Downburst (23 page)

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks. “Sorry, I should have given you more warning.”

“I’m fine,” I squeak. “Should we try it again?”

“You’re game? All right, let’s do it!” As he takes my hand, a shiver runs up my arm.

We grab the wind again, and I get up on my feet much more quickly. When I’ve got my balance, Rye looks at me and raises his fingers.
One. Two. Three.
This time, I’m on board. I jump with him to a higher current, and we hold the wind for a split-second until Rye yells, “Let go!” We drop, and I grab the wind just as my feet slam into the water. I tilt to the left, and Rye tightens his hold to keep me upright. We zoom forward in a rush of spray. I scream and laugh at the same time.

After a few more runs, we return to shore, stretching out on a large, flat rock to dry in the sun. “We’re in the Northwest Territories now,” Rye says, looking at his Quil.

“So we’re close?”

“Probably two or three more days depending on the wind. We still have to go further west, into the mountains. The
Wakenunat
is almost in the Yukon.”

Two or three more days.
What am I going to do?

I look at Rye. The sun is pouring its rays onto his face, highlighting the stubble that has grown in along his strong, square jaw, and I find myself thinking about the free fall contest, about what might have happened if … He turns his head, and I jerk my gaze up to the sky.

“It’s a nice day,” I say lamely.

“Yeah. I think a storm’s coming.”

“Really?”

“The direction of the wind, the warm temperatures … I won’t be surprised if we get some rain tomorrow.”

“Will it be hard to windwalk?”

“Depends on how bad of a storm it is. The winds usually shift a lot.”

“I see.”

I close my eyes, and the heat sinks through my eyelids, filling my vision with embers. The water gently laps the shore. The wind swishes through the trees. Birds sing in the distance. I drink it all in, wishing I could lie here forever.

But I can’t. Somehow, some way, I’m going to have to leave. In three days we’ll be at the
Wakenunat
, and I absolutely can’t go there, can’t let them catch me. The GPS on my Quil will help me find my way back to civilization, and the
kiipooyaq
will feed me. The only thing I have to figure out is what to do about the Rangi. How do I avoid them?

I feel Rye’s shoulder touching mine.
That’s the other problem.
Maybe I should just tell him the truth.

No. It’s too late for that. I can’t be with him. We live in two different worlds, and he thinks I’m someone I’m not. When I get the chance, I
have
to go.

But I won’t forget this—the warmth on my skin, the sound of Rye’s breath beside me. I’ll carry this moment with me for the rest of my life.

I open my eyes and turn my head to look at him, jumping a little when I see that he’s staring at me.

“You’re pretty when you’re relaxed,” he says.

“Thanks,” I mumble, the heat on my cheeks from more than just the sun.

He laughs. “C’mon, it’s time to go.”

Our progress is as difficult as it was in the morning, and I wonder how hard it will be tomorrow when the storm breaks, if it will slow us down, buy me time.

When we stop for the night, my body is aching. I try looking for birds to kill, but I can’t find any, so Rye goes fishing again. He only catches one.

“I’ll be happy when I don’t have to eat any more fish,” I say.

“I’ll be happy when I don’t have to
catch
any more fish,” Rye replies.

“Whose turn is it to take the first watch?” I yawn. “I can’t remember.”

“Actually, I don’t think we need to keep watch anymore. We’ve been out here almost a week—if the Rangi were nearby, we would have met them by now. I highly doubt they’ll be bold enough to attack the
Wakenunat
, and since we’re getting close to it, we should be safe.”

“Are you sure?” My pulse picks up.

“If all those bullets you’ve shot off haven’t attracted them, I don’ t know what will.”

“Hey! Some of those bullets were to save you from the moose!”

He laughs. “I know. I just have to give you a hard time.” Then he looks at my face and stops laughing
.
“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, sorry. You just reminded me of someone I miss.”

“Someone back home? Is your memory coming back?”

“No, someone, someone from the camp.”

