After the End

61 JUNEAU

MILES FLOORS IT. THIS IS HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, and he manages to stay ahead of the Jeep. And then he takes a right, and suddenly we’re leaving the suburb and heading toward a desolate landscape dotted with sparse trees and sagebrush.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To the desert. I think we can lose them better out here. I know of a place we could hide. A place my friends and I used to go to hang out when we didn’t want our parents to find us. It’s an old shack.”

“But Miles, out here we’re easy prey. There’s nothing to hide behind. It’s just a matter of who’s faster.”

“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” he says with a worried frown.

For a while, we stay ahead, but the Jeep gains a little with each mile. Finally, when it’s only a few yards behind us, the Jeep swerves into the left lane and speeds up until we are almost side by side. Whit is in the passenger’s seat, his window down, waving at us to pull over. “Stop!” I can see him yell, but the roaring of the motors drowns his voice.

And then everything happens at once: the guard in the backseat lifts a gun and pulls the trigger before I have time to react. “No!” I scream, just as there is a loud crack of gunfire. Whit turns and wrestles with the guard. The gun goes off again. Miles makes a grunting sound, and our car swerves dangerously to the right. I grab the wheel and straighten us as Miles slumps over toward the window.

“Miles!” I yell. “Are you okay?”

“I think I just got shot,” he says. “Take the wheel.”

I unfasten both of our seat belts, grab the wheel, and scoot over to knock Miles’s foot off the pedals. He slumps down to lean back across the seat, pulling his legs up toward him to make room for me. I am numb all over. My body has taken over, since my mind can’t deal with what just happened.

I stare over at the Jeep and see Whit’s white face in the open window. He looks horrified. He hadn’t expected his guy to shoot—that much is clear. I feel a wave of nausea hit me and have to concentrate to keep from trembling. It’s my second time behind the wheel, and I’m barreling down a desert highway at top speed. Just stay on the road and keep the pedal down, I tell myself.

I know I can’t outdrive Whit’s men. I have to do something. Reach the Yara. I’ll never be able to calm myself enough to connect. But those were Whit’s rules, I remind myself. And though my heart’s beating like a drum against my rib cage and my breathing is erratic, I wipe everything from my mind and focus on the force that runs through everything: me, Miles, the car, the road, and the air around us. This force is mine to use and I, in return, am its tool. I feel the lightning bolt of connection, and suddenly I am clear. Focused.

Both cars have slowed down. It looks like Whit is yelling at the guy in the backseat and not completely focused on the road. I glance at the Jeep and imagine the inside of its motor. I picture the silver-and-white spark plugs that I Read before, and think water, focusing on taking any moisture in this dry landscape and gathering it right there, right between the connection of the plugs and the motor. And all of a sudden the Jeep skids out.

I watch it in the rearview mirror, spinning in circles on the road behind us before flying off the road and landing on its side. That’s all I have time to see before we pass over a ridge and out of sight.

Miles moans from beside me. “Miles!” I yell. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m alive,” he says, “but I think he got me in the chest.”

“Miles, we can’t go back to town if that means passing the Jeep. If they’re still alive, they might try to shoot us again.” I slow the car down enough so that I can think. Now that the strength of the Yara has left me, I feel numb with shock. “Where is this place you wanted to hide?”

“It’s just this old shack. Take a right past the Exxon sign, hidden behind a boulder,” he says, panting hard. I see an Exxon billboard in the distance and head straight for it, then take the dirt road behind it so fast that the back of the car fishtails. My heart leaps to my throat, but I manage to straighten out and stay on the road.

We are coming up to a massive boulder-like rock formation. A nearly invisible path winds behind it, and right there in the middle of nowhere, but invisible from the main road, stands a shack.

I screech to a stop between the shack and the boulder, hiding the car from anyone who might drive by. Jumping out, I run around to the passenger’s side and open it. Miles is lying on his back with his legs bent. There’s blood all over the place: I can’t even see where it’s coming from.

“Oh, Miles,” I whisper. Though I’m used to hunting—to seeing blood and gore—I feel powerless.

