by Amy Plum
“Juneau, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.
“You already have,” I say, and there’s so much hatred in my voice I can practically see my words take form in a violent red cloud.
Whit nods, like he agrees with me, then glances over at Miles. “I’d rather we talk alone,” he says.
“Miles isn’t going anywhere,” I respond. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of him.”
“Why? Because you’ve already told him about us? It seems I’m not the only one who has shared our secrets with the outside world,” Whit says, looking wry.
“Our secrets aren’t the only thing I’ve shared,” I say. “Your friend almost killed Miles—would have killed him, if I hadn’t given him the Rite.”
“You gave . . . ?” The color drains from Whit’s face, and for a second he loses his carefully guarded control and gapes at Miles. “That makes Miles the first person outside of our clan to take . . . the Rite.”
“You mean Amrit,” I say.
“Yes,” Whit concedes, still gaping at Miles in shock. “But that was just three days ago. He’s already recovered enough to walk around? Have you seen any other unfamiliar results or side effects?”
“You’ve had a whole clan to use as guinea pigs,” I say. “Now get to the point.”
Whit frowns and crosses his arms. “I’m only interested in him for his own sake.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “Hands by your sides.” Whit puts his hands back on the ground.
“Take this,” I say, passing the crossbow to Miles, “and shoot him if he moves.”
“Is that really necessary?” Whit looks amused, like he thinks this whole thing is a joke.
“Completely,” I respond, as Miles faces Whit and props the loaded crossbow on his knee. “Now talk.”
Whit looks up toward the moon as if looking for inspiration, and then begins. “I know what this looks like. That you think I’m responsible for the attack upon our clan. And in a way, I am.”
I watch him, using the same techniques of perception that he taught me to judge the truthfulness of his words. He is careful and keeps his face a blank page.
“It is true that I left Alaska to contact potential buyers of our Amrit, as I’m sure this boy’s father told you.” Whit watches me as carefully as I watch him back. He is trying to figure out how much I already know. I stare, unflinching.
“I went with the elders’ approval,” he says, and seeing my eyes narrow, he holds a hand up and backtracks. “Not their approval to spread word of the drug. That was my own doing. But I left our territory on occasion in order to get a reading on the outside world . . . on what events had occurred, so that we could stay informed of anything we needed to know.”
“I figured that out when I saw the modern books you brought back,” I say.
“It was important for us to keep abreast of developments in society,” Whit explains.
“Why?” I ask.
“We needed to remain hidden, so it was important to know that we were staying off the radar of the outside world.”
“You could have done that by going to Anchorage and reading a newspaper,” I say. “Why the science books?”
Whit sighs. “Some of us never stopped pursuing our areas of research. It was essential that we stayed abreast of environmental and scientific breakthroughs.”
“As essential as it was for you to betray us and sell our secrets to the highest bidder?”
Whit exhales and looks disappointed. Like he had been hoping I would see things from his point of view. He glances at Miles again. “Really, I would prefer that this boy not be pointing a dangerous weapon in my direction when he obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing with it.”
Miles says, “Hey!”
“You can put it down,” I say to him, and turn back to Whit. “You’ve been watching us.”
“Of course I have. I wanted you to arrive here in one piece. Safely,” Whit says. “And, as an aside, I didn’t mean for Jake to shoot the boy.”
“Well, that makes everything better,” Miles says with a scowl, and places the crossbow on the ground beside him.
Whit ignores him. “Juneau, none of this has turned out as I wanted. I love the clan as much as you do—”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I interject.
“You don’t have to believe me,” he says. “But everything I’ve done has been for the good of the clan.” I can’t help the look of disgust on my face, but stay silent. I want to hear what he has to say. “Just how much did Blackwell tell you?” he asks.
“Start from the beginning,” I command.
“It was your mother, father, and I who came up with the formula for Amrit,” Whit says. “We had a sort of think tank within the Gaia Movement, composed of the people you know as the elders. We were discussing solutions to restoring ecosystems, and one of the emphases was preserving endangered species—specifically those native to the United States. The zoologists in the group posited the theory that if the life expectancy of animals was extended, it would allow more breeding cycles, and thus more offspring—a giant step toward species preservation.
“At that point your mother came forward with a story she had heard as a child—a local legend, as I remember it—from her homeland of Mongolia.”
“Mongolia!” I exclaim. “My mother was Chinese.”
Whit looks uncomfortable. “Apparently her line originated in southern Mongolia. Surely your father would have told you about . . .”
I ignore that twist of the knife. Yes, it hurt—profoundly—that I was hearing this first from the man who betrayed my clan instead of my own father. But getting upset wasn’t going to help anything. I quash the feelings for now, and decide to let them out in target practice later. “Keep talking,” I insist.
“The story involved giving a wounded she-wolf a magical elixir that not only healed the wolf, but allowed it to live for several human-generations, spawning many litters of wolf cubs.
