Until the Beginning

by Amy Plum

  I wait. I think about the map that Juneau said she saw in the fire, and try to imagine something like it, but nothing happens. No tingle, no picture, nothing.

  My mom used to meditate as part of her stress therapy. She would focus on something like a candle or a mandala to empty her mind. I stare at the edges of the flames, watch the dancing orange light, and try not to think of anything. But the harder I try to clear my mind, the more my thoughts wander.

  And then all of a sudden my fingertips are buzzing and an image begins to form in the shimmering heat above the flames. I’m looking at a guy in a cowboy hat standing on the porch of an elaborate white McMansion. He’s got his thumbs stuck through the belt loops of his blue jeans and is talking to one of the muscle-bound camouflaged guys. An American flag is attached to a pole near the door, and it flutters back and forth in the wind. And in the distance, to the far right of the house, there’s a tree-lined river.

  Juneau was right. Avery did build his home near one of the rivers. In her Reading, she said that his house was a good distance from the adobe village where her clan was being kept. I think about adobe huts and keep watching the image, but nothing changes and after a few seconds the whole thing disappears and I’m looking at a plain old campfire once again.

  Juneau said that the Yara shows you what it wants you to see. So if it showed me Avery’s house, that’s obviously where I’m supposed to go. Any doubts I had about leaving the mountain disappear. I have a mission. The Universe or Gaia or whatever has shown me what I’m supposed to do.

  This strong sense of purpose is completely new to me. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I trace a line on the map from where I am in the mountains to the two rivers flowing into the desert miles and miles away.

  Scaling the fence and making a cross-country trek seems like a stupid idea now that I know where things are. My best bet is to do what I suggested to Juneau: take the truck past the other end of the ranch and come in from the east. It should only take a couple of hours to drive. I could get there before Juneau even reaches her clan.

  That would give me time to scope the place out—to plan the best possible diversion before anyone knows Juneau’s there. My mind made up, I throw the tent bag over my shoulders and begin the hike back over the mountain to where we left the truck.

  31

  JUNEAU

  THE SUN IS SETTING WHEN I REACH THE TOP OF the ridge. I look out over the valley floor below, and see a dozen campfires burning in one small area. Not far from them, a river snakes its way through the valley, reflecting the sunset on its glistening rose-colored surface.

  I throw my arms out and Read the wind. I think of my father, and campfire smoke fills my nose. He is down there. I have found my people. I scope the area for car headlights or any other sign of the guards, but I see no outsiders. What if they are stationed within the adobe village and living among my people? I wonder.

  Although my body is exhausted from running all day, I can’t stop and rest. I am almost there. I scramble down the ridge face, cutting my fingers on the sharp rocks in my haste, but I don’t even feel the pain.

  Trees hide the valley until I reach another outcrop and get an unobstructed view. I can now see people walking around, can make out the edges of the adobe houses silhouetted in the firelight. The southeastern corner of the perimeter fence is visible beyond the village, and atop a section nearer me the red light of an electrical box flashes slowly on and off. The sun slips behind the mountains in the west—where Miles waits, I think with a pang of guilt.

  The moon that was bright enough to read by last night hides behind a bank of clouds. The night is dark enough for me to risk the last part of my journey exposed, and I jog the half mile across the valley floor to the perimeter fence. I follow the slow flash of the red light until I am standing beneath it. It is a whole twenty feet above me, and almost invisible in the dark of the night.

  I have been thinking about how to scale the fence. At first, I had thought about trying to deactivate the box. But the way the guards talked, it sounded like there is a system that monitors when the fences are disabled. The last thing I want to do is set off an alarm and alert the guards to my presence. It wouldn’t take long for them to reach the fence in a jeep, and even less time if some are already stationed among my clan.

  I have to find some way to get over without setting off an alarm. My ignorance of how this type of device works puts me at a disadvantage. This is one case where Miles would have come in handy, I realize with remorse. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. You made your decision, and it was based on keeping him safe. Keeping everyone safe. It’s too late for regrets.

