by Hilari Bell
Given the importance of the rain forest to the planet's slowly recovering ecosystem, the authorities had taken them seriously: they'd captured the terrorists' compound and all their scientists' notes, along with the scientists themselves, and offered them a chance of parole—someday, maybe—if they produced the antidote right now. And the terrorists had. But it hadn't worked.
"Only about a third of the trees have been affected, outside of the initial kill zone," Kelsa told him. "And it was just detected in Mexican forests a few months ago. They still think some trees will develop natural defenses and fight it off. And every botanist on the planet is looking for a cure."
"Only a third of the trees in the Amazon rain forest have died," Raven corrected. "They're all infected. And they're not fighting it off, and no one's going to find a cure, because the real source of the problem isn't that vicious little bacterium at all."
Because of her father's interest in the tree plague, Kelsa knew more about it than most, and she'd heard nothing of this. "Then what is the source of the problem?"
The dappled sunlight leaking through the pine boughs cast irregular patches of light over Raven's face and hair. "Magic."
"That's ridiculous!"
He said nothing, but a not entirely suppressed smile tipped up one side of his mouth.
Kelsa had seen him change from a fish into a man. Seen it. In a place and from a distance that left no possibility that it had been faked. Still...
"That's crazy! It was started by bioterrorists!"
"Oh, the bacterium's exactly what you think it is," the dark-haired boy told her. "But the reason the trees aren't fighting it off—as they should, and your scientists are right about that—i's because the leys have been so badly weakened they can't support the forest."
"The laze? What—"
"L-e-y. That's the English word for them. Or at least, the word that comes closest. Leys are ... think of underground rivers of natural and magical energy running through the surface of the world. Most humans don't even know they exist. Though there have always been a handful of exceptions, hence a name for them in English. In other languages too. Unfortunately, the fact that most humans aren't aware of them hasn't stopped you from mucking them up."
Humans. You. Kelsa wished her com pod wasn't at the bottom of the river.
"What are you?"
She was half prepared to run if he took offense at the question, but he only smiled.
"In this part of the world, I'm Raven."
"Raven." If you were crazy enough to accept magic, the logic was inescapable. "The Native American trickster spirit, Raven? But he's been here for hundreds ... thousands..."
He looked like a teenager, but he'd never talked like one. Nor quite like someone for whom English was a first language.
"Not thousands," he said. That smug smile was beginning to annoy her. "And we've strayed off the subject. The weakening of the leys, which is what's keeping the trees from fighting off this bacterium, was caused by human interference with nature and magic, and it's going to take human magic to fix it. That's why you have to steal the medicine bag from the museum."
Kelsa's head was spinning. "Medicine bag? Like pills and stuff ?"
"No, a medicine bag that a Navajo shaman named Atahalne made back in 1897."
"A shaman?"
"I told you some humans understood the leys. The leys were becoming fouled, even back then. Now, of course, the problem is critical. But Atahalne," Raven rattled off the choppy syllables fluently, "saw the problem at the very beginning, and he knew how to fix it. One of the last humans who possessed that knowledge, I might add, and a man of considerable courage, whether they admit it or ... Anyway, he put together a medicine bag strong enough to heal the leys. Do you know what that is?"
Given the context, she did have a vague idea. "It's a small bag full of pollen and ... and things, isn't it? Navajo people used them"—she'd seen the phrase on a card in a tourist trap—"to keep the person who wore it in harmony."
"Exactly," said Raven approvingly. "This one is mostly filled with sand from a place where several of the leys that run through this continent meet. But there were other things mixed in, things that tied him into its power. Atahalne set out to deliver the dust to nexus points all along the ley that runs from Colorado to Alaska."
"Nexus points?" Kelsa asked dazedly. Half her mind was still trying to take in the fact that the kid sitting in front of her was hundreds of years old. And by his own admission, not human.
"A nexus is ... think of it as a valve along the ley line. Power can flow through and be strengthened, or it can be weakened and choked off. Atahalne set off in 1892 to revitalize the nexus points. But before he reached the first point he caught smallpox, near Salt Lake City, and died. His possessions—"
"He set out for Alaska, from New Mexico, in 1892? Walking?"
"He was in his fifties," Raven said. "It would have taken him years. And illness wasn't the only danger he faced along the way."
Kelsa wasn't a history geek, but she could see that a lone Native American trying to cross a large stretch of territory that was still being conquered by white people had faced a lot of danger.
"And you won't even rob one little museum." For once, Raven sounded like a teenager.
"His medicine bag ended up in the museum?" Kelsa asked.
"It did. So it's up to you ... ah..."
"Kelsa Phillips," she supplied. He was asking her to commit a felony, and he didn't even know her name?
"It's up to you, Kelsa Phillips, to take up Atahalne's medicine pouch, journey to Alaska, and complete his quest. Will you do it?"
"No way."
He had argued as she hiked back down the trail. He'd claimed that the fate of the whole planet was in her hands, because they had to start at the edges of the disruption, where the leys weren't so badly damaged, and work back toward the source. If this ley wasn't healed first, the rest couldn't be healed at all.