Rye scoots closer and puts his arms around me, and I rest my head against him. “I miss them too,” he says.

I close my eyes against the pain, imagine Rye’s strong arms keeping it away. He smells like pine and sweat and something else. Dirt? Lake water? Fish? All three? Certainly not lemon. But his scent keeps me grounded, and I don’t slip into the dark hole that’s formed inside my chest.

“Do we believe in an afterlife?” I ask.

“Of course.” I feel his throat vibrate as he speaks. “When we die, we go back to live with First Parents. Their kingdom is high above this world, a land of warm winds and golden clouds, where the air smells like lilac, where there’s no fighting or pain and you can windwalk forever.”

“It sounds nice.” I try to picture Jeremy and the others there, but I can’t. “Do humans go there too?”

“Yes, that’s when they’ll realize they were once windwalkers.”

“What about the Rangi?”

“Everyone has to be judged before they’re admitted into the Eternal Sky.” His voice grows hard. “The Rangi won’t be judged well. They’ll have to wander the winds on Earth until the world ends.”

“When will that happen?”

He brushes the hair back from my forehead. “When there’s no one left on the Earth who remembers how to windwalk.”

We sit quietly for several minutes, and I focus on the way his fingers caress my skin. Eventually, the black pit seals back up, and I can breathe normally.

“Who gets the sleeping bag?” I ask, reluctantly pushing myself off his chest.

“You can have it,” he says.

We kick out the fire, and I climb into the bag while Rye lies on his side a few feet away from me. As I trace the strong lines of his back with my eyes, I try to imagine the windwalkers’ heaven, wishing I were in his arms again.

And then I think about what I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind all evening: if the Rangi aren’t a threat anymore, that means I can leave. I scrunch up my forehead as Rye’s outline blends into the darkness.

A raindrop splatters on my cheek, waking me. I sit up and look at the sky. Even though it’s covered in thick clouds, I can tell that the sun is higher than it usually is. With no one keeping watch, we must have slept in. I stretch my arms. It feels good to have a full night’s rest, even if my back is perpetually stiff from lying on the hard dirt and rocks.

I look to my right for Rye, but he’s not there.
Probably went to catch some fish
. I start to stand up then stop, heart thudding. This is my chance. I should leave now before he comes back. I rise to my feet then quickly roll up the sleeping bag.

When I’ve tied it together, I carry it toward the backpack, and that’s when I notice that the fire is cold—Rye usually starts it up before he goes fishing. Is he okay?

It’s fine. Don’t panic. Maybe he stepped into the trees.
“Rye?” I call. No answer.
I’m sure he’s just out of hearing range.

Even though I’m losing precious time, I flip to the shortcut menu on my Quil and press his number. I have to know if he’s all right. I wait, but the connection never forms, so I finish packing our gear then sit on a rock, trying to decide what to do. I should leave while I have this chance, but then I’d always wonder if he was hurt, if I abandoned him.
What if he met another moose? What if the Rangi found him?
I bounce my leg and tap my nails against the rock. The raindrops fall more frequently.

“Okay, I’m going to look for him,” I say out loud. I grab the
kiipooyaq
and my switchblade and push through the trees. There’s a stream about fifteen yards away. I’ll check there first.

When I near the bank, I find his shirt, laid out on a rock, and then I find his shoes and pants, his boxers hanging from a branch. I’m just putting two and two together when the top half of his body pops out of the river. I shield my eyes with my hand and turn my head away.

Rye laughs. “Well, good morning,” he says.

“Sorry,” I splutter. “I didn’t know where you were and got worried.”

“Just taking a bath. Although by the looks of things, I shouldn’t have bothered taking my clothes off.” I look up. The clouds are thicker, and the rain is falling faster now.

I hear splashing as Rye swims for the shore, and I back up, keeping my gaze averted.

“I’ll wait for you at camp,” I call. He laughs as I run back to our fire pit.

When Rye returns, I’m crouched under a pine tree. The boughs don’t help very much, and my clothes are drenched.

