Downburst (22 page)

“So, the tribes got so small, they joined with others?”

“Yes. To protect themselves and preserve their way of life, they needed allies. Then, a hundred years ago, there was a really bad war that decimated what was left of the windwalker population, so now the tribal territories are even more spread out.”

“Where are the other tribes?”

“The Kaana cover the rest of the United States, Central America, and the top part of South America down to the equator—not many windwalkers live by the equator though. There’s hardly any wind. The Kre have the rest of the continent. The Oya have Africa. The Biegga are in Europe and half of Russia, and the Cua take the rest of Russia, Asia, and Australia.”

“What about the Rangi?”

“New Zealand.”

“That’s it?”

“And the South Pole.”

“But that’s nothing! No wonder they hate everyone.”

“They earned it.” He shrugs.

“What do you mean?”

“They rebelled, caused a war—it’s kind of a long story.”

“We have time … ”

He deliberates for a second then says, “Sure, why not.” He settles back against a tree trunk and clears his throat. “Back before there was an earth, we all lived in the sky. When things got too crowded up there, our first parents, the rulers, created the world and sent half of their children to live on it. Over time, the people spread out across the earth and forgot that they could ride the wind. They became human.”

“Wait,” I interrupt, “you’re saying all humans started out as windwalkers?”

“Right.”

“Okay … sorry, keep going.”

“Some of the windwalkers were angry that they had not been chosen to go to the earth, so they made their own way down on a cloud. That cloud became the island of New Zealand. Immediately, the rebellious windwalkers started to torment the humans. These were the ancestors of the Rangi.

“The humans were defenseless against their attacks, so First Parents chose one of their children to lead the rest of the windwalkers down to earth to stop the havoc. They defeated the Rangi.

“At this point, all of First Parents’ children were on the earth. The world was a beautiful place, so many of them decided to make their homes there permanently. The son who led the windwalkers against the Rangi settled in the North and established his own tribe.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “The Yakone.”

“Close,” Rye grins. “Okłumin. Anyway, the Rangi nursed their grudge and continued to wage war on the other windwalkers. They were continually defeated and eventually exiled to New Zealand, where they had first come to Earth.

“A century or so ago, when the tribes began joining together, the Rangi demanded they be given a larger territory. No one likes the Rangi, so they didn’t get it. There was that massive war, and they were crushed. Things have been quiet since then, but now it seems they’re at it again.” Rye rubs his right temple then picks up his whittling. “The fact that they’re this far north makes me think they’ve been having some success.”

“So what will the Yakone do?”

“Kill them. They’re like rabid animals. You can’t reason with them, but you can make them pay. Make them suffer.” He’s whittling furiously now.

The screams and moans fill my ears again, the dead bodies, the smoke, the tattoos. “But you don’t really believe that everyone started out as windwalkers, do you?” I ask. I need the conversation to keep going, need to keep them out of my head.

Rye raises an eyebrow, and I realize I’ve just questioned a tenet I’m supposed to share. “It’s easy enough to prove,” he says. “Think of almost any myth about the wind or the creation, and you can find traces of windwalkers in it—like the Muscogee people, who call themselves the Wind Family. And it’s not just Native Americans. Look at basically any religion. Gods who fly through the air? That’s us.”

He leans forward, the reflection of the fire flickering in his eyes.
“Why are humans so curious about what’s up there, beyond this world? Why do they say things like ‘I’ve had the wind knocked out of me,’ or ‘I caught my second wind’? Why do people have dreams about flying? Why have poets and artists, from the beginning of time, been obsessed with the wind? Take Percy Shelley, for example: ‘If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; if I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; a wave to pant beneath thy power, and share the impulse of thy strength, only less free than thou, O Uncontrollable!’”

Rye looks beyond me, up at the stars, and continues quietly, “‘Lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud. I fall upon the thorns of life. I bleed. A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed one too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.’”

I stare at him as he finishes his recitation. Where did that come from?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I got carried away.” He shuts the pocketknife then shoves it and the piece of wood in his pocket and walks into the trees.

I sit by the fire until it burns down to ash. Then I go to bed.

Rye wakes me for the second watch. I fidget in the darkness, waiting for the black sky to fade to gray, and think about what he said after dinner. Sue took us to church every week, but I was never particularly invested in her religion. Or any religion, for that matter. Maybe Rye’s explanation is the correct one, I don’t know—I guess I don’t really care either—but it would explain how I was able to windwalk. Maybe one of my ancestors was a windwalker. Surely they intermarried with the humans.