  I wonder if I can wrap something around my hands and feet and climb—if the wires will only shock unprotected skin. I test the fence, throwing a piece of cooked rabbit against it. As soon as the flesh hits the metal, I hear a crackling sound and the meat falls to the ground with a line of black singed across it. I wrap it in cotton cloth and throw it again. The same thing happens, the cloth burning in the area that touched the metal. Climbing the fence while it is still electrified would be a very bad idea.

  I think of the problem from every angle, and cannot come up with another way to get over the fence without disabling the box. This means possibly alerting the guards, significantly shortening the time I have to come up with an escape plan and see it through. So be it. I have no other choice.

  I sit down near the fence and close my eyes, picturing the box in my mind as I summon my connection to the Yara. And as the connection is made, an image comes to me of lots of tiny multicolored wires coming together in a bundle and plugging into metal slots. I choose the bundle of wires attached to a large black cord and imagine a small flame underneath it.

  I watch as the colored plastic sheathing begins to melt and drip, and the exposed wires grow red with heat. The inside of the shiny silver box glows until finally a few small sparks ignite and the whole thing explodes in a combustion of blue flame. I open my eyes and watch the flashing red light dim and disappear.

  Around me, the night is silent. I can barely see the fence against the sky’s velvet blackness. I rise to my feet and approach, carefully watching the now-dark electrical box high above me. To be sure that the electricity is truly off, and it wasn’t just the warning light that I affected with my fire, I do my rabbit-meat test again. The wrapped-up bundle hits the fence and falls to the ground unaffected. No noise. No sparks. But how can I be sure the surrounding boxes aren’t programmed to take over for the disabled one?

  I remember the shattered look of the guard when his colleague turned the fence back on before he was down. “You could have killed me,” he said.

  The charge is definitely lethal to humans. But I have no other choice. I’ll have to risk it.

  Fear sizzles through my chest as I move my hand an inch closer to the wires. Pulling my hand away, I back up a few steps. And then, running, I jump and fling myself as high up the fence as I can reach, grasping the wires with my fingers, and pulling myself up without pausing, my intention to reach the top and hurl myself over before the electricity can immobilize and kill me. I’ve scrambled halfway up before it registers that I am not being shocked. The fence is still disabled. I am safe.

  I cling to the wires and allow myself one second pause to catch my breath before continuing my climb. Once at the top, I sling one leg over and scramble down the other side, hunching in a ball at the base of the fence, hopeful that no one noticed my acrobatic climbing feat. I readjust my backpack, and then, keeping low, sprint to a grouping of cacti and crouch behind it.

  I am an arrow-shot away from the closest fire, where I see Galena cradling her baby, Aniak, in the firelight. I cast my gaze around the camp, but there’s no sign of guards—I only see my people. My heart leaps to my throat as I allow myself to feel the excitement that has been building inside me.

  I feel like whistling the notes that everyone will recognize . . . my return-from-the-hunt whistle that brings the children running to meet me
. But I’m still not sure my people aren’t under some sort of surveillance, and don’t want to be captured before I have to. Whit knows I’m near and that I’m coming for my clan. But has he yet alerted Avery’s men to that fact?

  Until he Reads that I’m here, I’m safe from him. Or until Avery’s guards notice that I incapacitated a section of the fence. The amount of time I have to strategize with my clan about how best to free Badger and escape depends on how quickly either of those events occurs. Every moment counts.

  A tall teenage boy walks out of one of the adobe huts carrying an armful of logs toward one of the campfires. I barely recognize him in jeans and T-shirt. I’ve only ever seen him in skins and furs. It’s Kenai, and behind him is Nome, wearing shorts and a tank top. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. I have missed them so much that I’m overwhelmed with emotion, and have to restrain myself from shouting their names.

