The Continent (The Continent #1)(24)

With a furtive glance into the trees, I slip off my dress and wrap the heavy fabric around my torso. When it’s tied off, I pull my gown back on—in itself it provides little warmth, but should serve to conceal the bright yellow of the chute. Not that red is an inconspicuous color. I can only hope I am not like to draw the attention of any natives who might be about.

I shield my eyes and look toward the sun; it’s slipping down to my left, moving in a lazy arc toward the trees. My stomach twinges, and I head east. At least my boots are warm, and waterproof; thank heavens for Evangeline, who thought to make my birthday gift at least slightly practical, should I step foot out of doors on Ivanel. I must thank her when I return home. And I will make my way home.

I have found nothing. After two hours of trudging through the trees and snow and slush, I have found nothing to eat. There are rabbits hopping about everywhere, but I have no way to catch one, and I’m not even sure I would know how to kill an animal if it came to it. Thoughts of the silver tureens back at Ivanel, steaming with fresh vegetable soup, bring me almost to my knees.

The sky has become white overhead, obscuring the sun behind a thick haze of cloud cover. Soft, heavy snowflakes drift down before me, and I watch as two or three fall silently into my palm and dissolve into icy puddles. Defeated, I turn back toward the pod—if I venture out any farther, this new snowfall might conceal my footprints and leave me lost in the woods. I can stand the hunger, but I doubt I could survive the cold.

I’ve covered about half a mile when something catches my eye: a whisper of red, twenty feet away. I stop for a moment, my eyes fixed on the unexpected burst of color. Berries.

I dash toward the bush and fall to my knees, only vaguely aware of anything but the gnawing hunger in my belly. I yank on one of the smooth branches and several berries come free. The beautiful, ruby red marbles roll into my open palms, a few of them spilling onto the snow. I lift a handful to my lips, overcome by joy and relief—until I realize that I’m not at all sure which type of berries these might be.

I lower my hands and look closely at the tiny fruit in my palm. Are they clayberries, or snowthorn? What did Mr. Cloud say about how to tell the difference? One of the bushes has knobby branches, and the other smooth. But which has which kind?

My eyes dart to the bush—the branches are slick, without gnarls or knots. Clayberry, or snowthorn? My mind is in a fog, driven to distraction by cold and hunger and desperation. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

Think, Vaela. Which berries are these? What did he say?

It’s no use. I cannot remember.

And for the first time since the crash, I cry.

I cry for myself, because I am hungry and tired and cold, and because I fear I will die in this hateful place. I cry for my mother and father. I cry for Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, and for Aaden—Aaden, who kissed me, who spoke of a future together, who might have been here instead of me if not for my father—and for the steward. I cry for the pilot and the co-pilot, whom I never even met. I cry until my grief becomes quiet, and then I sit silently against the tree, too exhausted to move.

But I hear something—far off, to be sure, yet distinctive—a rhythmic hum, a steady whirring that I would recognize anywhere. There’s no mistaking it.

It’s a heli-plane.





CHAPTER 8





I’M ON MY FEET IN AN INSTANT. THE FOREST IS dense here, and the tiny patch of sky visible through the treetops reveals nothing, but I can hear the heli-plane. I stand perfectly still and listen.

The sound is coming from north of where I am now, I’m almost sure of it.

I sprint through the woods, conifer branches scratching at my hands and face as I force my way through the trees. A furious hope burns in my breast, a need to escape this place, to go home. I feel fresh tears on my face, hot and desperate.

Please, please, let them see me. Please let them take me away from here.

In the distance, the woods give way at last to a vast white field—I should be able to see the plane from there. I push through the deepening snow, my feet like blocks of stone caught in the soft white powder. I’m moving as quickly as I can, but my pace feels maddeningly slow. By the time I reach the clearing, I’m gasping for breath, my sides aching from exertion. The chalky white sky is in plain view now. I can still hear the whir of the engines—closer now than before—but the plane is nowhere in sight. Confused, breathless, I lean against the trunk of a bristly evergreen and try to orient myself. Where is the heli-plane?

A few feet into the clearing, just ahead of me, an Achelon is perched on a snow-dusted log; he tilts his head and sings his little birdsong: to-whill, to-whill. His eyes, black and shiny against his soft white face, are fixed on mine as he sings.

I turn back to the sky, searching. With the steep face of the mountains bordering the opposite side of the clearing, the sound of the plane seems at once near and distant. I’m disoriented, and the Achelon’s endless song is not helping.

“Hush!” I say irritably. “I can’t hear over your noise.”

As if in answer, the bird bobs his head a few times and sings another chorus. I glare at him, and almost incidentally, my gaze is drawn to a dark shape beyond his snowy perch—to a subtle hint of movement where there ought to be none.

I catch my breath, too frightened even to exhale.

Not a hundred yards away, at the far edge of the field, is a Topi warrior.