A short bark—from Sasha?—gave him a sense of where the dogs were huddled together. He could hear them moving around a little, restless and uncertain. He stood, stooping because the ceiling wasn't high enough for him to stand up straight, and felt on the hook by the door for the harness. Six loops. He hoped Jonas and his parents hadn't left more than six dogs. He took off his thick gloves and tucked them carefully into his pockets. If he dropped one, he might never find it again in here.
He knew Sasha would cooperate, but he wasn't so sure about the others. He began to talk in a low voice, feeling his way toward the animals.
Another short bark, close now. He was sure it was Sasha. “Good girl,” he told her. “Tell them it's okay.”
He felt fur, caught her collar, and rotated it to find the loop. He was surprised by how easily he could arrange the several harness straps properly in the darkness, threading them into their positions almost without thinking. In less than a minute, Sasha was securely harnessed into the lead position. Good. That was one.
After a great deal of groping and a few tangled loops, Peter had the team together. Six dogs. He stuffed his hands back into his gloves, found the door, and opened it. His plan was to loop one end of the harness around the blue rope and give the dogs the command to run.Sasha was the lead. He could only hope that the others would follow her. He opened the door, noticing with relief that he could see the outlines of the geebee geebee now. It looked far away and ghostly, but at least he could see it. He bent down to find the blue rope in the snow, and knotted the dogs' harness strap to it. Then, summoning his best, most self-confident command voice, he shouted into the still-howling wind.
The dogs were more than ready to run for him. They ran with all of their might. Breaking the blue rope.
Peter was dragged along behind them, shouting “Wrong way, wrong way!” But most of his shouting was muffled by the snow that was being driven into his mouth as he bounced behind the pack. The dogs seemed to draw strength from the storm. Peter clung to the harness strap with two hands, sliding along on the back of his coat as they ran and ran. And ran. And then, miraculously, stopped.
Peter sat up. It took him a few moments to realize that, although a great deal of snow had been driven inside the front of his jacket, he was unhurt. If it weren't for the vicious cold he might have wanted to do it again.
The dogs had stopped because they had come to a nearly vertical wall of ice that rose abruptly out of the snow like a billboard by the side of a highway. Gratefully, he looked up and down the thing before making his way to one edge and peering around to the other side.
Then he was even more grateful. The ground fell away steeply below him, though just how far down it went he couldn't see in the blowing snow. Peter gave a low whistle that made the dogs turn to him expectantly.
They were seated in two neat rows, looking at him as if he would know what to do next. He looked back toward what he thought might be the direction of his family's camp and saw nothing but blowing snow. The wind was rapidly covering their tracks. He had to get the team going again before the trail disappeared completely, but couldn't resist his urge to rest first. Just for a minute.
The ice wall offered some protection from the wind. Sasha dug herself a shallow niche in the snow and sat down with her back against the wall. Thirsty from her long sprint, she started to eat mouthful after mouthful of snow. Peter made his way to the dog and bent to rub her head. He leaned against the wide wall and gazed at a hundred and eighty degrees of white.
He knew they had to start back. Peter forced himself to his feet, bending to brush off the snow that clung to his legs.
Something caught his eye as he was tightening the cords on his boots. There was an object embedded in the ice wall, at about the height of his waist. Something colorful. He squatted down in front of it.
Just beneath the surface of the ice was a ring of bright red. It was sort of woven-looking, or twisted, he thought,looking more closely. And although the glacier was covered with a fine dusting of snow, he realized he was seeing the ring through a patch of clear ice. It was almost as if the thing were behind glass.
He hovered beside the red ring for almost a minute, wondering what it could be. Another of his father's arctic effects? Some kind of sunspot seen by boys who stumbled around for too long in the cold?
He pulled off one glove and put his hand up to the ice that encased the ring—it was as smooth as polished marble, nothing like the rough crystalline stuff that covered the rest of the glacier. He peered hard at the ring beneath it. Maybe it was part of a Volkswagen.
Peter was unaware at first of the fluttering that had begun just at the edge of his vision. It was almost impossible to detect with the snow that still blew all around him. A rushing in his head gave him a moment's warning that something was about to happen, although by then it was too late to stop it.
In an instant the world went from white to red. There was only the color red, eclipsing everything that he knew was around him: the ground under his feet, the dogs beside him, the snow that was everywhere. He felt the wind against his face, but that was all. He blinked furiously, but still saw nothing but red. He was blind. His muscles began to twang with panic, like strings that someone was plucking hard. He held his eyes closed for a fewmoments, took a deep breath, and opened them again to find that he still couldn't see. The color red was like a blanket over his head, without shape or depth. His whole body began to sing with fear.
Then he became aware of something else: a sharp pain in his hand. He closed his eyes again and thought about the pain, not about the fact that he was blind and lost in a snowstorm on the Greenland ice cap. His hand throbbed. He forced his mind to fall in with the rhythm of it, trying to disengage his eyes from the red ring, willing them to let go of what they had seized.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the snow with the dogs, who were looking up at him again as if he would know what to do next.