He joins me. “I think we’ll have to skip breakfast today. We should try to cover as much distance as possible before it gets really bad, and we wouldn’t be able to light a fire anyway.”

Rye leads the way, slinging the backpack over his shoulders, zigzagging up to the higher surf. The wind is blowing in all directions. One moment we’re going west, and the next, we’re going east. I concentrate on Rye’s wet hair, the dark backpack.

The humming in my chest climbs to a high-pitched whine as the winds seethe inside my gut. It takes all of my energy to connect to one current and then another, and pretty soon I’m panting as if I’ve just sprinted a four hundred meter. My hair whips across my face. My jacket billows up behind me, catching the wind and slowing me down. The sun disappears entirely behind a wall of ugly gray.

When the thunder erupts above our heads, Rye gives the signal to go down, and the winds buffet my body as I drop behind him. We land in a clearing.

“We’ll have to wait this out,” Rye shouts. “It’s too dangerous to windwalk.”

“Fine with me!” I call back.

We jog toward the trees. A split-second later, I hear another crack of thunder. Something smashes into the tree next to me.

“Run!” Rye yells.

And then pain explodes in my left arm.

I think I scream. My feet stumble in the mud, and I drop to one knee, ready to fall forward. But then Rye is there, shouting, grabbing me by the jacket, wrenching me back up. He lifts the backpack to shield us, and we run toward the pines as the bullets fly around our legs.

Blood is gushing onto my hand. Warm. Thick. I try to fix my eyes on the forest ahead. It’s taking us a lifetime to reach it. The blood is buzzing in my ears. The thunder echoes the cracking guns.

Then we reach the trees, and the guns stop firing. Rye hauls me along behind him until we find a thick spot of undergrowth. He pulls me to the ground, yanks off his shirt, and ties the cloth around my arm.

“We don’t have much time,” he says. “They’ll find us in here soon enough.”

“The Rangi?” I wheeze.

“Yeah. It’s them all right.”

“What do we do?”

“Fight.” He pulls our weapons out of the now shredded backpack, shouldering the automatic rifle and gripping the tomahawk. He hands me the
kiipooyaq
.

I slide my good hand down the cords. There’s no way this is going to do any damage, not against their automatics. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“You’re going to stay here. I’ll draw them away, so you can escape.”

“No!” I grab his arm
.
“No, there must be another way.”

“There isn’t. If we try to windwalk, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

“At least there’s a chance. We have to risk it!”

“Can you windwalk with your injury? In these winds?” He flings the words at me.

“Yes.” I lift my chin. “I can do it.” But a heavy weight fills my chest. It was hard enough to windwalk before, and now the pain from my wound is hammering at the edges of my head, threatening to consume my whole mind.

I look up at the sky and try to spot the wind currents through the dense rain and the broiling clouds. My vision dims, and I have to blink rapidly. Finally, I see them, whipping back and forth, going every which way. It would be a nightmare to climb up, and it would take too long. Like Rye said, we’d be sitting ducks.

But then I see something, maybe ten yards away. A block of air shooting straight into the sky.

“Rye!” I point to the vertical current. “Over there. Is that an updraft?”

“Where?” He turns his head. “Yeah … that might actually work.” He looks back at me. “I need you to do exactly as I tell you, okay?”

“Okay.” It comes out in a rasp. My whole body is shaking.

“Make a run for that updraft. Ride it as high as you can, and stay airborne. I’ll follow behind you. Wait for me up there. But if anything happens to me, get out of here as fast as you can. Promise?”

“Don’t make me promise,” I whisper.

“Well, just don’t do anything stupid then,” he says.

“I won’t.”

“Leave the backpack behind. It will slow you down. Ready?” He looks me in the eyes. I nod. “Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three!”

I burst out of the bushes. The muddy ground wobbles, and the wet branches slap my face, blind my eyes, but I keep going. Behind me, I hear Rye release a few rounds. The Rangi must be close. Searing blasts shoot up my arm, but I shove the pain down, try to let in the wind.