I tug at a blade of grass. I can’t figure that boy out. At the camp, he was the star athlete and flirtatious show-off all the girls were in love with. But after the attack, he became a different person. Withdrawn. Terse. Angry. I suppose there’s nothing strange about his transformation. I’ve changed too.

But then tonight—that startling intensity. Stories and religion. Poetry declamations! At the testing grounds, I would have grouped him with the football players, but not now. I’ve never known any jocks who could recite poetry.

I wonder if Jeremy memorized poems
. I snap the grass in half. There’s so much about him I’ll never know. His favorite food. Favorite color. What he wanted to do with his life. He hasn’t even been dead three full days, and already the details of his face are slipping away from me.

I slide the delicate blade between my fingers. If only it were lemongrass. My eyes hurt, but I know I won’t cry. And I know something else: that even if his image fades, I’ll never forget him, the way he felt, smelled, laughed. The way he looked at me, the way no one ever has.

I lift my gaze to the moon and the billions of pinpricks encircling it. I try to lose myself in their endless spirals, hoping that, somewhere, in that eternal softness, I’ll find him.

When streaks of mustard are pushing through the clouds, I hear something. A quiet crack, like a foot stepping on a twig. I sit up straight and peer into the dark forest.
Snap
. There it is again. A slight rustling in the bushes, more popping twigs—too many for one set of feet.

My heart is racing as I rush to Rye’s side. “Wake up,” I hiss. “They’ve found us.”

In a second, he’s on his feet, slipping the tomahawk into his belt and gripping the rifle with both hands. I dig out my pistol and switchblade. I can feel the pulse in my arm.

“Where?” he asks.

“There.” I point toward the lake, and he moves forward. “Wait!” I whisper. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t we run?”

“No more running,” he says. “They’re going to get what they deserve.”

Two of us against all of them? Who knows how many there are? There could be twenty people. As Rye disappears into the forest, I take a step back, holding my breath.

“Aura!” I hear him call. He’s laughing. I exhale and jog toward him.

“What is it?” I ask as I push through the bushes, but he doesn’t have to answer. There, by the edge of the water, is a moose.

“Sound the alarm,” Rye laughs. “The moose is out to get us.”

“Rye … ” I’m watching the moose. It’s a bull, and I don’t like the way he’s peeling his ears back. He lowers his antlers and tosses his head back and forth. “Rye!” I yell. “Get back here.”

“What’s wrong?” He stops laughing and looks at the moose. But it’s too late—the animal is already charging.

Rye backs up quickly, raising his rifle as the moose continues to rush him. But as he pulls the trigger, he slips and falls back in the lake, hitting his head on the rocks. The bullets skim the bull’s shoulder, and instead of stopping, the infuriated animal runs even faster, antlers lowered, ready to crush Rye into the earth.

I scream and aim my gun with both hands, emptying the clip into the moose’s flank. The animal thrashes its head and bellows. Then it turns and charges for me. I grab the wind and leap up to a branch, clinging to it shakily as the bull disappears into the forest, blood dripping from its sides.

When it’s gone, I jump out of the tree and run to Rye. He’s floating face down in the water.

“Rye!” I shriek, dropping the gun and pulling him onto the shore. “Rye, talk to me!” He lies still. His face is slightly purple, and there’s a gash on his forehead, a stream of blood running down his cheek. I put my ear close to his mouth and listen. He’s not breathing.

“Rye!” I drag him the rest of the way out of the water and shake his shoulders. Nothing. I slap his face. “Kava, Rye! Say something!” I pound him on the back. A shudder runs through his chest, and he coughs up water, but his eyes stay closed. I lower my face next to his and feel a tiny bit of air on my cheek, see his chest rise.

Trembling, I sit back up. Then I lean him against a tree, cut a strip of cloth from my shirt, and hold it against his head. I don’t know what else to do, so I press on the wound with my hand, hoping to stop the bleeding. The blood seeps through the moisture-repellant fabric, onto my fingers, and I push harder. He still hasn’t opened his eyes.

After a few minutes, he starts to shiver, so I pull him onto my lap and wrap one arm around his torso while my other hand continues to apply pressure to his head. We stay that way for a long time, me holding him tightly, straining to catch his faint breathing. There isn’t a sound in the forest around us. No birds. No insects. Not even the wind. I bite my lip and continue to hold his head.

