Rain follows us the next day, and my mind hangs in its clouds. By afternoon, it drizzles away, leaving behind a golden streaked sunset. For the first time in days, I really look at what's laid out in front of me. The sun is frighteningly large set against an open, even skyline. The High Valley mountains always cut the sun to ribbons.
Presented with this new, sweeping view, my dread battles my awe, each pressing for dominance. This sunset is just wrong. It, like everything else in the Outerlands, is subtly off, real but impossible, similar but skewed. It shakes something inside me that I can't seem to settle. Yet there is something still entrancing about it, beautiful even though it hurts to see.
A view like this wasn't supposed to exist. But I'm here, this imaginary place is real, and the world is so very, very flat. I feel free to move but like I can never leave, exposed and yet safe because I can see anything coming for miles around. Though the flatness is inherently wrong, it exists, so in some way, it must not be.
"Amura," I mutter. Experiencing two conflicting emotions at the same time so that the brain registers them as pain rather than deciding which to believe. My mother, the zealous mentaliti professor that she is, lectured me on it more times than I can count. I never thought I'd feel it this way, though, this strongly, in every single, simple sight I take in.
Amura. The first sign of a breaking mind, she said. A mind too weak to reconcile its own perceptions, to process its own stimuli. Instead of work, it cripples itself.
Amura.
A bird dips across the sunset. Brown and golden feathers flash as it lands, talons outstretched to catch the branch of a solitary tree. It's a hawk. Specifically, a northern-slopes hawk, according to the coloring. It spends summers in the northern stretches of the High Valleys and migrates south during winters.
I take a step forward, hand shielding my eyes, double-checking. But no, that's definitely it. This is so much farther south than we ever predicted it could fly. Farther than we could have imagined it flying. A High Valley bird wintering in the Outerlands. Madness.
I step back, realization clicking in my mind. "If it can get back," I mutter, "so can I."
Sean pulls the tent out of the stuff-sack, everyone around us also in the process of setting up camp. "You planning on helping me, or are you just going to keep glaring at the horizon?"
I grab Sean's wrist and drag him away from the group.
"What's your problem, Riveirre?"
When we reach the hawk's tree, out of earshot of the others, I let him go. "You have to talk to the Ufir."
He scowls, straightening his coat sleeve. "Why the blazes would I do that? And about what?"
"He has to take us back to the High Valleys. Now, before we get any farther out."
He laughs, a harsh, mocking noise. "Any farther out, Riveirre? You realize we left the High Valleys over a week ago? You make it sound like we passed up the corner store."
"We didn't 'leave,' Sean. They"—I point at the group—"tricked us into coming here. We have to tell them to take us back, get us to Xela, like we agreed on in the first place."
"Simple as that?" His eyebrow creeps up.
"Yes, Sean, simple as that." I cross my arms. Suddenly unable to meet his gaze, I look off at the horizon.
He sighs. "They're not going to do that."
"They might! You're the magic-man, the guy who's going to abracadabra a curse on anyone who doesn't do what you say. Can't you use that?"
"Oh, come on, Riveirre. You know that's not how it works."
"And why not?" I demand.
He shakes his head and leans against the tree, hands tucked in his pockets. His gaze is fixed on the Traders as they pitch their tents. Close by, one group of children huddle near a fire, fighting off the damp chill the rain left behind.
"They were brave," he says, "or desperate enough to drag us out here in the first place. They only fear what I might do, but they knew what was going to happen if they stayed in the mountains. They're not going back any time soon."
I swallow, wrapping my arms around myself. "You said they'd drop us off at Xela."
"I thought they would. They were going south. Must have taken a different route, something quicker, so they could get out of the mountains faster."
"Then—" My hopes are crumbling faster than I thought possible. The air in my lungs trembles, and angry at myself, I close my eyes to recollect. "Then they can give us a map."