He had left his bare hand resting against the glacier wall, and it was cold. Painfully cold. He snatched it back, stuffing the numb and lifeless thing into his glove as quickly as he could. Its painful throbbing intensified, and now his head joined in.
But he could see. He took a deep breath. Prioritize, he told himself. The snow had let up some. The most important thing now was to get back to camp before he froze to death. Ignoring the headache that was beginning to rage, he steered the dogs to their vanishing trail, called out the command to move, and began running along behind them the best he could.
Sasha picked up the scent of camp just as the tracksdisappeared completely. When it came into view, the strange domes looked like home for the first time. He was relieved enough to want to cry, but too tired.
He practically crawled through the tent flaps, dragging the dogs in after him but leaving them harnessed. Nobody home. Where were his parents and Jonas? He fell into bed and closed his eyes, which muted his headache mercifully. A minute later he was asleep in his coat and boots.
“And somebody's been sleeping in my bed!” A voice squeaked near Peter's ear. “And there he is!”
Peter opened his eyes. The headache was gone. And Jonas's face was grinning down at him.
“Goldilocks and the three bears,” Jonas said. “Get it?”
“Right,” said Peter, not getting it at all. Sitting up, he realized two things.
One, he was in Jonas's bed. Goldilocks. Now he got it.
Two, his hand felt like it was on fire.
He was taking his gloves off—the left one very carefully—when his parents came in, stomping the snow off their boots and looking surprised to see the dogs in the tent.
Peter could barely stay awake during dinner. His mother gasped in a satisfying way when he explained how the rope had broken, and shook her head sternly athis father when Dr. Solemn started to say that the dogs would have been fine in the shed without his rescue mission.
“It was very brave of you, Peter,” his dad finished quickly. “Really selfless.”
<
br /> Peter's mother was rubbing his hand. He had told her that he took his glove off to untangle a harness line, and then couldn't find it for a while in the snow.
“But you should know that you were also very, very lucky,” his father said, “and if you ever go out alone into a storm again, you'll be on the next plane out of here.”
Jonas raised one finger. “Excuse me, but when is the next plane out of here?”
Dr. Solemn pretended to glare at him.
“Don't worry,” Peter said to his father. “Rushing out into the next arctic storm isn't exactly a great temptation.”
His parents and Jonas had spent the afternoon awkwardly curled up in their hard-weather pods. Peter thought of Miles pretending to be trapped inside one of them back in their living room in New York. Miles was probably swimming right now, he thought, or he was “rowing crew” in a sweaty T-shirt—either possibility was unreal. Or maybe it was Greenland that was unreal.
Jonas made everyone laugh while they cleaned up after dinner by demonstrating how he'd spent a good part ofthe afternoon inside his pod trying to get a granola bar out of his pack, poking himself in the eye and getting a terrible cramp in his leg.
When he had drawn his curtain that night, Peter found his little notebook in one of the drawers under the bed. He flipped to the inside cover, made his slash—the number didn't seem important anymore—and, next to it, a star, and, after a moment, another star. Because this time had been different: For the first time since the visions began, today he had felt a tiny measure of control. He had discovered a new muscle. A weak muscle. A muscle he intended to study before he told anyone about it.
There is something very good about work when your mind is in a state of confusion, Thea thought, mucking manure out of the Chikchu stalls. It was not a job she normally looked forward to.
For the hundredth time she asked herself: Why? Why would someone go to the trouble of finding paper and ink? Why would someone bother to copy an old map that anyone could see hanging at the Main Hall? And then leave it for her without a word?
She recognized the map the instant she saw it. It wasone of the earliest maps of Gracehope, an exact replica of the original that hung in the Exhibition Hall. It showed the lake, the waterwheel, the homes of the old quarter, and just the beginnings of the gardens and crop-growth grounds. Even the Settlers' migration tunnel was sketched in, though it must have been reclaimed by the ice long before the original map was drawn. In flowing letters near the top of the paper were two words: Grace's Hope, the original name of the settlement. Over the years, the name of the place had become Gracehope. Pure laziness, Rowen said.
In an upper corner of the map was a sun symbol, and in a lower corner there was a tree-sign signature, which meant that it was drawn by a member of the first bloodline. But it all added up to nothing.
She tied up the sacks of manure. They would be delivered to the gardens later in the afternoon. She washed her hands and went to check on Cassie and her pups.
Almost a week old now, the runt was doing well. He fed even more than the others, fending off his littermates with a tiny white paw if one of them threatened to dislodge him from his milk. Thea smiled as Io tolerated a push in the face from her smallest brother.
“He needs it more than you do,” Thea told Io, rubbing her behind the ears. “Don't worry, your mother won't let you starve.”
Dolan was coming across the grounds with Norma andLeda, one of the infirmary dogs. Leda's leg had been broken, but she walked well now.
“If you've finished here, I'd like your help,” Dolan said, gesturing to Leda. “I'm going to run her today.”
“Of course.” Thea stroked the dog while Dolan smoothed a long stretch of sand by dragging a length of cloth on the ground behind him. He had to go over several sections a second time after Norma walked over them. Then he took up a position on the far side of the smoothed sands, Norma next to him.