"Then why don't you do it?" Kelsa asked. "Turn into mist and flow through the keyhole or something?"
"I told you, humans did the damage, so humans have to fix it."
"Why? Is that some sort of magical law or something?"
"Or something." But his mobile face had closed.
"Fine," said Kelsa. "If it's a magical law, then you can magically change it."
"It doesn't work that way."
He didn't board the bus with her. The backwash from its stabilizing jets kicked up a puff of dust and ruffled his thick black hair. He was still standing there, scowling at her, when the bus pulled away.
But even if she believed him—which she didn't!—she was only fifteen! She had a bereaved mother and a brother who needed her. She couldn't even rob a museum, much less take off for Alaska by herself!
To tell her that trees weren't the only living things whose immune system had been weakened by the corruption of those so-called leys was a low, dirty blow. Even if the doctor had admitted that cancer rates were on the rise, and the medical community didn't really understand why.
***
Her eyes were dry again by the time she reached her shuttle stop, but she knew they were still red, and that her mother would see it and be concerned.
Kelsa was hoping to sneak up to the bathroom and apply cold water before her mother saw her. So when she let herself in and heard the silence that meant no one was home, her first reaction was relief.
Then she realized that her mother should have been home from church several hours ago.
First, she checked for a message on the com board. Nothing, but her mother had probably sent the message to Kelsa's com pod—which thanks to that lunatic whatever he was, was now at the bottom of the river.
The house com board had been programmed as a backup for all their pods, so after running her fingers through the menu for a few moments Kelsa was able to check her pod's messages. Only there weren't any messages.
She called her mother's pod and got the signal that it was turned off or out of range, so
she left a message for her mother to call home and signed off, trying not to panic.
Kelsa had always known, abstractly, that anyone could die. Levcars crashed. Planes malfunctioned. But when her father died, her subconscious conviction that the universe couldn't do that to her, to her family, had shattered. Her family could be taken from her. Even Joby, young as he was, could be snuffed out, and she wouldn't even know about it till the hospital called. Till the police came to knock on her door.
Her mother must have gotten stuck in traffic on the way home from church ... for almost two hours? OK, then her com pod was out ... and she hadn't been able to borrow someone else's or find a public board?
Kelsa paced between the kitchen and the front door, arms wrapped around her body to keep the seething emotions in check.
Of course, her mother might simply have forgotten to call and leave a message. And if that was the case, then Kelsa would simply kill her when she got home and solve the problem for good!
After her father became ill, the rule that if you were delayed coming home you always called to let the family know where you were had become ironclad.
Which must mean that her mother couldn't call.
That didn't stop Kelsa from calling again—still off/out of range. Or smashed in some horrible car crash?
Kelsa was pulling up the contact button for the nearest hospital when her common sense kicked in. Her mother was less than two hours late. It was too soon to start calling hospitals, and the police would laugh in her face.
Anyone could be delayed for a couple of hours.
Kelsa went back to pacing. And it wasn't really a coincidence that when the security system finally chimed to signal the approach of a card it was programmed to accept Kelsa was bringing up the hospital's contact button—she'd brought it up six times in the last half-hour.
She paged out to the welcome screen and turned to face the front door, her heart drumming with anger and relief. She would wait on the anger, because her mother might have a good excuse.
The door opened and Kelsa's mother came in. She was smiling down at Joby, the sunlight shining on the neat straight hair her son had inherited. She still wore her church suit, and she looked tidy, healthy, and happier than she'd been when she left that morning.
At least she wasn't stupid. She took one look at Kelsa's face, and horrified guilt wiped away her smile.
"Oh honey, I'm so sorry. I forgot. I turned off my pod because I was talking with Jemina, and I just forgot to call. I'm so sorry."
Her mother hadn't called her honey since she'd come home two months ago carrying the brochure for the Healing Hands Wellness Retreat. And Jemina Judson was the church's grief-support-group leader. But that was no excuse.
"It wouldn't have taken you thirty seconds to call in and leave a message." Kelsa tried to sound cool and controlled, but her voice shook.
"I know." Joby was looking from one of them to the other, a worried frown wrinkling his forehead. "I'm sorry," her mother went on. "We'll talk in a minute. Joby, why don't you find a vid you like, and I'll make you a snack. PB crackers?"
Peanut butter was one of Joby's favorites—an excellent bribe. Kelsa had no desire to let her anger spill onto Joby.
She stalked up the stairs and paced in the hallway while her brother settled in front of the d-vid.
Her mother had apologized. She'd been talking to Jemina, gotten involved in the conversation, and forgotten the time. Forgotten to call in, even though she was the one who'd declared the rule ironclad. Even though Kelsa had never forgotten to call if she was delayed.
This wasn't some sort of subtle revenge against Kelsa for supporting her father when he'd refused to go to the retreat. Her mother wasn't cruel. She'd simply forgotten.
"Come on down, Kel," her mother called from the foot of the stairs. "You might as well have a snack too."
Kelsa's stomach was in knots, but when she reached the kitchen, her mother was setting out a plate of crackers and slicing some cheese. As if she thought Kelsa could eat. As if she cared.