  As Nome bends over to pick up an armload of logs, I hurl my backpack to the ground, reach inside, and in seconds have assembled my crossbow. I hold it up to my eyes and aim to Nome’s left, and a second later my bolt is lodged in the clay doorway, inches away from my friend. She turns to see what flew past her, and spotting it, pulls it out from where it is lodged and inspects it. Her head jerks up as she looks around frantically, and it’s not until I cautiously stand and wave that she sees me, drops the logs, and sprints in my direction.

  “Oh my God, Juneau! Is that you?” she yells, and in an instant I am wrapped in a suffocating bear hug with a face full of blond hair. “We all knew you were coming. We just didn’t know when,” she says, searching my face as if she isn’t sure it is me. “Oh, Juneau, your hair,” she murmurs, and touches my pixie cut as tentatively as if it were made of snakes.

  Others are running in our direction. Kenai reaches me and wraps me in his strong arms. “Junebug. You’re here,” he says.

  “I missed you guys so much,” I say, and then look over their shoulders toward the huts. “There aren’t any guards?” I ask, and Nome pulls back from our hug and shakes her head.

  “They’re all back at the ranch house,” she says. “They figured they didn’t need to guard us once they seized all our amulets and took Badger after our last escape attempt.”

  “Why Badger?” I ask. “He’s so young!”

  “Exactly,” Nome says darkly. “Too young to try to escape.”

  “Whit stopped by this morning,” Kenai says, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “He told us to let you know that after you meet with Avery, Badger will be free to come back to his mother.”

  My father comes out of one of the adobe huts, and looks straight at me. I want to go to him, but I can’t move. As he runs toward me, Nome and Kenai step back to leave him room. His face is haggard. He wraps me carefully in his arms, and pats me on the back in that reassuring way he did when I was a little girl. “Oh, Juneau,” he says, pulling back and looking intently into my eyes. “I told you not to come.”

  “But you knew I would,” I say, and though I feel tears threatening to spill, I repress them and raise my chin in defiance. My father sees me do it, and he knows: I’m here for the fight.

  “Yes,” he says sadly. “I knew you would.”

  32

  MILES

  MY CALCULATIONS ARE WAY OFF. FOR ONE THING, the boundaries of the ranch aren’t anywhere near where the gas station guy drew them on the map: I’m forced to backtrack twice and drive a lot farther east than I had expected. For another thing, no local roads seem to lead to the ranch.

  At one point, the main road comes within view of the perimeter fence, and inside the compound I see what looks like an airstrip in the middle of a field. Avery’s hot-shot customers probably arrive by private plane. But by road, the ranch seems unapproachable, which I know is impossible if all these army guys are coming and going. They must have to know exactly where the front gate is, because there’s no signage, and no trace of an entry.

  I park the truck at an abandoned rest stop, hike a mile back to the perimeter fence, and begin following it heading south. Finally, an hour and a half later, I get to what looks like the main entrance. It’s a security gate with a guy in a booth and a lifting bar to let cars in and out.

  To one side is a big sign with AVERY RANCH painted in scrolling letters. The road is lined with trees, and I take advantage of them to hide as I make my way to the gate. Finally I am standing within ten feet of the security booth, and I can see the guy inside playing a game on his computer. He stops and takes a big swig of Coke, and then puts the empty glass bottle on the window ledge outside the booth. Propped underneath his chair is a big-ass machine gun.

  I look behind me at the twenty-foot fence. I can’t climb it—it’s electrified. This security gate is the only opening I’ve seen. If the guy weren’t there, it would be easy to duck down under the bar and slip my way in. It seems that, besides monitoring the cars driving in and out, Avery’s not worried about people trying to break into the compound. No one would be suicidal enough, I think. A crazy Texan and his private army? Who would want a piece of that?

  For the first time today, I realize that what I’m doing is actually dangerous. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my palms are clammy. Great. I’m not even inside the gate, and I’m already petrified. Which is probably a good sign: It suggests that I am, indeed, sane.

