Downburst (24 page)

“Nothing bad. I did get cut on the leg a little bit.” He shows me where something sharp ripped the cloth on his pants and the skin on his calf. The blood has congealed around it.

“I think we should clean ourselves up and keep moving,” he says. “I know you’re tired, but the winds are perfect right now. They’re going directly northwest. It will be an easy ride, and they’re fairly strong.” My misery must have shown on my face, because his voice switches to a more persuasive tone. “We need to get to the
Wakenunat
as soon as possible so your wounds can be treated.”

That’s the wrong thing to say to try to convince me
. But he’s right. We should keep going. Just in case there are other Rangi around.

“How did they find us?” I grunt as I stagger to my feet.

Rye shrugs. “I don’t think they were trackers. They were probably scouts that stumbled on us.”

“So far north?”

He nods, his eyes grim. “That’s what worries me. Another reason we need to get to the fortress.”

It doesn’t take us long to find a small river. Rye takes the shirt off my arm again, helps me wash my wound, then rinses out the shirt and turns it into a sling. I splash water on my face with my right hand while he cleans the cut on his leg. It’s not very deep, so he doesn’t bandage it.

After a few minutes, I have to sit down on the bank. The ground is spinning again, and I can feel my face going pale. On top of losing all the blood, I haven’t eaten anything all day. Rye finds a few berries, and I gobble them greedily, but it barely takes the edge off.

I wonder how we’re going to find food later. All of our weapons are gone, and so is the backpack, but Rye still has the pocketknife, so maybe he’ll be able to catch something. My mouth waters. Right now even more fish sounds appetizing.

All too soon, it’s time to go. Rye holds my hand as we climb into the sky. I struggle to make
honga
—I hurt everywhere, and I keep seeing her dying eyes—but once I get it, the wind blocks out some of the pain, and it gets better when we reach a higher altitude, like Rye promised. The winds are steady, and they’re pointing in the direction we want. All I have to do is hang on.
Don’t think about it. Just hang on.

I keep my fingers curled around Rye’s, pretend he’s my link to the wind. He grips my hand just as tightly.
I almost lost him.
I wince whenever I think of his body tumbling toward the ground, like Jeremy, like the Rangi woman.

I can’t do this, can’t let him get this close. Twice I’ve delayed escaping because of him, and twice I’ve paid for it. I can’t make that mistake again.

Rye looks at me and smiles encouragement, and I bite my cheek, remembering how badly I needed him after I killed the Rangi, how I almost collapsed when I found out he wasn’t dead.
I have to be strong.

But in about an hour, I’m anything but strong. I’m shaking uncontrollably, my cheeks are flushed, and I want to throw up the berries. I can barely keep
honga
, so Rye swings me onto his back, and I wrap my arm around his neck and release my hold on the wind. I press my burning cheek against his shoulder and close my eyes. I think I fall asleep.

The next thing I know, we’re dropping to the ground. White flurries land on Rye’s skin and dissolve into miniscule puddles.

“Snow?” I croak, looking up at the swirling flakes.

“Yeah,” Rye pants. He sets me down and bends over, putting his hands on his knees.

“How far have we gone?” My voice is no more than a whisper.

“Hard to say. I’m hoping at least sixty miles. I just need a little break. Then we’ll keep going.” He looks up at the flaking sky. “Maybe I should catch some dinner, before it’s impossible to find any.” He bends down and unlaces his shoe then snaps a branch off a tree, pulls out the pocketknife. “Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I sit down and rest against a rock. The cold air feels good on my cheek, and I stare at the dancing flecks. The sky overhead is a milky gray. Calm, not at all like the incensed storm clouds. Everything is perfectly still. Silent. Peaceful. If I move or even breathe, I’ll break the spell.

I watch the tiny designs land on my pants. They accumulate steadily, thickly, creating a soft blanket for my legs. I close my eyes and feel them kiss my scorched lids and lashes. It’s like living in a dream. The snow will make it all go away.

There are people in this dream. I can feel it. People I know. I just have to find them. If I close my eyes more, they will come to me. They’ll caress me like the snowflakes, make the hurt disappear, tell me everything is okay. I just have to go deeper …

“Aura.” I hear them. But they’ve got my name wrong. I’m not Aura, I’m Kit. At least, I think I’m Kit. Didn’t my mother call me Kit? Or maybe she called me Aura, and I’ve been pretending to be Kit. I can’t quite remember. Somehow, it seems very important that I remember.

