press my hand to the ground. I try to slow my breathing. To concentrate. Almost immediately, a tingling sensation begins in my fingertips and spreads upward through my hands. I think of Juneau. I picture her in my mind.
And suddenly I’m experiencing her feelings: I am swept by a wave of fierce determination. I feel a sense of curiosity . . . alertness. She’s watching . . . waiting for a sign. Juneau’s still on her way, I think. If she had been captured, she would be feeling fear. If she had found her clan, there would be some relief. She’s safe, for now, and is still looking.
I open my eyes and the tingling stops. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. I did it. I Read.
Juneau is wrong. The Amrit has changed something in my brain. It’s not a choice—a lifestyle change—like she’s been taught. It’s something that comes automatically with the drug. A side effect. Not only does Amrit make you immune to disease and slow your aging, but it somehow changes your brain chemistry so that you can perceive things you couldn’t before. Or, saying it in Yara-speak . . . plug into the consciousness of the universe.
Why not? I think. My mom used to talk about how she got “dog nose” when she was pregnant with me. Being pregnant changed her perceptions enough that her sense of smell was sharpened. Why shouldn’t a drug powerful enough to bring me back to life have a chemical effect on how my mind processes things?
It’s just another weird quirk to accept about my condition. But at a time like this, if I can figure out how to use it to my benefit, it could be my greatest asset.
I decide to push a little further and walk into the woods until I find a place where trees grow thick enough to blot out the sunlight. In between a few old pines, I gather sticks and build a small fire. When it catches, I sit cross-legged in front of it and look just above the flames, like Juneau does.
I wait. I think about the map that Juneau said she saw in the fire, and try to imagine something like it, but nothing happens. No tingle, no picture, nothing.
My mom used to meditate as part of her stress therapy. She would focus on something like a candle or a mandala to empty her mind. I stare at the edges of the flames, watch the dancing orange light, and try not to think of anything. But the harder I try to clear my mind, the more my thoughts wander.
I spent half the night throwing the bones for you. Thought of how my and my ancestors’ readings are similar to yours, and more than ever I’m convinced that our answers come from the same source: the collective wisdom of all things, past and future. So I suppose you can consider me an oracle from your Yara. In any case, the answer I’ve been getting for you has been the same, no matter how many times I throw.
You will be captured. There will be a battle. Whether a battle of wills or an actual physical struggle, I can’t tell. But I see you at the center of it. And when the end comes, your regular weapons won’t help you—I read that as meaning both physical and mental weapons . . . meaning your Reading and Conjuring. Instead you must Invoke.
Invoke! As in “call upon,” but more powerful. And invoke who . . . or what? Damned if I know what it means, and I think it would be unwise for me to try to translate a message that is meant specifically for you. But you will need to figure it out—Beauregard’s never been this specific. Otherwise, let’s just hope that the message becomes clear when the time comes.
I lower the paper and stare out over the desert, thinking. So many new concepts. And somehow, they blend together. But with only a few notes of the melody, it’s hard for me to decipher the song.
Poe squawks and reminds me that I’m not alone. I fold the papers and slip them into my back pocket—I’ll have plenty of time to mull over things while I’m running. But there’s no reason for me to keep Poe out here in this baking desert. I scrawl a message thanking Tallie and telling her I’ll call Poe back when I need her help.
I send him off. Then, throwing everything into the pack, I swing it onto my back and leave my oasis of shade for the ruthlessness of the desert sun.
30
MILES
I HEAD OVER THE CREST OF THE MOUNTAIN LOOKING for one of the streams I saw yesterday. I hear it before I see it, and follow the sound of flowing water until I’m standing on the bank of a crystal-clear mountain stream. Taking the empty water bottle from my improvised backpack, I fill it, take a long drink, and then fill it again.
I eye the perimeter fence a few yards away. Do I try to get inside the ranch or do I follow along outside the fence, like Juneau suggested? I’ve decided that my role will be distracting the Avery guy and his guards away from wherever it is that her people are being held. But I won’t be able to do a damn thing if I don’t figure out where he is.
I pull out the area map and trace the two rivers that Juneau pointed out yesterday. She thinks that both the Avery mansion and the adobe huts where her people are being kept will be in that vicinity, and she’s heading there following the southern edge of the perimeter fence. At least I think she is. Doubt strikes me. How can I know what to do if I’m not even sure of her plan?
Juneau would try to Read, I think. She would try to get her direction from the earth. So maybe it’s time to see how far my Reading ability works. I feel weird just thinking about it. This is so out of my comfort zone. Everything from now on is going to be out of your comfort zone, I remind myself. Buck up.
Closing my eyes, I press my hand to the ground. I try to slow my breathing. To concentrate. Almost immediately, a tingling sensation begins in my fingertips and spreads upward through my hands. I think of Juneau. I picture her in my mind.
And suddenly I’m experiencing her feelings: I am swept by a wave of fierce determination. I feel a sense of curiosity . . . alertness. She’s watching . . . waiting for a sign. Juneau’s still on her way, I think. If she had been captured, she would be feeling fear. If she had found her clan, there would be some relief. She’s safe, for now, and is still looking.
I open my eyes and the tingling stops. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. I did it. I Read.
Juneau is wrong. The Amrit has changed something in my brain. It’s not a choice—a lifestyle change—like she’s been taught. It’s something that comes automatically with the drug. A side effect. Not only does Amrit make you immune to disease and slow your aging, but it somehow changes your brain chemistry so that you can perceive things you couldn’t before. Or, saying it in Yara-speak . . . plug into the consciousness of the universe.
Why not? I think. My mom used to talk about how she got “dog nose” when she was pregnant with me. Being pregnant changed her perceptions enough that her sense of smell was sharpened. Why shouldn’t a drug powerful enough to bring me back to life have a chemical effect on how my mind processes things?
It’s just another weird quirk to accept about my condition. But at a time like this, if I can figure out how to use it to my benefit, it could be my greatest asset.
I decide to push a little further and walk into the woods until I find a place where trees grow thick enough to blot out the sunlight. In between a few old pines, I gather sticks and build a small fire. When it catches, I sit cross-legged in front of it and look just above the flames, like Juneau does.
I wait. I think about the map that Juneau said she saw in the fire, and try to imagine something like it, but nothing happens. No tingle, no picture, nothing.
My mom used to meditate as part of her stress therapy. She would focus on something like a candle or a mandala to empty her mind. I stare at the edges of the flames, watch the dancing orange light, and try not to think of anything. But the harder I try to clear my mind, the more my thoughts wander.