“Your mother began researching the origins of the legend, and the ingredients that could have been involved. I found similar stories in ancient Hindu texts, which called it Amrita. Since he is a chemist, your father began working with some of the plants and minerals mentioned in both your mother’s legend and the texts I had found. Finally, we developed what we thought could be a workable formula. Our target test group was to be Mexican gray wolves, red wolves, and other wild canid species. We tested it first on laboratory mice, and then on a small trial group of dogs. It immediately became clear that animals given the Amrit became immune to disease.
“But before announcing it to the scientific community, we decided to put the elixir to the ultimate test, and took it ourselves. And when we saw that we survived without any noticeable side effects, we decided to expand the trial group to our entire circle. All survived without incident, besides, of course, going through what you know as the death-sleep.
“Thus began a discussion on whether or not it was a moral obligation to reveal our discovery to the world. Some, including me, were for—how could you not share such a groundbreaking discovery with humanity?—but the majority were against. The reasoning was that we should consider the life of the planet—Gaia—over the well-being of its animal species. If Amrit became available to all, it would lead to global overpopulation, and eventually to the destruction of Gaia. That was their hypothesis, at least.
“Around then your father noticed that some of the test animals weren’t aging. And then Emily gave birth to Penelope, who was born with the ocular starburst mutation. We decided to go into hiding—at least until we learned what long-term effects the drug would have. And you know the rest of the story.”
“So you gave up on your goal to solve the endangered species problem?” I ask.
“Your huskies’ mother, Austen?” he says, lifting an eyebrow. I nod, wondering what he’s getting at. “She was actually their great-great-grandmother. If we hadn’t neutered most of the dogs, we would have had hundreds. Thousands, even.”
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My thoughts are reeling. The elders never stopped their research. We weren’t the only test studies—our dogs had been treated and monitored for three decades.
Whit pauses to let this sink in, and then continues. “I never lost my conviction that Amrit should be made available to the outside world. I believe that its distribution could be made selective enough that population growth could be controlled. And the money that we could make would guarantee the clan financial stability. If the secret were out, we wouldn’t have to hide anymore. But, if members did prefer their isolationist secession from society, they could buy themselves their own island and equip it with modern conveniences. The ancient elixir of life would be made available to those who could buy it, and our beloved in the clan would be safe and comfortable.”
“The clan was safe and comfortable,” I say. “Now they’re imprisoned, thanks to you.”
Whit holds up a hand. “Let me finish my story, Juneau. I shopped the elixir to two institutions with which I had old contacts and felt I could trust: Blackwell Pharmaceutical, which based its business decades ago on a search for life-extenders. And Hunt Avery, who, since I met him in the sixties, has spent a fortune on cryogenics and disease eradication. Both, I knew, could provide the financial motivation I was hoping to present to the clan. But I wanted to dig further to establish if either would follow through with my plan for an ethical distribution of the elixir, not only making it available to the richest clients, but also ensuring that a quantity of the elixir went to countries with no money and rampant disease.”
There is something not right in his face when he says this last part, but he’s not telling me an outright lie. And then I realize: He’s lying to himself. He used this humanitarian idea as self-justification.
“You see, Juneau,” he continues. “I’m not evil. I care for the clan. I would never have sold them out.”
“Then why are they living behind an electric fence?” I ask.
Whit clears his throat. “Yes, well, it seems that when Hunt Avery discovered that he was not the only interested party, he made a rather desperate move. He did something he felt would persuade me to give the elixir only to him.”
“Kidnapping your clan,” Miles says.
“He calls it courting the clan,” Whit clarifies. “Winning them over to his point of view.”
I shake my head. “He’s holding them hostage, Whit. But for what? He’s got you. He’s got the clan. I’m guessing you must have given him the formula. So why hunt me down?”
“I made your capture a condition of my cooperation,” Whit says. “I couldn’t just leave you behind, alone in Alaska. Avery sent his guards with me to find you and bring you back to be with your father. Your clan.”
I watch him for a moment. His face gives nothing away. “Why didn’t you explain this to me before?” I ask finally. “In the first note you sent via bird?”
“Because I suspected you wouldn’t believe me. I figured you had Read me and would find it questionable that I was traveling alone with two guards when the rest of the clan was imprisoned.”
“You were damned right about that.”
“It’s why I gave you the map. I knew you wouldn’t come willingly with us. But I also knew you were looking for your clan and I wanted to help you find them. I needed us all to be here together in order to ensure everyone’s safety as we finalize the deal with Avery.”
“You mean he’s kidnapped our clan and you’re still doing business with him?” I ask.
Whit just watches me.
“You’re sicker than I thought,” I say.
“Come with me,” he says. “I’ll take you to our people. I’ll negotiate our release and ensure that we are safely taken to wherever we decide to go after this. You can trust me, Juneau. You’re like a daughter to me. I only want the best for you and the clan.”
I tuck my head down into my arms and try to think. He’s not telling me the whole truth. That’s clear. But a lot of what he said made sense. Although he acted behind the backs of the elders, he believed he was doing it for the good of the clan.
