Authors: Amy Plum
Die Once More (12 page)
Nome lets out a whoop and then, shoving her slingshot inside her parka, jogs over to me. When she sees my expression, her playful mood deflates. “It's okay, Juneau. Like you said, it wouldn't have been lethal.”
I'm silent. She sighs deeply as we begin walking toward the village. “Juneau, you can't be perfect. You're going to be clan Sage, not our sole protector.”
“I'd rather be prepared to do both,” I respond.
“You're seventeen, Juneau. And you're already carrying the weight of the clan on your shoulders.”
I don't respond. But inside, I acknowledge it: I'm just a teenager now, but one day the well-being of a few dozen people will be in my hands. It's a heavy burdenâone I know I must carry. Why else would I have been given my gift?
We crest the hill. Before us crouches the Great Ice Bear: Mount Denali, scraping its sugar-white pelt against the sky. And between its foothills and the forest are nestled twenty yurts. The light-colored skins stretched across the roofs and sides of the yurts make them almost invisible against the snowâa necessary camouflage.
It's been thirty years since the war. My parents and fifteen others escaped in the very last hours, after the first firestorm of nuclear explosions triggered the aftermath . . . the creeping death of radiation and famine and genocide. They came here to Alaska's unspoiled territory, far from any city that would have been targeted for destruction.
Although little was left in the wake of the Final War, it would be foolish to think we were the only survivors. Over the decades, during their rare scouting trips, the elders have found evidence. Abandoned cars run on the scarce drops of fuel that remained after the oil fields burned. Human trails left just beyond the boundaries of our territory. Sounds from the air of a lone renegade flying machine.
But there haven't been any new signs found for a long time. Only a handful of close calls since I was bornâseventeen years ago. The only deaths have been accidents: one by bear attack, and then my own mother's death when her sled broke through lake ice.
These are the cautionary tales we are brought up with. Instead of the bogeyman (who terrified my mom as a child), our nightmares are populated with armed brigands roaming the land to plunder what is left. Merciless survivors of the apocalypse, bent upon taking what our clan has worked so hard to preserve: clean food and water and immunity from the radiation and disease that will, in the end, finish off the outside world.
A rebirth. That is what the clan hopes for. What Whit teaches us will happen. But it could take centuries. Millennia. Our goal is survival.
“See you later,” I say to Nome as we arrive, and jog ahead of her toward the school yurt. Once through the door flap, it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust from the blinding reflection of sun on snow to the soft light filtering through the open crown of the yurt and the glow of the schoolroom's fire.
I brush off my moccasins and leave them with my crossbow next to the door. If Whit's teaching the younger children, it means he's explaining the Yara. Which before long will be my job. When I was fiveâjust after my mother's deathâWhit tested me and found I was able to Conjure. Besides him and my mother, I am the only one of my tribe capable.
In three years I will undergo the Rite, and will then take his place as clan Sage, as my mother should have if she were still alive. So recently Whit's left more and more of the clan Readings to me and has begun to show me how he Conjures, being careful what he shows me, since I can duplicate his results with ease.
“Why don't you join us, Juneau?” Whit asks. The children are seated in a half circle around him. Nikiski's thereâhe must have sprinted backâand next to him are Tanaina, Wasilla, and Healy, ready to hear Whit's lesson, one he repeats for all age groups several times a year. I've heard it so many times, I could recite it by heart.
I sit down next to Whit as he pours a layer of ground mica on the floor. The firelight reflects in it, making it sparkle. The young children watch, their attention caught and held by the glistening powder.
Whit etches a large circle with his finger. “This is the earth. Everything in it is a part of the same organism: you, me, the dogs, the ground, the air.” He takes Healy's hand and blows a puff of air on it, demonstrating wind, causing the four-year-old to giggle in delight. “We live inside a superorganism, and everything within it is connected by a powerful force.”
“The Yara,” the children shout in unison.
Whit pulls a mock-surprised expression and asks, “Have you heard this story before?”
“Yes!” the children yell, laughing gleefully. Whit smiles and unconsciously smooths down the solitary strand of gray hair in his black mane. It's the one sign of his aging before he found the Yara. Proof that he is the oldest in the clan.
“You're right,” he concedes. “The Yara is the current that moves through all things. It's what allows us to Read.” Inside the circle representing the earth, Whit draws concentric smaller circles. “Can you tell me what kinds of things have the Yara flowing through them?” He points to the outermost circle.
Tanaina lifts her hand and blurts out, “People!”
Whit nods and points to the next circle in.
“Animals,” Wasilla says, and then adds, “Plants,” as Whit moves to the next circle.
Placing his finger on the innermost circle, he says, “Even the elementsâfire, water, air, earthâthey all have the Yara running through them.
“Since you are close to the Yara, you can use it to connect with all the other members of earth's superorganism.” Whit draws lines from the outer “human” circle to those inside. “Even rocks have a memory of what has happened around them. If you can ever get them to talk!” The children laugh again, knowing that speaking rocks are one of Whit's jokes, even though there is a measure of truth behind it.
“Okay. Today's lesson is over,” Whit says. The children let loose, tapping their fingers in the mica powder and wiping it on their faces like war paint. Everybody piles outside, and Whit and I head toward his yurt.
“Did Nikiski give you my message?” he asks.
“In his own way,” I say, grinning. “Something about meat?”
“Yes. We're running low,” he says. “I thought you could handle it, since the rest of the hunters are needed for the clearing of our summer encampment.” Whit's mouth quirks up into a smile. “I didn't think you'd mind going on your own.”
My mentor knows me as well as my father does. Besides Ketchikan and Cordova, I'm the best hunter in the clan. And I relish time spent on my own.
We arrive at Whit's yurt. Beside the door sits a lightweight sled with a mountain of supplies strapped to it and a pair of snowshoes draped across the top.
“I Read the skull for you,” he says. “You'll find caribou in the south field tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep and you can be down there first thing in the morning.”
I nod. “I'll start at daybreak.”
“And be careful not toâ”
“âcross the boundary. I know, Whit. I'll be careful,” I promise.
“All right then. I'm off,” he says, and gathers up his pack from atop his sled.
My father appears from behind the neighboring yurt. “Sneaking away again, Whit?” he teases.
“I hate long good-byes,” Whit responds with a smile. “And I'll only be gone two weeks.” He turns and straps the sled's rope across his chest, and disappears down a path in the woods.
“I still don't understand why Whit won't take dogs on his retreats,” I say.
My father puts a hand on my shoulder and walks with me back toward our home. “He has his own way of doing things,” he replies.
We reach the main encampment. The smell of dinners cooking and warm puffs of smoke exiting the crowns of the yurts makes my stomach rumble.
Dad and I push through the door flaps to see Beckett and Neruda lying lazily by the fire, keeping watch over the steaming stew pot.
“So how is my warrior princess?” he asks, as I hang my crossbow from a side beam and begin shucking off my moccasins and parka. “Did Whit say he was sending you hunting?” he asks.
“I leave tomorrow morning,” I respond, as he begins ladling out bowls of moose stew. He hands me a bowl and spoon, and I join him in front of the fire. I blow on a steaming spoonful of meat and take a bite. Nestled in the warmth and security of our yurt, I think for the thousandth time of how lucky we are. Dad and I have each other. We have a good life, while the world outside our boundaries is nothing but radioactive waste, bands of marauding brigands, and for anyone else who might have survived World War III, an existence filled with misery and despair.
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