“Do you think you can walk?” I ask.

“I’ll try,” he says. His voice is weak. That scares me more than all the blood.

Be calm, I think. You have to be strong. Now is not the time for emotions.

“Let’s get you inside the cabin,” I say. “The Jeep flipped onto its side, but they might be able to get it back on the road.”

“When he finds out you’re gone, Dad will be after us too,” Miles says.

“Don’t worry about that,” I say, and prop him into a sitting position, pulling his legs to swing them around and out of the car. I loop his arm over my shoulder and heave him up. We half stumble over the pebbled ground toward the ramshackle house, Miles groaning and pressing his hand to his side. I get him up onto the porch and, seeing that the door is ajar, kick it open. I take a look around. There is nothing inside. No sink. No furniture. No electricity. Just one small room with beer bottles and cigarette packets strewn about.

I help lower Miles to the floor, then rip off my jacket, fold it a couple of times and place it under his head. I run back out to the car and pop the trunk to drag my bag and the camping gear in, in case there’s anything in there that will be of use.

It’s dark inside the room, so I light some of the camping candles and put them around Miles’s body. I don’t take the time to unbutton his cotton shirt, I just rip it and let the buttons fly. The T-shirt beneath is so thoroughly soaked in blood I have no idea what color it was originally. I take scissors out of my pack and cut straight up the middle of the shirt through the neckline, and then down through the sleeves, so he is lying bare-chested and the bullet hole in his side, between two ribs, is exposed.

Miles lets out another groan and, wrapping his arms around his chest, writhes in pain.

“Shh, Miles. Try to stay still,” I say, and bring a candle closer so I can see his wound. It is a round hole the size of my fingertip, with blood oozing from it. I touch it, pulling the flesh apart enough to see that the bullet is embedded a couple of inches in. I don’t know what to do. I glance around the room once more, assessing what I have available to me.

I should call someone to come help us, but there’s no phone in this shack. “Miles, you didn’t get a new phone, did you?” I ask. He shakes his head no. I wonder how close the nearest hospital is. I doubt I’d even be able to find it in time. And I could try to flag someone down on the road, but I have no idea if Whit and his men have their Jeep back up and running.

This is up to me, I realize. Miles’s life is in my hands. I inspect the bullet hole again, and then, digging through my bag, pull out my bowie knife. I’ve dug thousands of crossbow arrows out of dead prey, but never a bullet.

Miles starts babbling something about a dream, and I can tell he hasn’t got long before he will pass out. Which would probably be a good thing, because this is going to hurt. I could sedate him with some brugmansia but don’t have the time it would need to take effect. I’ve got to do this now. I turn the knife blade inside the candle flame and summon all my courage.

Holding Miles’s wound open with my left hand, I insert the knife tip into the hole alongside the bullet and follow it down. Miles lets out a tortured scream, convulses, and then falls unconscious. His movement has made the knife slice slightly to the side. I straighten it and then quickly dig down, wedging the blade tip under the bullet, and pull upward. Once it is partially through the skin, I pull it out the rest of the way with my fingertips. Blood begins to pour out of the hole.

I pull off my long-sleeved shirt, leaving only my tank top, wad it up to press against the wound, and roll him back and forth to pass a shirtsleeve underneath his torso. I tie it off and sit back to inspect my work.

The bullet’s out, but he’s lost a lot of blood. And although my knife was clean, I know he could get an infection, unlike me and my clan, who heal quickly and cleanly from the occasional accident. His skin has become ashen, and if he wasn’t breathing, I would think he was already dead.

My heart beats so hard I feel it pattering in my throat. What else can I do? And then it occurs to me. There is something I can do. Although I’ve never performed it alone, I know that I am able. I have a moment of hesitation: will it even work on someone who has not grown up with the Yara? Then I remember—Mother and Father didn’t grow up with the Yara, and it worked for them. Whit was going to sell it to the outside world, so he must at least think it will work on anyone. Besides, I have no other choice but to sit and let Miles die. One look at his bloody form and my decision is made.