“Aura!” They’re calling louder now.
I’m here! Come find me.
Why can’t they find me? Are they confused too? They must be looking for the wrong person.
No, I’m over here! Don’t go. Please come to me.

The world lurches, and a man’s face forms in the darkness. “Aura,” he says insistently. It’s Jeremy. He’s come for me. We get to go into the dream now. But as he looks at me, I realize something’s wrong. His eyes aren’t right. Jeremy didn’t have green eyes. They were blue, or gray. I never could decide.

His face slips away.
Don’t leave me! I’m coming. I’ll be Aura if you want me to.
But he doesn’t come back, and I call after him, begging him to wait. I reach blindly into the dark.

The cold night swallows me, and my body spins in the blackness. I keep calling for them, keep searching. They don’t respond, but, in time, the darkness grows warmer. I can see light ahead. I urge myself toward it, crawl for that spot of brilliance.

I heave myself out of the darkness … and enter a jungle. It’s hot, steamy, thick. I don’t stop, pushing past the broad vibrant leaves and brightly colored flowers. Insects whirr around my ears. Monkeys screech in the distance. I’m getting closer. They’re here somewhere. I remember.

Soon I see the house, my house. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I forgot how hot it gets here. A parrot flies overhead, squawking at me.
I know. I’m hurrying.
I break into a run. I don’t want to be late. The jungle fades around me, and when I reach my house, the Brazil nut trees are replaced with golden fields.

I burst through the doors.
Mom! Dad!
Where are they? I don’t see them. Somewhere the twins are crying. Why is Mom letting them cry? Why is it so hot in here? I walk into the kitchen. A pot is boiling over on the stove.

As I move into the living room, I almost walk past them. But then I see, and I stop. I turn. Their bodies are lying on the carpet, the new carpet, the carpet Mom ordered special for the house. It’s stained now, a deep red stain around their heads.

I walk toward them. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. I want to run, but I can’t. My chest pounds.
Mom? Dad?
Why are they just lying there? And then I see their faces. Blank. Frightened. Dead.

Something explodes in the kitchen, and I hear the screaming flames and the crying twins. And something else: voices, deep voices, coming from the bedroom. I back away from the bodies, turn and run. The twins are in their cribs, and I snatch them up, burst out the back door. I run into the fields, run, run, run as the smoke billows behind us, until I collapse on the furrowed ground. We hide under the cornstalks, watch the roaring fire and the black waves as they devour our house—and our parents.

The twins are crying, and I try to hush them. We can’t let them find us. I hush them, and I don’t cry. We can’t all cry. Someone has to be in charge. The smoke gets inside my lungs, and I choke on it, cough it out. They’re looking for us. We can’t let them find us. We’re on our own.

Why in Hell is it so hot?

I sit up, drenched in sweat. I want to tear my clothes off, but my arm won’t move, and pain shoots through my bones when I shift my weight. I look around frantically.
Where am I?
It looks like I’m inside a tree.
Back in
wakemo
fourteen?
No, I remember—that burned to the ground, burned like everything else.

The room is circular, the walls a patchy pattern of green and white. Next to me is a large wooden pole, and I follow it up with my eyes to where it’s swallowed in pine boughs that hang low, surrounding everything. I’m not in a room at all, or even inside a tree. I’m
under
a tree. The pole is a trunk. I reach out to touch the walls. Pine needles and … ice?

A low fire is burning two feet to the right of me. The smoke mostly escapes out of a small opening in the snow, but some of it hovers in the air overhead. A cooked fish sits on a stone, and on the other side of the flames is Rye, stabbing the ground aimlessly with his pocketknife. He looks up.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“Where are we?” I ask, rubbing my temple.

“Take a look.” He points to the opening.

I stick my head out through the hole, and the cold air freezes the sweat on my face. Everything is white. Deep drifts of snow extend for as far as I can see.

“The flurries turned into a blizzard,” Rye continues as I pull my head back in. The heat rolls over me, and the beads of sweat melt, dribble down my neck. “Plus you were getting heavy, so I figured it was time to stop for the night. The snow had heaped up around this spruce, creating a perfect igloo-type shelter once I dug a way in.”

“You carried me again?”

“Yeah, but you held the fish for me. In your sling.”