At last, I feel him stir in my arms, and I look down in time to see his eyes flutter open.

“Are you okay?” I ask shakily.

Rye frowns. “I think so. My head hurts.” He tries to sit up, but I stop him.

“Careful,” I say. “Just take it easy.”

We sit there for a few moments, water dripping from his hair onto my lap. After a while, he nods. “I think I’m ready.”

I help him stand up. “Thank you,” he says, leaning against me. I’m relieved to see his head’s stopped bleeding.

“I didn’t do much.”

“Hey,” he grabs my arm. “You saved my life.”

I meet his gaze for a brief moment. His eyes are different today. Deeper. Warmer. His whole face seems different, like I’m seeing him for the first time.

“Aura—”

“I’ll get our stuff,” I say quickly. “We should go as soon as you’re ready. Our guns made a lot of noise.”

Because Rye feels weak, we don’t go as fast today. Instead, we stay close to the trees and take lots of breaks. When we stop for the night, I hunt for dinner. Grouse this time.

After we eat, Rye takes out the piece of wood he was whittling the day before and resumes his work. I sit across from him.

“What position were you hoping for?” I ask. Rye raises his eyes. “You know, in the
maitanga
? Did you want to be a storyteller?” I think of the poem he recited.

He gives a short laugh. “Storyteller? No. My dad would never allow it.”

“Does your dad have a say?”

“Actually, he kind of does.”

I wait for him to explain. When he doesn’t, I ask, “So what does he want you to be?”

Rye makes a deep cut with the knife. “A warrior, like him.”

“Oh. You’d be good at that.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I guess I would be.”

“But I don’t get it. How could your dad have told Naira where to place you?”

Rye sighs. “My dad’s the
Matoa
. He’s second only to the chief.”

“
Your
dad’s the captain!” I try to remember the comment I made yesterday. “Look, what I said, I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He grins. “Just don’t ever repeat it in front of him.”

“I can promise you that.” Rye continues moving his knife across the wood, and I watch the shuddering flames for a few minutes. But the silence is burdensome tonight. “What are you carving?” I ask.

He holds the piece out, and I take it in my hands. It’s the head of a male deer. I run my fingers along the broad, rough strokes that form the face and antlers. It’s rustic work but very pretty. I hand it back to him.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“What’s it for?”

“A memorial, I guess. For my cousin.”

A buck, of course! How could I be so stupid?
“It’s beautiful,” I repeat, wishing I knew what to say. The only noise is the soft whisking of the knife against the wood. I didn’t know Buck, but I remember the way he flew around the arena, how he won the windrace. He was strong, like Rye.

“You must have trained a lot,” I venture, thinking of their maneuvers in in the contests.

“My whole life. Just like you.”

“Me?”

“Of course. You know how to throw a
kiipooyaq
and shoot a gun, don’t you?”

“I guess. But you were so much better than the other kids in the Aerie.” I wonder how much Aura had trained, how she would have done in the Challenge.

“Well,” he muses, “I suppose some of us spent more time in training than others.”

“You must like it then,” I venture.

“Why do you say that?” His gaze is barbed.

“Well, because you’ve devoted so much time to it,” I stammer.

“That was my dad’s idea. Not mine.”

“Oh.” I listen to the wood crack. “So, what do you want to be?”

“It doesn’t really matter what I want, does it?” The knife slips in his hand, slicing his finger. He curses and kicks one of the logs. The sparks swirl around our heads like a swarm of fireflies.

“You’re tired,” I say. “Get some sleep. I’ve got the first watch.” He grunts his thanks and slips away into the darkness. After he’s gone, I pull out my necklace and rub my thumb across the curving lines, gripping the pendant tightly as I listen to the crackling flames.

In the morning, we say nothing. We just rebuild the fire and eat the fish Rye caught for breakfast.

Finally, Rye speaks. “I’m sorry, Aura. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” His fingers rub the scab on his forehead.

I nod. “I know. It’s okay.”
I wish he’d call me Kit.
We both look at our hands.

“I think I want to be a farmer,” Rye says, still looking down.

“A farmer?” I can’t believe it. I spent my whole life dreaming about leaving the Johnsons’ farm until I finally did. Why in the world would he want to live on one?

“It’s weird, I know, but I think I’d like it. I like doing things with my hands. My mom comes from a farming family. They live in
Whitman County
, about four and a half hours from Seattle. They grow wheat and barley and have some livestock. We used to go there all the time when I was a kid.”

