After the End
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
After the End
Copyright © 2014 by Amy Plum
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this eBook on-screen.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.
www.epicreads.com
From
The Ages of Gaia: A Biography of Our Living Earth
by James Lovelock. Copyright ©1988 by The Commonwealth Fund Book Program of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. Used by permission of W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Jung, C.G.;
The Archetypes and the Collective Unconsciousness.
© 1959 Bollingen Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013958340
ISBN 978-0-06-222560-3 (trade bdg.)
ePUB Edition © APRIL 2014
ISBN 9780062225627
14 15 16 17 18 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
For Maximilien.
Love. Courage. Joy.
“
IT TOOK THE VIEW OF THE EARTH FROM SPACE
. . . to let us sense a planet on which living things, the air, the oceans, and the rocks all combine in one as Gaia. The name of the superorganism, Gaia, is not a synonym for the biosphere. . . . Just as the shell is part of a snail, so the rocks, the air, and the oceans are a part of Gaia. Gaia, as we shall see, has continuity with the past back to the origins of life, and extends into the future as long as life persists.”
—James Lovelock,
The Ages of Gaia
“ . . .
IN ADDITION TO OUR IMMEDIATE CONSCIOUSNESS
, which is of a thoroughly personal nature and which we believe to be the only empirical psyche . . . there exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre-existent forms . . . which give definite form to certain psychic contents.”
—C. G. Jung,
The Archetypes and the Collective Unconsciousness
I CROUCH LOW TO THE GROUND, PRESSING MY back to the ancient spruce tree, and raise my crossbow in one hand. Keeping my eye on the precious shard of mirror embedded in my weapon, I inch it out from behind the tree. In the reflection, I spot something moving behind a cedar across the snowy clearing.
From the cracking of branches to my right, I sense that another foe lurks nearby. I can’t see him. Can’t see his inevitable scars and pockmarks—damage from the nuclear radiation. But I know he’s there. I’ll have to take my chances. You have to be tough to survive an apocalypse.
I leap from behind the tree, duck as I see a missile hurtling toward me from a low scrub of holly bush, and simultaneously shoot in front of me. I hit the ground and roll, leaping back to my feet.
“I hit you!” yells a voice from the bushes. I hear a rustling of leaves, and then my friend Nome pops out, her hair glowing like burnished gold against the green and red holly.
“No you didn’t!” I yell back, but then I look down to where she’s pointing. Gooseberry pulp drips off the sleeve of my buckskin parka. “It’s just my arm. It wouldn’t have been lethal,” I say, flicking off the fruit sludge. But I know that though it wouldn’t have killed me on the spot, I would have been injured. And any injury would slow me down. Nome’s gooseberry would have meant my eventual death in the case of a true attack on our village.
Kenai steps from behind the cedar with a moose antler in his hand. He has painted an evil face on the wide part of the horn, and my arrow protrudes from its forehead.
“Bull’s-eye,” he says, and begins to make gurgling sounds as his homemade brigand suffers a painful and drawn-out demise. Trust Kenai to lighten a heavy moment.
The antler’s death throes are interrupted by Nikiski, who runs up with his hands in the air. “Cease-fire,” he yells, and then grins widely to show two missing front teeth. “Juneau, Whit wants you to come see him in the school. Something about hunting. Something about being low on meat. And Dennis wants you two”—Nikiski gestures to Kenai and Nome—“to drop by the library for something about a project he wants you to do.”
“Thank you for that precise and informative message,” Kenai says, ruffling Nikiski’s hair with his hand as he walks past the boy toward the village. “Battle officially over,” he calls behind him. “Brigand slain, but Junebug injured. Ten points to Nome.”
Nome lets out a whoop and then, shoving her slingshot inside her parka, jogs over to me. When she sees my expression, her playful mood deflates. “It’s okay, Juneau. Like you said, it wouldn’t have been lethal.”
I’m silent. She sighs deeply as we begin walking toward the village. “Juneau, you can’t be perfect. You’re going to be clan Sage, not our sole protector.”
“I’d rather be prepared to do both,” I respond.
“You’re seventeen, Juneau. And you’re already carrying the weight of the clan on your shoulders.”
I don’t respond. But inside, I acknowledge it: I’m just a teenager now, but one day the well-being of a few dozen people will be in my hands. It’s a heavy burden—one I know I must carry. Why else would I have been given my gift?
We crest the hill. Before us crouches the Great Ice Bear: Mount Denali, scraping its sugar-white pelt against the sky. And between its foothills and the forest are nestled twenty yurts. The light-colored skins stretched across the roofs and sides of the yurts make them almost invisible against the snow—a necessary camouflage.
It’s been thirty years since the war. My parents and fifteen others escaped in the very last hours, after the first firestorm of nuclear explosions triggered the aftermath . . . the creeping death of radiation and famine and genocide. They came here to Alaska’s unspoiled territory, far from any city that would have been targeted for destruction.
Although little was left in the wake of the Final War, it would be foolish to think we were the only survivors. Over the decades, during their rare scouting trips, the elders have found evidence. Abandoned cars run on the scarce drops of fuel that remained after the oil fields burned. Human trails left just beyond the boundaries of our territory. Sounds from the air of a lone renegade flying machine.
But there haven’t been any new signs found for a long time. Only a handful of close calls since I was born—seventeen years ago. The only deaths have been accidents: one by bear attack, and then my own mother’s death when her sled broke through lake ice.