"Do they seem like studied cartographers to you, Riveirre?" He pushes off the tree. "They don't do maps. Why do you think I didn't ask for one before?" His head shakes. "And even if they did give us directions, what do you want to do? Die of starvation as we wander through the wilderness with our non-existent rations? We're a week away from the mountains, not from civilization—that's over a month away, back through all those valley passes and far up the cliffs."
Wind musses my hair, and I rake a hand through the mess, frustrated and desperate. "I just want to go home, Sean!"
"Well, that's nice." He steps forward, lank frame casting me in shadow. "But that's not the reality of the situation. We're here now. We're in the Outerlands. And we're not getting back home anytime soon." His eyes force me to meet their gaze, holding me in their harsh conviction.
My voice threatens to break. "How are you so ready to give up?"
His gaze softens. "I'm not giving up, Riveirre. I'm analyzing our circumstances as honestly as I can. They're running out of food, and they've yet to run into the 'plentiful game' their Ufir promised them. I don't know if you noticed, but more and more people are acting shifty around us. We're a drain on their resources, and they know it. I don't think it's going to be much longer before they say forget the curse and decide to kick us out. Our only chance to make it back to the High Valleys would be sticking out the winter with them, but I doubt we even make it that long. Part of me doubts they will make it that long."
The wind blows across the plain, rippling the grass like a clowder of snow cats creeping through the stalks. The air breaks cool against my skin, and I shiver. "Then what can we do?"
Half-turning, he follows my gaze. He's quiet for a long time. Finally, he answers, "We wait. We see what opportunity allows."
I swallow the mix of emotions threatening to close my throat. My eyes flick up to Sean's. He still stares at the never-ending stretch of land between us and the foreign horizon.
I wet my lips, preparing to pose my last question. Even though it doesn't matter, even though it can't change anything, something in me still has to know. "Sean?"
He turns back to me. "Yeah?"
I wrap my arms tighter. "Don't you care about getting home?"
He looks away, gaze turning distant. The setting sun outlines his profile, casting half of his sharp face into stark shadow. The contrast darkens his brown hair to midnight, and the wind catches it, teasing ripples out of the short locks like air over water.
He looks back at me, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I left home a long time ago, Riveirre. You learn to get by." He jerks his head toward the Traders. "Come on. Let's go get our tent set up before dark."
* * *
By lunch the following day, the air is surprisingly muggy. The sun beats down on us as if in revenge for being held prisoner by the rain. Though I'd almost prefer the chill over this sticky humidity, the Traders seem encouraged by it. Their voices raise with their spirits, and the hubbub of conversation rings all around.
Despite being back-stabbing barbarians, Traders tell good stories. I suppose when you spend your life traveling, you acquire a few interesting ones, and in the long hours of boredom, you might as well come up with ways to wildly exaggerate them. A few feet away, a man spins such a tale. I can't understand everything he says, but between the gestures and what words I do know, I'm fairly certain he's talking about killing a ten-foot tall mountain lion with nothing but a fallen tree branch. Or maybe nothing but a river fish. I'm not listening closely enough to be quite sure.
He's on his feet, arms out wide in sweeping gestures. His companions are rowdy, hollering as if right there in the story with him, urging him on. Five feet outside their group, I look away, jaw clenched. I don't understand how they can be so at ease. I bite my tongue, reminding myself not to say something stupid, and return to my food. Beside me, Sean's finishing his rations, oblivious.
I try to find something else to focus on. Today, we've finally stopped at the edge of a red and yellow forest. The sea of grass laps at the edge of the trees, whose jagged profiles break up the horizon and some of my discomfort. A chance hush reigns, the laughter and cheers dying down for a moment.
In the relative quiet rings a gentle and hauntingly familiar ta-twill, ta-twill, ta-twill.
No. Surely not.
Grabbing my bag so the Traders don't have a chance to, I stand, listening for it. The cry rings out again. Its simple notes stir some chord deep inside me, and I can't help but take a step forward. In this alien world, those high, free notes sound like the one thing Sean says I'll likely never get a taste of again—home.
More certain of the direction now, I stride toward the forest, following the chirps. When I've all but reached the trees, Sean catches up with me, belongings in hand. "What are you doing?"