“Is that why you’re named Rye?”

“Yeah.” He laughs quietly. “We all have names like that. My mom’s name is Amaranth. My sisters are Chia and Maize, and my little brother is Teff.”

“That’s cool.” I wish I could tell him Tom was a farmer, that he loved it, even if I didn’t. We’re both quiet for a moment, and then I blurt out, “I want to be an astronomer.” I’ve never told anyone that before.

“Really?”

Kava.
The words slipped out before I even thought about what I was saying. An astronomer isn’t a position in the tribe, and I’m not supposed to be able to remember this kind of thing.

But Rye just smiles. “Stratosphere’s not high enough for you?”

My pulse quickens, but I smile hesitantly back. “I guess not.”

We pack up our things and keep going, ramping up our pace now that Rye’s feeling better. The air is warm today, warmer than it has been in a while, but the winds are tricky. They keep pushing us south, and it’s a lot of work to make any headway in the right direction.

For lunch, we stop near a lake to eat the leftover fish. Rye leans against the backpack and looks out across the water. Then he turns to me. “Have you ever gone waterskiing?” he asks. The right corner of his mouth is twitching.

“Once.” We visited Tom’s rich cousins two summers ago, and they took us out on their boat.

“How about barefoot waterskiing?”

“I’ve never even heard of it.”

The twitching turns into a full smile. “Take off your shoes.”

“What?”

“C’mon, just do it.”

“I can’t believe this,” I say, but I take them off. My socks are gray and stiff. I peel them eagerly from my skin and wiggle my smelly, liberated toes.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Rye says. “We’ll windwalk low over the lake, low enough to put our feet on the surface of the water. Keep your knees bent at first, and lean back, like you’re sitting in a chair.” He demonstrates, crouching with his legs shoulder distance apart. “Pull your toes up and angle them in.”

“Why?”

“So they don’t catch the water and shoot it into your face. When you’re comfortable, you can slowly straighten your legs. But keep leaning back, and pretend the wind is a rope you’re holding onto.” He stands up. “If you feel like you’re going to fall, lift yourself back into the air. It’s simple.”

“I don’t know—” I begin, but he takes my hand and pulls me to the edge of the lake before I can finish making up an excuse.

Still holding my hand, he rises into the air. I join him, and we shoot out across the water. The winds are strong already, but Rye pushes us even faster. I grip his hand and try to keep up.

“Now!” he yells. He lowers his feet into the lake. I clench my teeth and follow suit, bending my legs like he told me to.

The water slaps the bottom of my feet hard, and I almost yank them out, but Rye is already crouching down, and he’s still got my hand. I strengthen my hold on the wind and lean back. My feet bounce crazily, the spray flying into my eyes. I blink away the water and try to look at Rye’s feet in order to mimic them. Toes pulled up, pointed in.

Eventually, my feet start to plane, and the water stays out of my eyes. Rye begins straightening his legs, so I do too. I tip dangerously to one side, but I pull myself upright. We lean back, holding hands, and glide across the top of the lake. The spray jets out behind us, soaking my clothes and hair. Everything is a blur of water and sky. And as the trees whiz by, I smile.

“Now for some tricks!” Rye shouts. He lets go of my hand and raises one leg in the air. Then he twists around so that he’s facing backward. He twists again to face the front and does a flip, landing beside me, feet instantly skimming the water. Next, he drops onto his rump and twirls around. Then he’s back on his feet.

“You’re crazy!” I laugh.

“Try something!”

This is nuts
, I think, but I slowly lift one of my legs out of the water, and, somehow, I keep my balance.

“Let’s do a jump,” Rye yells. “Reach for a higher wind current, and then drop into the water.”

“Oh, no—” But he does it again, grabs my hand and pulls me up before I can argue. I shriek as I rise into the air, supported mostly by his grip, and then plunge back down. I lose
honga
and immediately crash through the water’s surface.

“I’m gonna kill you,” I gasp when I come back up.

Rye does a back flip, catapulting himself high into the air and dropping into the water. His head bursts out of the lake, and his hair sprays me with hundreds of droplets. And then he’s bobbing next to me, the wet strands sticking to his forehead, those forest green eyes only a hand’s length away.

Suddenly, I’m back at the camp, back to the first time he ever talked to me, and when he says, “Thought it was about time you took a bath!” my tongue doesn’t work, and I have to look away.