I carefully empty my pack until all its contents are spread across the floor, making sure I have everything I need. I begin picking up stones and bunches of herbs and lay them out in lines. I take a packet of mixed plants and minerals and place it next to Miles’s head, along with the agate cup and the ceremonial blade.

I put a large moonstone in each of Miles’s hands. I arrange the candles in a halo around his head. And I begin the Rite.

I think of what I am doing and wonder how much of it is necessary and how much just for show. Until Miles’s dad began going on about the ingestion of medicine before we stopped aging, I hadn’t questioned the Rite. No one questioned the Rite. Only Whit and I knew how to do it, I having taken the place of my mother before me. He told me that it had to be performed by a woman, that he was just there for show, but I wonder now why he wasn’t able to do it himself.

And although I know now that most of what I’ve been taught is in effect a smokescreen for the drug, it makes me feel better to perform the preparations for the Rite as I always have. Unfortunately, in Miles’s case, I don’t have all the time in the world, like I usually do.

Working quickly, I strip off the rest of Miles’s clothes, and then, taking two gold nuggets, I bind them to the underside of each foot using strips of cotton cloth. I sing as I work, the song the children sing outside Whit’s yurt, where the body will lie during the death-sleep. I sing about death and rebirth. I sing of sleeping and awakening; the winter hibernation of the animals and the renewal of life in spring.

It’s not the singing, it’s the drug, I remind myself, but Miles deserves this treatment. Even if it’s needless ritual, it’s meant to symbolically tie the spirit of the person to the Yara. To join their life to nature. To give it more meaning than just living for themselves—after the Rite, they are so integrally entwined with nature that they live for everything and everyone on the planet. I want that for Miles. I think that he would want it himself, if he understood. Even if it’s all a sham, it means something to me.

I feel myself descending into the trancelike state I fall into when performing the Rite. My body doesn’t matter anymore. I move outside it, watching myself circle Miles three times, crumbling dried herbs above his body and letting them fall like dust to his skin. I join it again to pick up the cup and empty the packet of herbs and minerals into it.

“Miles,” I say, and shake him gently. “Miles, are you still here with me?”

He takes a shallow breath and says, “I think so.” He tries to open his eyes, blinks a few times, and then stops trying. At least he’s conscious again. I must work fast.

Taking the small, curved ceremonial knife, I cut the palm of my hand and let my blood drip onto the greenish powder, and then stir it with the knife’s spoon-shaped hilt.

“You have to swallow this,” I say, and scoop the blood mixture into his mouth. I pick up the canteen of water and pour it down his throat, washing the concoction down with it. He sputters and coughs, but keeps the powder and liquid down.

“Miles Blackwell, do you hear me?” I say.

“Yes,” Miles responds.

“Do you agree to become one with the Yara? To dedicate your life to the earth and the force that binds every living thing to one another?”

“Juneau,” breathes Miles. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Miles, do you agree to trade your life of eighty years for one of many hundred?”

Miles pries one eye open and lets it rest on me. He speaks, but his voice has no force behind it, and I have to lean down to hear him. “If I don’t, do I die?” he breathes.

I touch my hand to his chest, and though my body is numb and my spirit calm from the trance, I feel my eyes cloud with tears. “You might die anyway. But this is my best try,” I confess.

“Then I do, Juneau,” he says, and his voice is a mere whisper.

I position myself near his head. With my other hand I begin combing his wavy hair with my fingers as I wait for the mixture to take effect—for the death-sleep to come. Miles’s breaths become increasingly shallower until he breathes his last breath and becomes still. Tears flood my eyes as I lean over and kiss his still-warm lips. And then I go to sit in the open door of the shack.

I close my eyes as my spirit disconnects from the Yara. I feel myself emerge from the otherworldly haze of my trance. And as I do, the weight of the decision I just made presses down on me, crippling me with fear. What have I done?

The only thing you could do, I tell myself. I open my eyes and look out upon the landscape before me—the flat, barren wasteland with rolling red hills far in the distance.

Besides the desert animals, I am the only living, breathing thing for miles around. I sit in the doorway and wait.