When I’m in the middle of the updraft, I open myself to it fully, and the warm air rushes inside. I tighten the connection and rocket skyward. The rain stings my skin as I shoot towards the heavens, and I look down as the trees drop below me. Rye is keeping the Rangi at bay. I can see them clearly from up here. Helmets and black leather. There are three—not as many as I had feared, but they still outnumber us.

One of the Rangi sees me and immediately climbs into the sky, using another updraft. Rye fires at him, but he misses, and it gives the two on the ground a chance to move in. I pull on the wind and try to go faster.

The air carries me higher than I’ve ever gone before, right into the middle of the storm. As I enter the crackling clouds, the draft dissipates, blending in with the warm air around it. I grab a horizontal current and attempt to tread in place.
Where is he?
I clutch my arm, the
kiipooyaq
dangling from my hand,
and peer into the gray, writhing mass of air and water.

I see a movement and immediately release my mental brakes. The wind hurtles me in the opposite direction.

Gunshots crack in my wake.
That was too close.
I grip the
kiipooyaq
more tightly. Rye’s not going to be able to save me. I’ll have to save myself. But what good will this thing be against a gun?

I keep moving, but my hold is weakening, and the currents knock me in all directions. At first I look constantly over my shoulder to make sure he’s not in firing range, but soon it’s all I can do to stay connected. My ragged breathing reverberates inside my throat. My drenched hair slips in front of my eyes. I feel cold. So very cold.

Another gunshot splinters the sky, and I spin around. The Rangi is speeding toward me, gun raised. I whirl my
kiipooyaq
.

The whole sky lights up, and a tremendous boom splits my eardrums as a shockwave plows through the air. The tremor jolts the Rangi forward, and he drops his rifle. The gun twirls toward the ground. When it’s almost to the treetops, a blinding flash of heat incinerates the weapon. I don’t even hear the crack this time.

Both of us are thrown across the sky. I somersault wildly, reaching out to regain my hold. My lungs burn. My chest is shaking. My whole body is shaking. I can’t quite form
honga
. Finally, I find the connection, but my legs tremble violently, and I taste metal, want to vomit.

Just as I’ve steadied myself, the Rangi barrels into me, his fingers sliding around my throat. I scream and kick at his chest, but he grabs my foot and twists me back. Unable to concentrate, I lose the bond and tumble toward the ground. The Rangi follows.

He grabs me again, and this time his hand closes around my injured arm. The pain seizes up my entire body. I can’t even scream. Desperately, I shove him away with both feet. He flips back around, and I raise the
kiipooyaq
. When he leaps, I throw the weapon, but I don’t let go of the cord.

The metal balls wrap around his throat, and I yank it tight. Like a lasso. As we spin toward the ground, the Rangi kicks his legs and pulls at the cord around his neck, pushes off his helmet. It falls away, and I see his face.

It’s not a man. It’s a woman, and she doesn’t have tattoos all over her cheeks and brow, like the others. She just has one, on her chin. Her skin is smooth and brown, her hair rich and black. She’s beautiful. And I’m killing her.

Her lovely eyes, locked on mine, are popping out of her face, still lovely, lovely and hideous at the same time. Her skin is turning blue, and her lips part as she gasps for air. I stare at her for several long seconds until my senses return. Then I shriek and let go of the cord.

Somehow I manage to grab an air current just before we reach the trees. Then I watch her body plummet to the earth.

I clench my stomach and try to bob in place. The rain continues to soak my clothes as I heave nothing but air, gasping and shrieking and convulsing. I just killed someone. I just killed someone!

Where’s Rye? I need Rye.
I can’t concentrate. The rain is getting in my eyes. The sky is too dark. How far has the wind taken me? What if I can’t find him?

“Rye!” I scream, but I can barely hear myself. “Rye, where are you?” I find a current that’s going east, back the way I came, at least I think it is—I’m so turned around, I really can’t tell. I ride it anyway, searching the sky for any sign of him. Lightning fractures the clouds above me.