At his signal, Thea gave Leda the command to run. The Chikchu streaked to Dolan and sat down calmly next to Norma. She certainly looked healthy. Dolan leaned in close to the dog and spread his fingers in a sign that sent her trotting obediently back to the main house. Thea found her ambergris in a pocket and kneaded it with one hand as she walked slowly toward Dolan, her head bent to inspect Leda's tracks.
“Well?” asked Dolan, walking to meet her.
“Her gait looks healthy enough,” Thea began, “good reach with the forelegs as she starts off. And the tracks move into a single file here as she gathers speed.” She pointed to where the prints converged from two lines to one.
“Good. Anything else?”
Thea looked more carefully. “I think she's still favoring it, not at the trot, but at the run.”
“What tells you that?”
“Down there, the prints are equally deep.” Thea pointed back toward where the dog had begun to gather speed. “But here, where she's running hard and the prints are single file, some are deeper than others.” With one hand, she indicated a light paw print, clearly imprinted on the sand, but too shallow to have borne much weight.
“So …”
“So, under stress, the leg still hurts her. She needs more rest. A little time in the lake, perhaps.” All of the Chikchu loved to swim, and there was no better regimen for mending bones.
“Nicely done.” Dolan straightened, smiling broadly. “Pronounce her well now, and you risk lasting damage.”
Thea smiled at his praise, but her mind was on the map.
“A favor, Dolan?” It seemed a good time to ask.
Dolan feigned shock. “A favor? I understood that you don't ask for favors.”
“Only when I absolutely must,” Thea said earnestly. “I know I'm to work this afternoon, but I have a research essay that was to be ready at the end of last term.” She hated to lie, but she couldn't wait any longer.
“Scrambling a little these days, Thea?” Dolan was smiling again. “Your aunt thinks you're stretched a bit thin.”
Thea smiled. “Then I'm afraid I have two favors to ask.”
Dolan waved her off. “Go. And I won't mention anything to Lana. Though if you give me any real reason to worry, I won't hold my tongue. And I'll see you here at first light tomorrow.”
Thea went to collect her skates, stopping to check on Cassie's pups. Io was finally getting her fill, while the runt slept, tucked under his mother's chin.
The Mainway was busy. Thea stayed to the right, among the faster skaters, and before long she was at the archive.
Gracehope's archive housed the old books and records. Everything that had happened since the first year of settlement was recorded somewhere in those rooms: births, council-meeting minutes, crop reports, even the Chikchu family trees. Only siring records were kept separately, under the protection of the Angus.
When Thea walked in, the archivist, Lucian, was at his worktable, head bent to an open book. He was alone.
“Good afternoon, Lucian,” Thea said. “I have a question, if you can spare a few moments.”
“Doubtless you actually have two or more questions.” Lucian's head stayed bowed, one dark lock of hair hanging into his face.
Although Lucian was only about Lana's age, somethingabout his constant seething made him seem older. He was square-jawed, with lots of lines around his eyes, probably from squinting at old texts, and he never looked a person in the eye.
“I'm wondering about the early maps, from the Settlement era.”
Lucian turned a page. “That is not a question.”
Thea flushed. “Yes, well, I'm wondering if there's any way to know who drew them. One in particular. I know the artist was of the first line, but I don't know exactly …”
Lucian looked up, suspicious.
“You know the artist is of the first line, do you? How?”
“In a—in a corner, the right-hand lower corner, just the one map I am thinking of, is the first-line seal, the tree-sign, I mean.”
“I know the map you speak of,” he said sharpl
y. “Continue.”
She took a deep breath. “I was taught that the seal was a form of signature. I wondered if there was any way to find out who …”
She stopped, because Lucian was red in the face. He looked as if he might reach out and strangle her. She took a step away. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and exhaled.
“You were taught that the tree-sign on that map was a form of signature?” He sounded almost friendly.
“Yes.”
“And that teaching constituted part of your primary studies.”
“Yes.”
“And who is your primary tutor?”
“Meriwether.”
“Meriwether!” he roared. “That such a man is permitted to instruct others is an affront to our civilization. Just finished with his primaries himself, and none too able a student at that. And now he is muddling the minds of others.” He waved her to the worn stone bench in front of his table. She sat.
“The tree-sign on that map is not a form of signature,” he said. “We can be sure of this for a simple reason. When that map was drawn, there was no first line.”
“No first—”
Lucian held up one finger. “Do not speak until I have finished.”
His expression remained stormy. “The tree-sign shows an oak—a tree native to the old world. You are familiar with those along the lakefront.”
Thea nodded.
“When our people were hunted and forced to flee the old world, they adopted the image of the tree as a symbol. The tree-sign stood for our people as a whole, and also as a sign of their defiance in the face of the brutality that came close to extinguishing them. It was a symbol of their survival.
“During the years of pursuit, the tree-sign often appeared at a site of slaughter, crudely etched into a nearby tree trunk or scratched out on a stone by someone who had eluded the hunters. The sign was used as a trailmark, to show other survivors the path taken. The symbol has a literal translation from this period: ‘One survives.’
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