“Gross.” I look down and see I’m still wearing my jacket. No wonder I was hot.

“How’s that fever?”

“I’m sweating like crazy,” I say.

“Good. I kept the fire stoked, hoping it would break.” His chest is glistening.

“You can put it out now, if you want,” I tell him.

He grins. “You’re my new favorite person.” He smothers the flames with some snow and his shoe.

I look back at his chest, his bare skin. “Wait a second,” I exclaim. “You were out in a blizzard—you dug out this shelter!—without a shirt on?”

“Here.” He ignores my question and hands me a hollowed out piece of wood with water inside. “Melted snow. Drink up.”

I guzzle down the liquid. It soothes my throat, but it only makes my stomach feel empty.

“That fish is yours,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “Sorry I didn’t wait for you before eating mine.”

“Thanks,” I say, tearing into it.

Despite my hunger, I only manage to put a third of it away. I set the rest back down on the rock for later and wipe my fingers on my pants. “Are we going to stay here the night?” I ask.

“Depends.” His mouth twitches. “Do you need more sleep?”

“More sleep?” I frown. “How long have I been out?”

“At least twenty-four hours,” he says.

“What? It’s tomorrow? I mean, the Rangi attacked us yesterday?”

“Yep. You fell asleep when I went to get the fish, and I couldn’t wake you up. So I carried you until the snow got bad. We were here all of last night, and we’re about two-thirds of the way through today.”

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry.”

“Your health is more important. Besides, we wouldn’t have been able to windwalk in the blizzard anyway. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks,” I say. “For taking care of me. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. A little too much time to think maybe.”

I know what he means. He stabs the knife in the ground again, and I notice his carving is resting by his foot.

“Are you still working on it?” I ask, nodding at the small figurine.

He picks up the deer and tosses it toward me. I barely catch it with my right hand. Bringing it into my chest, I look down at the tiny statue. It’s destroyed—wood splintered, the antlers broken off. It must have happened in the fight.

“Oh,” I breathe. We’re both quiet.

“I just get so angry,” Rye finally says, jabbing the blade back into the dirt. “I want to kill every last Rangi, make them die a slow death. But I can’t windwalk and carry that hate at the same time. So it fades. And then I hate myself for letting it fade.”

“I think I understand,” I whisper.
I wish I could tell him that I know what it’s like, tell him about my parents, how I was so scared, I couldn’t cry. I’ve never talked to anyone about it, not Tom or Sue, not the twins, not the school counselors. But I could tell Rye. He would understand.

But even if I could get my lips to form the words, I couldn’t really tell him. Because Aura’s parents didn’t die when she was seven. And if I tell him who I am, I’ll lose him.

“I think Buck would be proud of you,” I say. It’s not enough, not by a long shot, but it’s all I can do.

Water wells in his deep eyes, and he sniffs and wrinkles his nose, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. I hate feeling so helpless, so utterly unable to make it better.
If I weren’t such a coward
…
But I am. So I just reach across the dead fire and hold his hand.

We decide to spend the night under the tree after all. I’m still weak, and Rye isn’t eager to carry me another hundred miles. Besides, he’s not exactly in great shape either—apart from the fish, he hasn’t eaten anything in over thirty-six hours. So for the rest of the day and into the evening, we rest in our hiding place, talking quietly, and I ask Rye to tell me about his family.

“Chia’s fourteen,” he says. “She’s a brain. She gets good grades in school and is always winning awards. She can be kind of a brat sometimes though, and she takes forever to get ready in the morning. But most of the time she’s pretty fun to hang out with. She’s fast too. She can almost catch me in windracing.

“Maize is eleven,” he continues. “She loves animals. I think she brings home a stray cat or dog every other week. Mom lets her take care of them for a few days until she can find them a home.” He chuckles. “Once she came back from the pet store with a one-eyed fish. She bought it because she felt sorry for it.”

“That’s cute.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart. And then there’s Teff. He’s nine, the youngest. He’s always getting into trouble, but he’s so oblivious, most of the time he doesn’t realize that what he’s doing is a problem. Like one time, we were at the park and someone’s dog was tied to a lamp post. The dog was barking and tugging at the leash, and Teff figured that the dog didn’t want to be tied up. So he walked over and let him loose. The dog’s owner was furious! We had to chase the dog down for a half an hour until we finally caught him.”