These are the cautionary tales we are brought up with. Instead of the bogeyman (who terrified my mom as a child), our nightmares are populated with armed brigands roaming the land to plunder what is left. Merciless survivors of the apocalypse, bent upon taking what our clan has worked so hard to preserve: clean food and water and immunity from the radiation and disease that will, in the end, finish off the outside world.
A rebirth. That is what the clan hopes for. What Whit teaches us will happen. But it could take centuries. Millennia. Our goal is survival.
“See you later,” I say to Nome as we arrive, and jog ahead of her toward the school yurt. Once through the door flap, it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust from the blinding reflection of sun on snow to the soft light filtering through the open crown of the yurt and the glow of the schoolroom’s fire.
I brush off my moccasins and leave them with my crossbow next to the door. If Whit’s teaching the younger children, it means he’s explaining the Yara. Which before long will be my job. When I was five—just after my mother’s death—Whit tested me and found I was able to Conjure. Besides him and my mother, I am the only one of my tribe capable.
In three years I will undergo the Rite, and will then take his place as clan Sage, as my mother should have if she were still alive. So recently Whit’s left more and more of the clan Readings to me and has begun to show me how he Conjures, being careful what he shows me, since I can duplicate his results with ease.
“Why don’t you join us, Juneau?” Whit asks. The children are seated in a half circle around him. Nikiski’s there—he must have sprinted back—and next to him are Tanaina, Wasilla, and Healy, ready to hear Whit’s lesson, one he repeats for all age groups several times a year. I’ve heard it so many times, I could recite it by heart.
I sit down next to Whit as he pours a layer of ground mica on the floor. The firelight reflects in it, making it sparkle. The young children watch, their attention caught and held by the glistening powder.
Whit etches a large circle with his finger. “This is the earth. Everything in it is a part of the same organism: you, me, the dogs, the ground, the air.” He takes Healy’s hand and blows a puff of air on it, demonstrating wind, causing the four-year-old to giggle in delight. “We live inside a superorganism, and everything within it is connected by a powerful force.”
“The Yara,” the children shout in unison.
Whit pulls a mock-surprised expression and asks, “Have you heard this story before?”
“Yes!” the children yell, laughing gleefully. Whit smiles and unconsciously smooths down the solitary strand of gray hair in his black mane. It’s the one sign of his aging before he found the Yara. Proof that he is the oldest in the clan.
“You’re right,” he concedes. “The Yara is the current that moves through all things. It’s what allows us to Read.” Inside the circle representing the earth, Whit draws concentric smaller circles. “Can you tell me what kinds of things have the Yara flowing through them?” He points to the outermost circle.
Tanaina lifts her hand and blurts out, “People!”
Whit nods and points to the next circle in.
“Animals,” Wasilla says, and then adds, “Plants,” as Whit moves to the next circle.
Placing his finger on the innermost circle, he says, “Even the elements—fire, water, air, earth—they all have the Yara running through them.
“Since you are close to the Yara, you can use it to connect with all the other members of earth’s superorganism.” Whit draws lines from the outer “human” circle to those inside. “Even rocks have a memory of what has happened around them. If you can ever get them to talk!” The children laugh again, knowing that speaking rocks are one of Whit’s jokes, even though there is a measure of truth behind it.
“Okay. Today’s lesson is over,” Whit says. The children let loose, tapping their fingers in the mica powder and wiping it on their faces like war paint. Everybody piles outside, and Whit and I head toward his yurt.
“Did Nikiski give you my message?” he asks.
“In his own way,” I say, grinning. “Something about meat?”
“Yes. We’re running low,” he says. “I thought you could handle it, since the rest of the hunters are needed for the clearing of our summer encampment.” Whit’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “I didn’t think you’d mind going on your own.”
My mentor knows me as well as my father does. Besides Ketchikan and Cordova, I’m the best hunter in the clan. And I relish time spent on my own.
We arrive at Whit’s yurt. Beside the door sits a lightweight sled with a mountain of supplies strapped to it and a pair of snowshoes draped across the top.
“I Read the skull for you,” he says. “You’ll find caribou in the south field tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep and you can be down there first thing in the morning.”
I nod. “I’ll start at daybreak.”
“And be careful not to—”
“—cross the boundary. I know, Whit. I’ll be careful,” I promise.
“All right then. I’m off,” he says, and gathers up his pack from atop his sled.
My father appears from behind the neighboring yurt. “Sneaking away again, Whit?” he teases.
“I hate long good-byes,” Whit responds with a smile. “And I’ll only be gone two weeks.” He turns and straps the sled’s rope across his chest, and disappears down a path in the woods.
“I still don’t understand why Whit won’t take dogs on his retreats,” I say.
My father puts a hand on my shoulder and walks with me back toward our home. “He has his own way of doing things,” he replies.
We reach the main encampment. The smell of dinners cooking and warm puffs of smoke exiting the crowns of the yurts makes my stomach rumble.
Dad and I push through the door flaps to see Beckett and Neruda lying lazily by the fire, keeping watch over the steaming stew pot.
“So how is my warrior princess?” he asks, as I hang my crossbow from a side beam and begin shucking off my moccasins and parka. “Did Whit say he was sending you hunting?” he asks.
“I leave tomorrow morning,” I respond, as he begins ladling out bowls of moose stew. He hands me a bowl and spoon, and I join him in front of the fire. I blow on a steaming spoonful of meat and take a bite. Nestled in the warmth and security of our yurt, I think for the thousandth time of how lucky we are. Dad and I have each other. We have a good life, while the world outside our boundaries is nothing but radioactive waste, bands of marauding brigands, and for anyone else who might have survived World War III, an existence filled with misery and despair.
