After the End

He shakes his head sourly, as if he regrets having listened to me for the last half hour. Grumbling, he heads to the car to rifle through the groceries in the trunk.

It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m lying. I know it’s true. Walking around in Seattle, seeing elderly and sick people, made me feel I had been living in a utopia in Alaska. After the Rite completes our union with the Yara, no one experiences aging. No one dies, unless it’s in an accident like my mother’s or the elder who was killed by the bear. Here in this outside world, everyone is disco

I wonder if our special relationship with the Yara has anything to do with the disappearance of my clan. If someone wants what we have. But how would they have even known about us? We’ve been in hiding for decades.

Whit, I think. Everything comes back to him. It’s still too hard to imagine that he engineered the capture of my clan. But maybe he talked about us when he was out in the world. Maybe he unwittingly betrayed us.

30

MILES

“SO TELL ME, WHAT’S THE LAST READING OR CONJURING or whatever that you successfully did?” I take a bite of the crispy potato that I, yes I, Miles Blackwell, cooked wrapped in aluminum foil in the campfire. In fact, I cooked tonight’s whole meal.

All right, so the first can of beef stew exploded. How was I supposed to know you can’t cook food in the can? Luckily, we had a few backups, so I opened them and heated them up in a pan.

“Why does it matter?” Juneau asks, blowing on the piece of steaming beef speared on her fork. “You won’t believe a word of it anyway.”

“True,” I respond, holding my spoon up for emphasis. “However, in debate team, I was often tapped to play devil’s advocate. So I don’t mind suspending disbelief if it’s going to, one, get you out of your lethal mood and, two, let us leave this creepy waterfront. It’s starting to remind me of the Jason-infested lake in Friday the 13th.” I glance over the fire to see Juneau’s familiar expression of incomprehension, and my heart falls. “Why do I even try with the cultural references?” I moan.

“I don’t know, why do you?” she snaps. And then says, “Reading Poe’s emotions in the car yesterday.”

“That was the last time you felt like you read?” I clarify, making an effort to keep up with her conversation hopping.

“Yes, although it took me a long time to co

“Then when was the last time it was immediate?” I ask.

“When I Read the fire at Mount Rainier.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what’s happened between then and now?”

She looks at me blankly and shakes her head.

I think. “How about Whit?” I ask. “When the bird didn’t come back to him, do you think he could have blocked you from co

She sets her bowl on the ground and shakes her head pensively. “That would be like blocking me from breathing the air around me. ‘No one can come between human beings and the Yara except the disbelief of humans themselves.’ That’s a direct quote from Whit,” I say.

I’m feeling sorry for her again. She really believes this crap. I have an overwhelming urge to hold her hand and tell her that it’s okay. That she’s been brainwashed, and the longer she’s away from the hippie cult the more normal she’ll get.

“Well then, maybe you’re blocking your own co

“Or maybe it’s not that at all,” I offer weakly. “Maybe the farther you get from your land, the less of a co

She closes her eyes and shakes her head in a how-could-you-possibly-know-anything-about-it gesture. “The Yara isn’t just in Alaska. It’s everywhere.”

She stands and, wrapping her arms around her waist, paces slowly back and forth beside the fire. “What you said about doubting,” she says finally. “That does make sense. It was after I found out that Whit was working with the people who abducted my clan that my Reading was affected. His blatant spying on me confirmed my suspicions of him . . . if I needed further confirmation.” She rubs her fingers distractedly across her forehead. “I guess I can pin it to that instant that I definitely lost all trust in him. And yes, I suppose I’m questioning what he taught me as well.”

“Did they have children’s books in your commune?” I ask. Juneau looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “I swear this is relevant,” I promise.

“Yes, we had a small collection of children’s books.”

“Did you have Peter Pan?” I ask.

She nods and furrows her brow, trying to guess what I’m getting at.

“What you’re saying is kind of like Wendy and her brothers flying with fairy dust. They had to believe it or they couldn’t fly.”

She nods pensively but still has that hurt look on her face. “You might be right,” she admits. She sighs loudly and turns to head for the woods. Looking back at me, she says, “Thanks for di

As for me, I sit watching the fire and think about how she seems like a really nice person. How I’m actually starting to like her. Why else would I have put off calling Dad whenever I’ve had access to a phone? Because, for once, I feel like I’m enjoying myself. Having fun.

It’s just sad how messed up Juneau was raised. Like a cult member. Totally brainwashed. Totally delusional. It almost makes me want to help her. If saving my own skin wasn’t of utmost importance, I would be tempted to try.

31

JUNEAU

I WALK INTO THE WOODS HOLDING POE ON MY arm, feeling as disoriented as if I had stepped through a door into an alternate universe. For the second time in a month. I’m losing my faith, so I’m losing my skills—that must be the answer. And if that happens, there’s no way I’m going to be able to save my clan, much less find them. But with all the lies I’ve been fed, how can I believe anything I’ve been taught? How do I separate truth from fiction?

Poe flies off and perches far above in a tree as I head straight for a clump of giant holly bushes, letting them scratch my arms as I pass. The pricks from their spines reassure me that I’m not sleepwalking.

I get to the water’s edge and begin circling the lake.

I need to figure out what, if anything, I have left. I pull my opal from under my shirt, loop it over my head, and press it to the ground. “Dad,” I say, and focus on Reading his emotions. A chorus of crickets launches into their night song on the far side of the lake, and a thick fog levitates inches above the water’s surface. I wait. Somewhere out in the lake, a fish jumps, splashing as it breaks the water’s surface. I wait. Nothing happens.

I loop the cord back over my head and tuck my opal under my shirt. Then, squatting, I place my bare hand against the moist, cold earth and try again. I get nothing. Not even the slightest tingle of co