I look back up at Whit, and he gives me that smile. His Juneau smile, the one he’s been giving me since I was five years old, the one that tells me how important I am to him. And I know that I can’t make this decision alone. I can’t trust myself to be level-headed when it comes to Whit.
“Miles,” I say. “Do you think I should go with Whit?”
Miles meets my eyes. “Absolutely,” he says, and looks from me to Whit, “. . . not.”
24
MILES
WHIT MAKES AN UNHAPPY HARRUMPHING NOISE, but I keep my eyes on Juneau.
“There’s no way you should go with this guy,” I insist. “He’s lying.”
“When did you start taking advice from teenage boys—” Whit begins, but I cut him off.
“I overheard my dad saying that you were the key to the drug, Juneau. That there would be no deal without you. I don’t understand why, but I don’t think Whit was just trying to make sure you weren’t left behind. I think he needs you.”
Juneau looks at Whit, and I spot sweat gathering along his hairline. “Juneau,” he says, “this can all be over tonight. I can conclude the deal with Avery and get your clan out of there by morning. Just come with me.”
Your clan? I think. I glance at Juneau to see if she heard it, too.
She sits, watching him, as he gets more and more nervous. “You got what you wanted, Whit. I’m here now. You know I’m safe. I’ll wait here while you do your deal with Avery. Once the clan is released, you can come back and get me. I promise not to budge.”
“I can’t just leave you here,” says Whit, looking fiercely uncomfortable now.
“Yes you can,” says Juneau. She stands up, and reaches down to pick up the crossbow. She holds it loosely by her side as she indicates with a gesture that Whit should stand. And I know that this is a rare moment. That there has been a sea change. Juneau is no longer his student. She just took her last step out from under his control, and is now wholly and completely on her own. She heard Whit out and decided not to side with him. This is huge.
“You just go on ahead,” Juneau urges when she sees he’s not leaving without her.
“I understand your decision,” Whit says finally, shoulders slumped in defeat. “But if you change your mind, just come on down to the ranch. I’ll make sure the guards know you are to be shown safely to me.”
“I thought they didn’t know I was here,” Juneau says.
“They don’t,” Whit responds quickly. “But I’ll tell them that if you happen to show up, you are to be brought to me unharmed.”
“Well, that’s sure generous of you,” Juneau says, and her face is devoid of expression, sarcastic or otherwise, as she raises the crossbow to eye level, aiming it straight at him. “Go,” she commands. Whit’s shocked expression says it all: He sees he’s lost her. He turns to leave the clearing. Juneau waits, holding her pose, until he disappears into the trees. She lowers the crossbow to her side and with a look of emptiness holds out her hand to me.
“Don’t you think he’ll come back with guards?” I ask. “If they’re not already surrounding us, waiting for a sign from him.” I take her hand and pull her closer.
She shakes her head. “No, if he wanted to take us by force, he would have sent guards to seize us instead of coming himself. I don’t know why, but he wants me to come willingly—to cooperate.”
“So you believe him about just wanting to protect you?” I ask incredulously.
“Honestly, Miles, I don’t know what to believe anymore. Part of what Whit said rang true. And then other parts he’s talked himself into believing are true, even if they aren’t.”
“And then there are the flat-out lies,” I add.
Juneau nods worriedly and slings the crossbow over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask.
“We’re leaving the fire and setting up camp further on,” she says.
“I thought you said Whit wouldn’t send guards after us.”
“No, but someone could have followed him,” she says. “Or, if they suspect he met with me, they could easily track his footprints back here. It would be foolish for us to stay.”
In five minutes we have the tent rolled up and most of the supplies packed into Juneau’s backpack. I follow her as she does her silent walk through the pitch-dark woods, trying to place my feet where she has stepped. What seems like an hour later we finally stop, and she looks around.
We’re in a little clearing where the lack of tree cover allows the moonlight to illuminate the ground. “Here’s good,” she says. “We can see enough to set up camp.”
We pitch the tent in silence, and I can tell that Juneau’s not just being quiet to avoid detection. She’s mulling over every word that came out of Whit’s mouth. Going over it again and again, trying to weed out the lies from the truth.
I’m focusing on hammering tent pins into the ground when I hear a flutter of wings and a loud squawk. I look up to see a large black bird, the size of a cat, swoop down from the darkness and land on the ground nearby.
“Poe!” Juneau yells. I can tell she’s using every ounce of restraint she possesses not to throw herself on the raven. Instead, she squats and holds out her hand toward him. He waddles over and lets her pet him and coo over him and I can’t help but roll my eyes. But when she looks over at me, her eyes shining with excitement, I have to admit I’m glad to see the bird, too.
“So after selling us out to Whit back in Utah, you decide to fly back and grace us with your birdy presence?” I call to him.
Poe looks at me and cocks his head to one side, as if he were actually listening. “Hey, look!” I say. “The bird finally acknowledges my presence.”
“Maybe he missed you, too,” Juneau jokes, and scoops Poe into her lap.
“Look at this fancy harness Tallie made you,” she says, and opens a little leather pouch attached to his back. She pulls a paper from inside.