After the End

As I watch, my father emerges from one of the huts, arms wrapped around himself. He walks a little ways, and then stops and looks up at the moon. His expression is wistful. Worried. I know he’s thinking about me. I wonder if the reason he came out was because he somehow felt me Read him.

I have been thinking about my father and the whole clan so much over the last couple of weeks that, now that I see him, I am bombarded with a volley of conflicting feelings. One part of me wants to throw myself on him and hug him tight and not let go.

Another part wants to scream. To shake him. To ask why he lied to me. Why, since Whit began training me when I was five, the clan Sage perpetuated the lies. Why the adults misled the children. Why they brainwashed us to think that an outside world didn’t exist and to hide like cornered rabbits from a danger that was never there. Because of this conspiracy of lies kept by the adults—the family—I always trusted, my whole life has been a farce.

My eyes sting, and I brush away an angry tear. I fumble around in the pack until my fingers find my fire opal. Pulling it out, I hold it in my palm and grind it against the ground. “Dad,” I say. Nothing. He is too far away for me to Read his emotions. Or maybe I’m just too furious to co

I wonder for the hundredth time how much of what I learned was part of the web of lies my father and the other clan elders spun around us, and how much was true. Their betrayal still hurts so fiercely that it burns a hole in my chest, but at least I know I still have the Yara. Other than that, I’m not sure what I believe anymore. I am unanchored. Adrift in this new world.

I turn my focus back to my father, whose figure stands immobile in the desert scene. “I’m okay, Dad,” I say, although I know he can’t hear me. I swallow the lump in my throat. “And I’m coming to get you.”

22

MILES

SHE TALKS IN HER SLEEP. SHE MENTIONS A COUPLE of writers—Beckett and Neruda—and some other names I don’t recognize, just kind of mumbling like people do in their sleep. She talks about “brigands,” like she’s afraid of them. Then she says something about her dad, and in a tortured voice she moans, “Why?”

And she looks so vulnerable—so normal—for a second, despite her tragic haircut, that I actually feel like hugging her. Telling her things will be okay, even though I don’t know exactly what’s going on with her.

And then I remember that she is not only the top-priority focus of my father’s manhunt but is dangerous and most likely mentally unstable. I stay on my side of the tent.

23

JUNEAU

MY SLEEP IS PLAGUED BY NIGHTMARES. EVERY night the same image appears: brigands descending on my clan’s encampment. Dressed in torn leather and blood-matted furs, their eyes glowing green with radiation. Using an assortment of handmade weapons as well as high-tech guns, they swarm my village, killing first the dogs, who rush out to protect us, and then my clan. I stand there in the midst of the slaughter, paralyzed. Unable to react. And then I hear my father’s voice calling to me: “Use the Yara, Juneau. Use your gifts.”

I awake as the sun begins to rise, the stench of burning yurts still stinging my nose until I sit up and breathe in the pure mountain air. Through the mosquito net I see the dew-kissed world around us turn rosy pink in the blush of daybreak. There was no war. There are no brigands. I remind myself that an apocalyptic world war never happened. But that image is such an integral part of me that this new world seems like the tall tale—a fairy-tale world, wrapped loosely like colorful paper around the burned-out husk of a postwar planet.

I glance over at Miles. His lips are slightly parted, and his breath is slow. I force the scary images out of my mind and remind myself that this is my world now. It’s just me and this boy, who I apparently need in order to complete my quest. Once again, I wonder why Frankie told me to find him. Wouldn’t I be better off on my own?

His curls tumble across his forehead, and his chin is slightly lifted. I wonder how old he is. Probably the same as me, I guess. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. I let myself see him as Nome would for a moment: he would definitely rate a 10 in her book. Considering that John F. Ke

What was he doing following me around? What is it that he needs from me? When I asked him, he wouldn’t answer. My only other option is to Read him, and I’ve never Read anyone against their will. I force that thought away and prepare myself. There are some things I must do before we leave. I slip quietly out of the tent, careful not to wake him.

Last night after Reading the fire, I consulted the wind. A fresh breeze was blowing. I raised my arms and clutched my opal in one hand. It was a long time before I felt my co

My frustration cut sharp, like a knife on flesh. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my co

As I think of him, a feeling of uncertainty—of mistrust—creeps its way into my mind, but I do my best to ignore it. Yes, Whit was probably the one who traveled out into the world as recently as a few years ago—when he bought the book. But all the clan elders had to have been in on the deception. He isn’t any guiltier than the rest of them. They all lied, not just him.

But he was the one who was supposed to be revealing truth to you, something nags. Revealing truth while simultaneously feeding you lies. The sting of betrayal returns, and I banish it into a far corner of my mind to deal with later.

The burden of responsibility I used to feel when Whit talked to me about being his successor weighs heavily on me now. I can’t be sidetracked by childish emotions. I am responsible for my clan. Besides Whit, I am the only one who isn’t imprisoned. I must think of him as my ally and not let petty feelings get in the way. I will be strong.

But how to contact Whit? He must be outside a city if he’s near a campfire. If only I could get a message to him. I wish he had shown me more Conjuring. The few simple tasks he did aren’t going to help me now: camouflage through metamorphosis. Keeping ice from melting so our meat stocks wouldn’t go bad. Creating intense heat to liquefy a solid, like we used to repair our decades-old metal sled ru

I know I’m better than Whit at Reading. Even he admitted that “the student had surpassed the teacher,” and attributed it to my being raised so close to the Yara my entire life. But as far as Conjuring, I don’t even know yet what is possible.

Just as I am mulling over my options, a raven the size of a large cat alights on the ground in front of me. It cocks its head to one side, regarding me suspiciously, and then walks straight up to me and squawks loudly, ruffling its feathers. Something is tied to its leg. A message from Whit.

“Thank you,” I say, and detach the piece of paper from the raven’s claw. Unfolding it, I see Whit’s spindly writing.