Suddenly, I hear the dim echo of a gunshot, and I race toward the sound.
Please don’t be dead,
I pray to my guardian or God or First Parents or anyone that will listen. A few minutes later, I see him, below me, near another updraft, grappling with one of the Rangi. I scan the skies, but I only see one. He must have killed the other.

The rain slides off Rye’s bare back as he wrestles with the taller man, both of their hands locked on the other’s rifle
.
The tomahawk is gone, perhaps lodged somewhere in the first Rangi.
I have to help him
. But how? I reach inside my pocket. I still have my switchblade.

Grasping the knife, I pop the blade open, ignore my quivering fingers, the splintering ache in my other arm. I’ll have to get close in order to use it. I dive toward them.

When I drop down behind the Rangi, knife raised, Rye sees me, and his eyes widen. Just then, the Rangi knees Rye in the gut. He gasps for air and doubles over, losing his hold on the man’s rifle, and the Rangi pushes him back, aims the gun.

I dig my knife into the top of the man’s arm and feel it hit the shoulder blade. The Rangi howls.

The rifle goes off.

Rye falls.

“No!” I scream as Rye’s body vanishes into the trees.

The Rangi turns around, blood squirting from the protruding knife. He snarls and haltingly raises the gun.

I dive into the updraft. As the current whisks me up and away, a blistering wave of air skims my cheek. My hand flies to my face. The bullet just barely missed me, but it seared my skin.

More bullets blast past my feet, and I make myself go faster. Eventually I get out of range, but I know the Rangi can just follow me up here.

As I exit the updraft, my chest is ready to burst. Rye’s dead.
And it’s my fault. I distracted him.
I look below me, ready to meet the Rangi.

But he hasn’t followed me yet—he’s rocking unsteadily on the wind where I left him. The stab from my knife must have slowed him down. He’s looking up though, probably deciding on the best way to catch me.

And then I see something shooting up the draft below him, and my cries stick in my throat. It’s Rye.

He soars past the Rangi then somersaults out of the vertical current and dives back down toward his opponent. The Rangi still hasn’t seen him. When he’s practically at point-blank range, Rye empties his slugs into the man’s neck, and the warrior falls out of the sky.

It’s just like in the Aerie, when Rye defeated Tornado. He used the updraft like the quarter pipe. He only pretended to be shot.

When Rye looks around for me, I frantically wave my good hand and drop toward him. “Rye!” I choke.

He pulls me into his arms and holds me tightly. “Are you all right?” he yells.

I don’t say anything. I just hide my face in his chest, feel his heartbeat.

“Let’s get out of this.” He keeps his arm around me as we descend to the ground and then huddle under a large spruce.

“I killed her,” I whimper. “I strangled her. I watched her die.”

“It’s okay,” he says, cradling my head. “It’s okay.”

“I watched her die,” I repeat.

“It’ll be okay.” He rocks me back and forth.

My whole body is numb. I just keep seeing her discolored skin, her bulging eyes, her twitching lips. I stare at my hand. Did I really do it? Did I really pull on that cord, squeeze away her life? I close my eyes, but she won’t leave me.

When the storm passes, Rye leans back and surveys my face. “Let’s see what the damage is,” he says. He frowns when he sees the burn on my cheek, touches it softly. Then he touches my eyebrows and hair. “You’re a little singed,” he says.

“I got pretty close to the lightning.”

“How’s your arm?’

“It hurts.” That’s an understatement. Every time I move, it’s like I’m being stabbed. The adrenaline must have masked the pain. That, and the wind.

“Let me look at it.” Rye carefully unties his makeshift bandage. The bleeding has stopped. He runs his hands along my arm, gently squeezing the muscles and ligaments. “The bullet went cleanly through,” he announces, retying the shirt. “I don’t think it hit a bone. That’s lucky.”

“Are
you
hurt?” I ask. He has a black eye, and I can see bruises forming on his chest and shoulders.