Amy Plum - After the End

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 morning. 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.

“AS I HAVE EXPLAINED, I CAUGHT YOUR SON cheating on his final exam.” Ms. Cochran, my English teacher, makes a face like she smells something rotten as she holds up my minuscule rolled-up crib sheet. I force myself to keep a neutral expression in front of my dad and the principal, but shrink down into my chair.

“Since when was cheating on a test grounds for expulsion?” my dad exclaims.

Mr. Riggs, the principal, glances at the open file on the desk in front of him and runs his finger down the page. “When a student has had two previous suspensions for bringing alcohol and drugs onto school grounds.”

My dad clears his throat. “Well, perhaps we can talk further about it, like we did on those occasions,” he says, glancing at Ms. Cochran. If she wasn’t here, the conversation would already have turned to donations my dad’s company could give to the school, but judging from the dark look on Mr. Riggs’s face, I doubt that would work this time.

“Yes, well, I know that in your case there have been mitigating circumstances, but we can’t keep making your son an exception to the rule. Billingston Academy has a strict three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to enforce it in your son’s case.”

A few days later Dad gets a call from the Yale admissions office saying that my enrollment is on hold until they receive some proof that I am “receiving help for my behavioral issues.” And that’s when Dad comes up with his mail-room plan.

MY ARROW FLIES TRUE AND THE GREAT BULL CARIBOU slumps to the ground. I sling my crossbow over my shoulder, and the virgin snow crunches under my moccasins as I sprint across the field to kneel by the beast’s heaving side. “Thank you,” I say as I draw my knife from my belt. I pet the bristly fur of his muzzle and look him straight in his huge glassy eye. And then I slit his throat.

Some of our hunters go into a whole long prayer to the spirit of the animal when they kill. But Whit once told me that respectful treatment and a thank-you equaled all the lofty words in the world. I have to say I agree.

As I clean my knife in the snow, I whistle for Beckett and Neruda to bring the sled over. But they’re already on their way, their wriggling bodies bursting with excitement as they bound through the icy drifts. I sling the leather straps over the top of the beast and push the iron dowels underneath its body to pull the straps around.

This bull must weigh two hundred pounds—twice my weight—but with the help of my puller, the dogs and I manage to shuffle him over and onto the sled within minutes, the undulating crimson line he leaves in the snow as bright as a ribbon on a wreath of white lilies.

I am securing the caribou with hemp ropes when I hear something strange: a loud flapping noise, like the beat of a thousand eagles’ wings synchronized into multiple steady pulses.

I’ve heard this sound before, but only from the safety of an emergency shelter. It’s a flying machine. Which only means one thing: brigands. My heart skips a beat, and I freeze, scanning the sky.

Why didn’t Whit foresee this and hide the clan? They must not be coming close enough to us to be any danger. But in my mind, close enough to hear is close enough to hide. My stomach twists as I think of what I would do if I were the Sage.

The burden of being Whit’s successor is already beginning to weigh upon me. Like him, I will protect the clan. Predict storms or natural catastrophes. Conjure healthy crops and Read where food can be found in the lean years. Read when predators or even brigands are near and Conjure camouflage to hide the village.

I can’t see where the noise is coming from. Before me looms Mount Denali. The noise of the flying machine echoes off its foothills and is quickly absorbed by the snow-drenched valley sprawling at its feet. I hope it isn’t behind the mountain, where my village is. Surely not. Whit would have Read it.

A talon of worry scrapes at my belly. I rush to detach the huskies from the puller and clip them back to the sled. “Hike!” I yell, and we begin racing toward Denali, toward home. The noise has stopped. The machine must be gone. It was probably far away, and the valley’s echoes made it sound close, I tell myself, but I don’t cut the huskies’ pace.