Because if she cared, she'd have called home!
"One of the things I talked to Jemina about was your idea of going off to visit Sarabeth," her mother said. "We figured it had pros and cons."
She pushed out a chair for Kelsa and seated herself at the kitchen table.
Kelsa remained on her feet. "And that kept you from calling in?"
Her mother sighed. "I've apologized for that three times already. I'll apologize again if you want. But I'm not going to apologize for letting your father go to the hospice. It was the right decision for all of us, and—"
"Not for me," Kelsa hissed. "I told you—"
"Your father agreed." Anger dawned in her mother's eyes. "He knew perfectly well he'd need more nursing than I could provide, and the hospice is there to care for the dying. You're the one who said we had to do it all his way. To let him make the choices."
"He only agreed because he knew it was what you wanted," Kelsa said. She'd once considered those words unspeakable. Unforgivable. But she'd used them before. Used them when she realized how miserable her father was in the hospice, how much he wanted to be home with his family, no matter what he said.
Her mother had ignored her. And that was something Kelsa couldn't forgive. No more than her mother had been able to forgive her for not insisting they try everything.
Kelsa's mother took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair, disarranging the neat wedges.
"I told Jemina that we'd work through it, but maybe she was right. Maybe some space between us, for a few months, would be a good idea. For both of us."
"Getting rid of family when they become inconvenient is your system, isn't it?" Kelsa demanded bitterly. "Well, I certainly don't—"
Her mother's hands slammed down on the table. "I'm sorry!" Her voice was as loud as it could be without disturbing Joby. "I'm sorry I forgot to call, all right? I'm not perfectly reliable, like you. I'm not perfect! And you're going to have to learn to live with that."
"Fine." Kelsa turned and stalked up to her room. She didn't slam the door, because she didn't want to upset Joby any more than her mother did.
But part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted to scream, to smash things, to bring the whole world down in flames.
Perfectly reliable.
"Go to hell."
***
She had no way to contact Raven, but whatever else he was, he didn't strike Kelsa as a quitter. She left her bedroom window open, and she wasn't even surprised when she heard leaves rustling in the tree outside.
A lot of rustling. He climbed the tree in human form, stopping several feet short of the branch he'd perched in so precariously the other night.
"Well?" he asked. "I should have told you that I can help. Not just with the robbery, but with the whole journey. I'll have to, since you can't find the nexus points without—"
"I'm not going all the way to Alaska," said Kelsa. "That's just crazy. But if you need a human partner to get that medicine pouch out of the museum, you've got one."
***
She hadn't expected it to happen that night. Maybe he didn't want to give her a chance to change her mind.
Kelsa had to admit she might have changed her mind. Her counselor had warned her that a death in the family could change people, make them do things they ordinarily wouldn't. She'd added that Kelsa should think carefully before doing anything she might later regret.
Maybe her counselor was right. Maybe this dark desire to break the old patterns of her life was a product of grief and loss, and one day she'd be sorry.
But right now, Kelsa didn't care. She was ready to walk on the wild side.
She left a message for her mother that she couldn't sleep and had gone out. The last thing she wanted, as she set out to commit her first felony, was for her mother to call the police and report her missing.
The rumble of the rising garage door would certainly have awakened her mother, but her motorbike was narrow enough to fit throu
gh the side door.
The old-fashioned rubber tires made the bike a bit conspicuous on city streets, but there were a lot of off-roaders in Utah. And her helmet would make her anonymous, even to the thousands of security cameras that made up the grid.
Of course, the numbered plate hanging from the back of the seat would erase that anonymity in an instant, but Kelsa had some ideas about that. Her father had claimed that if he wanted to use it, he had an excellent criminal mind, and that Kelsa had inherited that, along with the hair.
A roll of white adhesive tape and a few snips of the scissors transformed a three into an eight. A few more snips, and a tiny triangle of dark electrician's tape turned a D into a reasonably good B.
The best computer in the world wouldn't trace the license number BAF-482 back to Kelsa's bike. Assuming the police had any reason to try to track her down, which Raven had promised they wouldn't.
Raven, whom the Native Americans had named Trickster. If he was who he said he was, which she still couldn't believe. Even if she had seen him change from a fish into a man.
She grabbed her father's helmet for Raven, wheeled the bike out to the street, straddled it, and punched in the start code.
Raven met her at the corner of the next block, as they'd agreed. He looked at the bike with more interest than he'd ever looked at her.
"Why does this have wheels still, when other vehicles fly?"
"They don't fly." The hum of the electric engine was softer than their lowered voices, nothing to draw attention. "They levitate on a magnetic current between their generator plate and the road. So if you want to go where there's no pavement, you've got to have tires."
She handed him her father's helmet, trying not to imagine what her father would have said about this. She'd have been grounded into the next century! She still would be if her mother caught her.
Raven fumbled a bit with the helmet straps, but he flung his leg over the bike and settled himself behind her as if he knew what he was doing.
"The museum is affiliated with that big university in Provo," he said. "Do you know where it is?"