I smile, wishing I could tell him about all of Jack’s crazy exploits and Maisy’s obsession with horses. “What about your parents?” I ask.

“Mom’s the best. She’s always cooking something delicious or cracking us up with a joke. She’s about the only person who can make Dad laugh.”

“What’s your dad’s name?”

“Makya. It means eagle hunter.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Yeah,” Rye snorts, “especially compared to a grain.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then I say, “So, does he actually hunt eagles, because that seems like something the Yakone wouldn’t like.”

Rye grins. “I guess my grandfather wasn’t thinking about that when he named him, maybe because his parents were Okłumin.”

“Is Makya an Okłumin word?”

His forehead wrinkles. “No, it’s Kohangaere
.
”

“Kohangaere?
What’s that?”

He sits up. “Aura, Kohangaere
is our language.”

I stare at him
. Crap.
“Our language?”

“Yeah, all windwalkers speak it.”

“But we’re speaking English now.”

“Well, yeah, because we grew up speaking it, because we live in North America. We have to speak the language of the humans we live with, but we all learn Kohangaere. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to communicate with each other.”

“Is Kohangaere what the first windwalkers spoke?” I ask, hoping to distract him.

“Yes.”

“And it hasn’t changed, after all this time?”

“It has—just not among windwalkers. Pieces of it exist in languages all over the world.”

“In human languages?”

“Right. When windwalkers became human, they continued to speak Kohangaere, but as they spread across the globe their language evolved into various dialects and eventually different languages.”

“Oh.” I fidget with my Quil, not sure what else to say.

“That’s a good example, actually,” Rye says, pointing to the device.

“This?”

“Yeah.
Quil
means eagle in Kohangaere, and as you’ve pointed out, our Yakone ancestors chose it as the symbol of our tribe and our ability to windwalk. The Latin word for eagle is
aquila,
and that’s how you get
aigle
in French and eventually eagle in English
.
” He leans forward.
“But
guess what the Romans called their wind god?”

“What?”

“Aquilo! See how it’s all connected?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a storyteller?”

“Nah. I’m just long-winded.”

We look at each other and then burst out laughing.

After a moment, it grows quiet again, and Rye pushes the pine needles around with a twig then clears his throat. “So, when I came to get you—after I caught the fish—and I tried to wake you up, you called me Jeremy.”

I look at my feet. “Oh.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Rye asks.

“No,” I stammer quickly. “He was just a friend.”

“Was?”

“He died. During the attack.”

“I’m sorry.” He pokes at the needles, pulls at his ear.

His question reminds me of something Lila told me a lifetime ago. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” He snaps the twig in half. “There’s someone my parents want me to marry, but I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Who is she?”

“A family friend. It’s not important.”

“You don’t think you’ll marry her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay. Sorry.” I study the frozen pine boughs.

“I’ll be right back,” Rye says.

As he slips out through the opening, I punch my leg with my fist.
Stupid! Why did I have to keep asking questions?
I wish I could know who she is, what she’s like.

A scraping noise against the hard snow makes me look up as Rye’s head pops back through the gap. “You gotta come see this,” he says, grinning.

I shimmy out through the opening, careful not to bump my arm on the ice, and step onto the smooth, crunchy snow. Then I look in the direction he’s pointing and gasp.

Above the horizon, streaks of emerald and sapphire swirl against the black night. They snake above my head, pulsing larger and brighter, exploding to light up the entire sky, shrinking and flickering into oblivion, returning once more to resume their lambent dance.

“Aurora borealis,” Rye says. “Aurora for the goddess of dawn. Boreas for the god of the north wind, like Aquilo.”

“The god of the wind,” I repeat. I can’t tear my eyes away from the sea green waves cascading overhead.

“Speaking of stories,” he says quietly, “do you know what the Inuit word is for aurora?”

“No. Should I?”

“It’s Yakone.”

“Really?”

He grins and, pitching his voice low, says, “The Eskimo say that the mannabai’wok, or giants, live in the direction of the north wind. They tell their children, ‘The mannabai’wok are our friends, but we don’t see them anymore. They are great hunters and fishermen, and whenever they are out with their torches to spear fish, we know it. For then the sky is bright in the place where they are.’”

I smile at his performance. “And we’re supposed to be the mannabai’wok?”

“Yep.”

“But we aren’t up there.” I point to the green heavens.

