a voice that indicates he couldn’t care less whether my trip is good or not.
I am three steps away from the ticket office when I see the men. They are dressed the same as the ones who held Whit in the fire-Reading vision. And they are seated yards away from the loading ferry.
Slowly, I back up behind the edge of the ticket office, careful not to draw their attention. Once I’m out of sight, I poke my head out to watch them and am paralyzed by fear. They are checking out every passenger who gets on the boat. Carefully.
I reach automatically for my dogs. It takes a second for me to remember that I no longer have Beckett and Neruda for protection, and at that thought I’m struck breathless by grief. They couldn’t help against these men anyway, I tell myself, remembering the bloody masses of fur throughout our village. I suck the cold air into my lungs and accept the fact that from now on, I am truly on my own.
I peer into the mirrored window beside me. I look like an adolescent boy. It’s only when I speak that I give myself away. Even so, I wonder how quickly it will take these men to figure out that the adolescent boy boarding the ferry by himself is actually the girl they’re searching for. Not long, I think.
I remove the baseball cap and run my fingers through my spiky hair. It is short—really short—but it’s still black. And it’s not like I was able to change my height—I’m still five foot five and fine-boned. From where they’re sitting, they’ll be too far away to notice my eyes. But if they come within a few feet of me, they’re sure to see the starburst.
My neck muscles tense as my fear is replaced with anger. At myself. For being naive enough to believe that I could fool my pursuers with these weak attempts at a transformation.
Transformation. The word plants a seed of inspiration in my mind, which springs into a fully formed idea. I plunge my hand into the backpack and rummage around until my fingers touch a soft lump of fur. I pull it from the pack to see Whit’s rabbits’-feet amulet: one foot white and another brown, bound together by a thin copper wire. The snowshoe hare in its winter and summer incarnations. I think back to the day when he taught me about transformation.
“An animal that changes color with the season. Nature’s metamorphosis. Can you get any more magical than that?” Whit said as he instructed me to bind the two feet together. “Camouflage is one of nature’s most crafty defenses,” he continued. “A temporary form of metamorphosis. Watch what the Yara allows, Juneau.” And taking the rabbit feet between his fingers he suddenly—and startlingly—changed color. His skin turned a dark earthen color like the yurt around him, and his hair transformed from black to chestnut brown. Even his hazel eyes morphed into a deep chocolate color. Then, setting the furry amulet down on the table, he instantly changed back.
“This is the amulet I use when I camouflage the yurts from brigands. You’ll need to know how. Try it,” he said, handing me the amulet, and showed me how to use it by visualizing the rabbit’s seasonal transformation.
That is the only Conjuring I have done by myself. Whit demonstrated things for me but was waiting until I turned twenty and underwent the Rite before letting me Conjure on my own.
Whit had explained that because Conjuring actually has an effect on nature, unlike Reading, it shouldn’t be used lightly.
But now I have no choice. I have to try. I hold the furry amulet between my fingers and open myself to the Yara. As usual, I feel the tingling the second my mind taps into the stream of nature’s consciousness, and begin picturing a snowshoe hare in summer with rusty brown fur and mahogany eyes.
I speed time up, flashing through a few months, and watch the animal forage for soft flower buds in the browning tundra grasses. I watch its fur begin its transformation just before winter’s first snowfall, and soon its pelt is pure
I am three steps away from the ticket office when I see the men. They are dressed the same as the ones who held Whit in the fire-Reading vision. And they are seated yards away from the loading ferry.
Slowly, I back up behind the edge of the ticket office, careful not to draw their attention. Once I’m out of sight, I poke my head out to watch them and am paralyzed by fear. They are checking out every passenger who gets on the boat. Carefully.
I reach automatically for my dogs. It takes a second for me to remember that I no longer have Beckett and Neruda for protection, and at that thought I’m struck breathless by grief. They couldn’t help against these men anyway, I tell myself, remembering the bloody masses of fur throughout our village. I suck the cold air into my lungs and accept the fact that from now on, I am truly on my own.
I peer into the mirrored window beside me. I look like an adolescent boy. It’s only when I speak that I give myself away. Even so, I wonder how quickly it will take these men to figure out that the adolescent boy boarding the ferry by himself is actually the girl they’re searching for. Not long, I think.
I remove the baseball cap and run my fingers through my spiky hair. It is short—really short—but it’s still black. And it’s not like I was able to change my height—I’m still five foot five and fine-boned. From where they’re sitting, they’ll be too far away to notice my eyes. But if they come within a few feet of me, they’re sure to see the starburst.
My neck muscles tense as my fear is replaced with anger. At myself. For being naive enough to believe that I could fool my pursuers with these weak attempts at a transformation.
Transformation. The word plants a seed of inspiration in my mind, which springs into a fully formed idea. I plunge my hand into the backpack and rummage around until my fingers touch a soft lump of fur. I pull it from the pack to see Whit’s rabbits’-feet amulet: one foot white and another brown, bound together by a thin copper wire. The snowshoe hare in its winter and summer incarnations. I think back to the day when he taught me about transformation.
“An animal that changes color with the season. Nature’s metamorphosis. Can you get any more magical than that?” Whit said as he instructed me to bind the two feet together. “Camouflage is one of nature’s most crafty defenses,” he continued. “A temporary form of metamorphosis. Watch what the Yara allows, Juneau.” And taking the rabbit feet between his fingers he suddenly—and startlingly—changed color. His skin turned a dark earthen color like the yurt around him, and his hair transformed from black to chestnut brown. Even his hazel eyes morphed into a deep chocolate color. Then, setting the furry amulet down on the table, he instantly changed back.
“This is the amulet I use when I camouflage the yurts from brigands. You’ll need to know how. Try it,” he said, handing me the amulet, and showed me how to use it by visualizing the rabbit’s seasonal transformation.
That is the only Conjuring I have done by myself. Whit demonstrated things for me but was waiting until I turned twenty and underwent the Rite before letting me Conjure on my own.
Whit had explained that because Conjuring actually has an effect on nature, unlike Reading, it shouldn’t be used lightly.
But now I have no choice. I have to try. I hold the furry amulet between my fingers and open myself to the Yara. As usual, I feel the tingling the second my mind taps into the stream of nature’s consciousness, and begin picturing a snowshoe hare in summer with rusty brown fur and mahogany eyes.
I speed time up, flashing through a few months, and watch the animal forage for soft flower buds in the browning tundra grasses. I watch its fur begin its transformation just before winter’s first snowfall, and soon its pelt is pure
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