Not slowing and hardly paying attention, I answer, "Looking for a bird."
His footsteps pause. "A bird."
I cast him a distracted glance. "Yes. If it's—" Ta-twill! I hold up my hand.
"I wasn't talking," he protests.
"Shhh!" The bird repeats its cry, and I shift direction. After a moment, I continue. "If it's the bird I think it is, I need to see it."
"And why's that?" he asks, somehow sarcastic and disinterested at the same time.
I flash him a glare. I can't tell him why I'm really chasing after it. If he's right and we never make it back home, this bird will be the last thing from the High Valley's I'll probably ever see, the closest to home I'll ever be again. He wouldn't understand that. So I give him the reason of the scientist, the researcher.
"This particular bird is supposed to be extinct. It's called a snowfire. A lot of—" I listen for it, then pick back up. "A lot of High Valley home remedies claim the red feathers have restorative properties, even though I've never seen any study back that up. Anyway, they disappeared a few years ago. We thought they'd all been hunt—" The ta-twills chime much louder, and I look up.
There he sits, feathers ruffled and wings slightly extended as though he's not yet sure if he wants to take off or settle down. The little bird is mostly white, only a few red feathers gracing his crown. His beak shines black with a red gloss, and bright golden eyes peer down at us curiously. Apparently deciding to get comfortable, he assumes a more restful stance on the branch.
"Oh, aren't you a beauty," I murmur, pulling out my journal to sketch him. The book's binding crinkles as I open it, and the bird cocks his head. I freeze.
He tears off the branch.
"No, no, no!" I shove the journal into my satchel and take off.
"Riveirre—" Cutting himself off, Sean growls and chases after me.
The snowfire darts through the treetops. Within seconds, the thick vegetation renders him invisible. I crash through the undergrowth, following his shrill warning cries. He whizzes back into view, then out again, cutting left and right, a flash of white, a flit of red, here, gone.
I follow him, pausing only when I have to listen. I run hard and fast, run until my legs are wobbly rubber, and then keep running, spurred on by the bird's calls.
My tired foot trips over a root, and I fly forward, chin slamming against the soil. My head rings as I catch my breath. The bird's cries drop off.
I lost him.
Regret sweeps through me, simultaneously hollow and filling. My cheek leans against the dirt, and my mother's voice scolds me. Pathetic, Eleaviara. It's just an animal. Get up; you're making a fool of yourself.
"Plan on lying there all day, Riveirre?"
I glance to see Sean jog up, panting as he joins me. I'm about to tell him to leave me be when I notice something more important in the branches above him.
Thirty feet up, the snowfire rests in a nest, his small, bobbing head pruning his feathers. Gently, I push up, sneaking beneath his tree and sliding my journal out again. I take more care opening it this time.
Sean must recognize my intent expression because he keeps quiet rather than popping off another snarky comment. I sketch the snowfire's picture, taking in every line, every feather, every color. Then I write down every note I can think of, from the surrounding vegetation to his nest materials to his preening behavior. I want to keep this moment.
Finally finished, I close my book. Almost as though the bird realizes his job is done, he calls out and flits away. I smile after him, bittersweetness tainting the curve of my lips.
Then again, perhaps not so bitter. After all, this little bird was forced out of its home as well, but it's survived. Maybe, somehow, I will too.
I slip my book into my bag. From canopy to ground, the world lingers in blissful silence. Even the deep booming laughter of the Traders is absent. We must have gone farther out than I thought.
I rise, turning to face Sean. "Which way's back?"
In return, he delivers a pained and irritated glare. "I thought you were paying attention to that."
"I was looking for the bird!" I defend, eyes wide. "What were you doing?"
Exasperated, he throws his hands up. "Well, I suppose making sure you weren't lost and alone."
My heart plunges. Looking back, I can barely even tell where I fell; beyond that, everything looks the same.
We're lost.
In the Outerlands.
I turn my face up, taking in the canopy of red leaves spread above us. A soft murmur escapes my lips. "What do we do now?"