“Not yet.”

I turn to look at him, at the hand he’s holding out. His grin has faded to a soft smile, and his eyes match the color of the flickering lights. I hesitate only a moment, and then I entwine my fingers in his, and we leap into the night.

The breeze is gentle, and we scale the currents easily, climbing higher and higher into the darkness. The cold air whips around my arms, but it doesn’t bother me. I keep my eyes fixed on the luminous beams twisting across the sky.

When we finally stop, I can’t tell how far away the ground is. I’m suspended in the thick blackness, surrounded by stars and an ocean of viridian. The light spills across my hand, my arm, my clothes, as if I’m underwater, swimming in it.

I look at Rye. His whole face has become the color of his eyes, and the light flashes and shifts across his skin.

He leans close and speaks into my ear. “I know you don’t remember, but the last day at the testing grounds, you promised me a kiss.”

My sluggish blood suddenly surges through my veins. “I did?”

“Yeah, you did.” He turns me to face him. Slides his arm around my waist, tips his head against mine, softly touches my neck, my cheek, my hair. The wind spins us in gentle circles.

A burst of rose and heliotrope shoots across the green sky, and suddenly everything is warm. His eyes are warm. His fingers are warm. His breath is warm. His lips, as they press against mine, are warm and warm and warm.

When the lights fade away, we return to our tree, still holding hands. Rye kisses me again and tells me to go to sleep. “I’ll be back in a little bit,” he says.

“Where are you going?”

“Just for a walk. I’ll be back.”

“But you’re not even wearing a shirt.”

He holds his arms out and laughs, “Do I look cold?”

I smile and let him go, watch his silhouette join the night. Then I duck into our snowy tent and curl up on my side on the pine needles. As I close my eyes and remember the sensation of his mouth on mine, the nerves in my chest buzz, sending tingling waves throughout my entire body.

Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind, but somehow it sneaks up on me, and I slip into its heady embrace. I wake up only once, opening my eyes to the dark and listening for Rye’s steady breathing. When I hear it, I fall asleep for good.

In the morning, I wake to the sound of snapping flames and quiet singing. It’s hard to open my eyes, hard to sit up. My body quivers from the lack of food, and my arm throbs. When I’m finally able to push myself off the pine needles, I see Rye. He’s melting more snow and crooning softly to the fire. His face is pale, but his voice is deep and rich, almost husky. I can’t make out the words.

“What song is that?” I ask.

He stops. “Good morning.” His mouth sidles into an uncertain smile.

I feel similar spasms on my own lips and have trouble meeting his gaze. He looks down and pokes at the fire. “It’s an old Yakone song. A song of farewell. Our people would sing it when their loved ones left for war.”

“Can I hear the whole thing?”

He coughs. “I don’t know.”

“Please?”

“All right, maybe it will help you remember, but don’t laugh at me. My voice is especially unreliable today.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

He begins to sing.

The wind blows so sweetly, my love, through the night

Crossing the distance that I cannot span;

Its gentle arms touch you, wherever you are

So

Bridging the chasm as only love can.

The night is so still now, out under the moon—

Cascades of velvet, brief flashes of jade.

The cheek where you kissed me is cool to the touch,

But

Stars shine inside me—born never to fade.

The wind sings so sweetly and speaks through the night

Saying the long wait will shortly be done;

I smile at the wind’s song and sit by the door

For

Lovers as we two forever are one.

He finishes and neither of us says a word. He was right. His voice wasn’t perfect, but somehow it made the song better, more real. I see why he was embarrassed—the reference to the Northern Lights, what the song implies—and I look at my hands. If only it could be. If only I could have that kind of hope.

But soon I’ll have to leave, and I’ll never see him again.

“It’s lovely,” I say, the tears that won’t fall gripping my throat.

“My voice doesn’t do it justice,” he says. “You should hear my mom sing it.”

“I’d like to.”

“Here.” He hands me the cup of water. His hands are shaking. “Drink up. We probably won’t find any more water today.”

My hands shake too as I make myself drink. The liquid hits my stomach, and I feel more acutely the enormous, never-ending pit inside my body. I want to go back to sleep, make it go away.

We douse the fire and crawl out of the igloo, and when I stand up, a dark cloud dims my eyesight. I hold still for a moment, waiting for it to pass. It takes all my willpower not to collapse onto the snow.