Home is a thousand small details. The feel of plowed roads beneath my feet. The gardens protected against moose. The smell of the air when the snow clears. The brilliant colors in the night sky. The stars see everything, and I wish I could ask them my questions, but I know they won’t answer.
Sam leans back on his elbows and stares up. “We get so used to these skies. It’s easy to forget how beautiful and terrifying they are.”
“Terrifying? Does the scale scare you?”
He shrugs. “The emptiness, mainly.”
“But the heavens aren’t empty,” I say. “They’re endless. We live in this tiny corner of the universe, up against impossible odds. And yet, here we are. We’re made of stardust. We’re supernovas. We’re entire constellations. That comforts me.”
And when the first flames light up the sky, something inside me unclenches. And I smile.
Home is awe and wonder.
Home is the aurora borealis.
? ? ?
One Year Before
“People have told stories about the stars since the dawn of time.” Kyra wrapped her arms around her knees and kept her eyes trained on the heavens. “They told stories to make sense of these lights in the sky and of the shapes they made.”
I lay back to take in the northern lights. With the warmth of enough blankets, the soft snow was surprisingly comfortable. I rested my head on my arms and stared at the spectacle above us. The aurora was red tonight. “We told stories before we knew better. We have science now. The constellations. The colors. We know now that what we’re seeing is excited oxygen atoms.”
“Excited? Are the atoms really excited? Maybe they’re terrified,” Kyra said, challenge in her voice. “Science is a form of storytelling too.”
Two could play that game. “Excited is a technical term. When the sun’s electrons hit Earth’s atmosphere, they hit atoms. Depending on the type of atom and the altitude, the color changes. Excited oxygen at a high altitude appears red, but auroras that are entirely red are quite rare.”
“Aren’t red skies a harbinger of doom? I’m sure I read that somewhere.”
I glare at her. “At a lower altitude, excited oxygen gives off a green glow—which also happens to be far more visible.”
“Hm, let’s see… Green skies must be a sign of prosperity. Or tornadoes.”
Kyra knew exactly where my buttons were and how to push them. “When you reach lower altitudes, the particles are less likely to hit oxygen atoms and more likely to hit nitrogen. Nitrogen turns blue or purple. That’s why the sky changes colors. It’s science, not fortune-telling.” I glared at her again, and I could feel her smile.
“It’s a veritable rainbow of colors.”
“Oh hush, you.” I rolled my eyes. “Four colors. Not at all an entire rainbow.”
“Poetic license.”
“Science.”
She didn’t respond immediately, but as hints of green started to appear amid the red in the sky, she continued. “In Norse mythology, the gods built a bridge between their realm and the mortal world. Bifr?st. A rainbow bridge. A burning rainbow bridge, according to some. What if this is what they meant?” She pointed to the arcing colors above us.
“Maybe it is, but you can’t walk on light,” I say. “Or breathe that high up in the atmosphere.”
Kyra laughed. “My point is, if there were a bridge between earth and heaven, wouldn’t it be magnificent?”
I relented. “Yes, it would.”
She nodded. “This is it, I think. Our bridge from this piece of frozen wilderness to the rest of the world. From here, we can go everywhere.”
? ? ?
As much as I know that the aurora borealis can be explained by science, I can’t help but feel some of the magic that Kyra always saw. And tonight, that is the reassurance, the bridge I need, to ask the question that has been burning inside me.
“Sam?” I keep my voice down and glance at him sideways. “Did anyone try to help Kyra escape?”
Sam seems at a loss for words and, for a moment, he is the quiet boy I remember.
Then he shakes his head. “I wish we’d tried, but Kyra’s father never would have let us. We all knew that Kyra’s death was foretold.”
Day Five
The Smell of Changing Weather
Nine Months Before
“Close your eyes and clear your mind,” Kyra told me. We sat on the steps of the spa. She had her arms wrapped around me as I leaned into her, and around us, the landscape was frosted, but we were warm.
I closed my eyes and focused on Kyra’s presence. It had been a good day, but she was becoming restless again.
“Breathe in, slowly.”
The smell of snow and ice was crisp, cold, and unyielding.
“Can you smell the difference?”
I tried again, then shook my head. “Do you think it’ll storm again?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t know what you want me to notice,” I said and tilted my head to look at her. “The air smells the same as it has all winter.”
“There’s an earthiness beneath the frost,” she said with a hint of impatience. “It wasn’t here a week ago, and it’s getting stronger.”
She pulled away from me and got to her feet, then started to walk toward the hot springs.
These were once natural springs, but when the spa was built, the swimming area was plated with concrete, which had gone green with age. It looked like an old swimming pool under a cover of mist.
In years past, the hot springs were said to be a source of natural healing, but few people used them these days—certainly not the people of Lost. The spa looked too dilapidated, although in the summer months, a few backpackers would occasionally set up camp nearby to take advantage of the springs.
I joined Kyra at the edge, looking out over the misting water. “Can you smell it here?” she asked.
“I can hardly smell anything but rotten eggs.”
Kyra turned to me and instead of the frown I expected, she was smiling, radiantly. “It’s the smell of hope, Cor. It’s the smell of earth and sunlight and life. The rivers will break up soon.”
I stared at her. Breakup was the dawn of spring, the time when the ice on the rivers started showing cracks, when the snow melted, and when, for a while, Lost turned into the muddiest mess on earth. But spring was still weeks away.
I must have looked dubious, because she shrugged. “They will. The weather is changing. The birds are returning. I’ve seen buds in the trees. Spring is everywhere.”
I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed tightly. “You know I always believe you.”
“But?” She always heard the words I didn’t speak.
I looked out over the springs again. We’d planned to go camping here this summer, before Mom decided to upend our lives and accept the job in Winnipeg. Spring may have been a sign of hope for Kyra, but I wanted to cling to winter, to here, to home, a little bit longer.
“It’s too early in the year. The temperature is freezing. We barely have any daylight yet. I would love for spring to arrive, but we’ve never had such a short winter.”
Kyra didn’t seem fazed. “It’ll happen. I promise you, it will,” she said. “Trust me.”
I nodded.
Two days later, the rivers broke up.
Understanding Dawns
Without my phone, I don’t know what time it is. Without daylight, it’s even harder to tell. Bleary-eyed, I reach for my makeshift pillow and cling to it. It’s morning. At least, I think it’s morning. I replay what happened last night. Friendship. A fragile sort of community. And the drama of the night sky.
I slept. Not enough to make up for all the nights without rest, but enough to make me feel halfway human again, enough to make me feel more at ease.
I switch on the bedside lamp, and the calm I’d found shatters. The sleeping bag is covered with pink salmonberry blossoms. I scramble out of bed to put distance between me and them. These flowers weren’t here last night. Someone spread them on top of me while I was sleeping, and I didn’t even notice. Sam? Roshan?