  Here I am, an eighteen-year-old who never even did ROTC, trying to sneak into an armed compound. It was one of these private-army guys who shot me—almost killed me—while I was escaping my house with Juneau. I’m sure this front-gate guard won’t hesitate to fire if he spots me. A crippling wave of panic almost makes me turn around and slink away, back to the safety of the truck.

  With much effort, I ignore the flashing red lights of my innate fear, shoving my emotions aside, and try to focus on what will further my goal. Damned if I don’t remind myself of someone.

  I inch closer to the security booth, while still hiding from the range of the guard’s viewpoint. I watch him intently, waiting for him to bend over or turn the other way. All I need is for him to be distracted for a few seconds, and I can be past the booth and out of his line of sight.

  I pull the crossbow pieces out of my bag. Slotting them together, I cock the bowstring, then load it with a bolt. I aim at the guard’s Coke bottle.

  It’s so small. How am I ever going to hit it?

  Concentrate, I think. I squeeze the lever, and the bolt goes flying straight toward the bottle. It misses by just an inch and lands in the trees on the other side of the security booth. I exhale, brush aside my disappointment, and aim. I pull the trigger. To my amazement, the Coke bottle flies up into the air, lands with a loud clang on the pavement, and begins rolling away.

  The guard swears and, stepping down out of the booth, chases the bottle down the drive. I dash out from behind my tree, crouch as I run under the toll-booth arm, and sprint into a thicket of tall bamboo plants on the other side. I watch from my vantage point as the guard scoops up the bottle and carries it back to the security booth. As he leans down to throw it into a trash can beneath the window, I turn and run at full speed away from the front gate. My arms pump by my sides as I dash through some pine trees and, at the point where the trees grow thin, throw myself (a little too forcefully) to the ground. Having knocked my breath out, I crawl panting to the point where the trees meet the road.

  And there I see the ranch spread out before me. From where I lie, the road winds through pine trees, spans a river with a flat metal bridge, and leads to a big white McMansion with an American flag hanging on the porch.

  Behind the mansion is a one-story L-shaped building with lots of windows and doors—kind of Motel-6 looking. Several Land Rovers and jeeps are parked outside. That must be where the guards stay, I think. Judging from the number of doors and vehicles, I estimate that up to forty men could be housed there.

  The sun is just going down over the horizon. I decide to make my way through the trees up the hill and wait there until dark before crossing the
river and making my way to the main house.

  But what I’ll do once I get there . . . I have no idea.

  33

  JUNEAU

  THE CLAN CONVERGES, EACH WANTING TO HUG me: the children excitedly, the elders with sorrow in their eyes. A few even murmur, “I’m sorry,” as they embrace me. The truth is out, then. I am torn by so many different emotions that I can’t talk. I let the hugs speak for me—words will come later.

  Finally, I follow my dad back to his hut. I gesture at the sparse furnishings. “Pretty basic,” I comment, not knowing what else to say. I’ve never felt uncomfortable around my own father before.

  Dad feels my tension, and plays along with my empty conversation. “One of the guards told me that Hunt Avery took these abandoned adobe huts, patched them up, and uses them to house the guests who want an ‘authentic living-off-the-land experience.’”

  I nod mutely and lay my weapons inside the door.

  My father sits on the smooth clay floor, and gestures for me to join him. His expression is grave, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. We sit in silence, until finally he says, “Go ahead.”

  “What do you mean, ‘go ahead’?” I ask.

  “I mean, go ahead. Scream. Shout. Tell me I’m a liar. Tell me you hate me. Say whatever you’ve been wanting to say for the last few weeks.”

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply. And when I open them, they are wet with tears. “Quite honestly, Dad, I’m pretty much equally divided between wanting to hit you and wanting to hug you. There’s hate and love and relief and betrayal, all battling each other inside me. If I let myself feel it all, I’d probably explode.”

  “I don’t blame you for hating me,” he says, and the sorrow on his face is clearer than any apology he could make.