Me, Myself and Ike

K.L. Denman

Description

After watching a TV program about Otzi, a 5,000-year-old "Ice Man," Kit's friend Ike becomes convinced that Kit's destiny is to become the next ice man—a source of information for future generations. Together they obtain artifacts they think will accurately reflect life in the early twenty-first century and plan their journey to a nearby mountain. Kit gets tattoos similar to Otzi's, writes a manifesto and tries to come to terms with making the ultimate sacrifice. As he grows more and more agitated and isolated, his family and friends suspect that something is terribly wrong, but before they can discover the true severity of the situation, Kit and Ike set off on what could be their last journey.

Sujets

• Young Adult Fiction
• Adventure
• Action

Informations

• Publié par: Orca Book Publishers
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781554695065
• Langue: English

Extrait

ME, MySELf and iKE
ME, MySELf and iKE
K. L. DENMAN
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Text copyright 2009 K.L. Denman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Denman, K. L., 1957 - Me, myself and Ike / written by K.L. Denman.
ISBN 978-1-55469-086-2
1. Schizophrenia in adolescence--Juvenile fiction.
I. Title.
PS 8607 .E 64 M 4 2009 jC 813 . 6 C 2009-902805-0
First published in the United States, 2009
Library of Congress Control Number : 2009928211
Summary : Seventeen-year-old Kit is paranoid, confused and alone, but neither he nor his family and friends understand what is happening to him.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela Cover artwork by Getty Images Author photo by Hannah Denman
O RCA B OOK P UBLISHERS PO B OX 5626, S TN. B V ICTORIA , BC C ANADA V8R 6S4
O RCA B OOK P UBLISHERS PO B OX 468 C USTER , WA USA 98240-0468
www.orcabook.com Printed and bound in Canada. Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper
12 11 10 09 4 3 2 1
For the moon and the meadow, with love.
I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love .
WILLIAM BLAKE
CONTENTS
FIVE THOUSAND YEARS AGO
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
AUTHOR S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FIVE THOUSAND YEARS AGO
The men are weary. The light is fading. By now they should have arrived at their destination and delivered the copper ax. It s clear they ve gone astray, perhaps into enemy territory.
They make camp for the night, huddled in the lee of an overhanging rock. Their fire, which wards off both the mountain cold and the possibility of animal attack, is a calculated risk. Should hostile eyes happen to sweep over them, the smoke will betray their presence, but surely the blowing snow that has obscured the landmarks all day will conceal one small thread of rising smoke. Surely.
They eat quickly, sharing deer meat, flat bread and fruit, and then they notice that the rock above them, its silhouette stark against a star-strewn sky, resembles a fearsome beast. A bad omen. And yes, the treacherous snow has elected to depart, exposing their fire. They argue about dousing it, weigh again their conflicting needs. In the end, a small fire blazes on. Neither of them sleeps.
At first light they set out, plodding steadily on their snowshoes, heading for their home village. Delivery of the ax will have to wait. The stars have at least given them direction, the sun too in its rising. They keep their weapons in hand.
The attack, when it comes, is hardly a surprise. Their enemies are clumsy and overconfident as they attempt to encircle the pair. So noisy, so foolish. The travelers first arrows find their marks. So do the next. Perhaps they will escape? Hope flares, hot as breath, as they forge on, eyes darting among the trees for a glimpse of further threat. Have they won? Is it possible?
It is not. The air parts, hissing, and they are hit, one in the shoulder and the other in the arm. They do not fall. They let fly swift replies and now Now it is done. Incredible. The adrenaline rush of victory allows them to retrieve precious arrowheads, to nod admiration, one for the other. But when that rush has run its course, their wounds begin to speak of pain, of loss, of death.
No, not death. The one most sorely wounded still stands, and the other too. They lean together, share support and go on. How long they struggle forward, neither of them can say. Sweat runs from their brows, but it is as nothing compared to the running of blood.
They sink into the snow, and now they can see that the arrow to the arm was little more than a graze, a flesh wound, easily bound. But that one still lodged in the other s shoulder It is not good.
Hold steady now, and I will remove it. Lie down, says the one with the grazed arm.
The other lies down, bites hard on the flap of his bearskin hat. He does not cry out as the arrowhead grinds against bone, but a low groan escapes when he hears the shaft splinter free.
The arrowhead refuses to leave you. It is deep. There is much blood.
The man on the ground nods. After a moment, he says, You must go.
His companion shakes his head. No.
You must. No need for our tribe to lose two metal masters.
I will get help. We will come back for you.
It will be too late. Take the ax.
No. It is a token of my word that I will return. I leave it with you for safekeeping; its weight would burden me.
It is too valuable to leave behind. Take it.
But his companion does not.
The man on the ground reflects on his life. He doesn t believe he ll see his tribe again. He would like a proper burial, a ritual to secure his return. All of life returns, does it not? He feels his strength seeping away in steady throbs. He looks about and decides that this unfamiliar place will not do. He stands. Takes one step. Two. More. How many? It doesn t matter. He must find the proper resting place.
His gaze sweeps from side to side, and he sways, falls backward, feels only dimly the crunch of his skull on rock. Vision fades for a time but when it returns, so too does his compulsion, driving him upright once more. There is blood on the snow, and a shudder takes him; he must distance himself from that. He must. He staggers on, forcing step after step from his broken body, going until he can go no farther. His time has come. He looks about, salutes the holy earth, left hand to heart, and collapses, pitching forward. There is no more pain, no awareness of the avalanche that comes snarling to cover him in white so deep its marrow is black.
ONE
I pace the crumbling sidewalk in front of the old concrete building twice before I glance down the alley and see a sign jutting out. The faded slab of wood hangs crookedly, but the flaking paint says I ve found what I m looking for: Tony s Tattoos . I slip into the alley s dank shade and adjust the hood on my black sweatshirt, turtling into its depths as I push open the door.
I get a dim impression of clutter, stale cigarette smoke, ragged posters of tattoo designs papering the walls, but I don t look at these things. I focus on the guy huddled over the spotlighted flesh of a woman s bare thigh. He s wielding a tattoo gun with squinting concentration. He doesn t look up.
He says, Yeah?
The woman he s working on remains motionless, but her eyes probe mine and she mutters, Jeez. Do you mind?
I hadn t counted on there being any other customers in a crappy shop like this. I d pictured myself walking in, demanding my tattoo, getting it and getting out, just like that. I look at the walls and say, Maybe I ll come back later.
The guy, probably Tony, says, Almost done here. What ve ya got in mind, kid?
Kid? I start to lie, tell him I m no kid, I m plenty old enough to do this, but he asked what I wanted, didn t he? Maybe he won t ask for ID.
I ve got my design right here. I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket.
Briefly, Tony s eyes squeeze shut. Of course ya do. Doesn t everyone these days? Sure you don t want to take a look at my book? It s right there, on the counter. I do a nice serpent. Pretty nice skull too.
No thanks.
For the first time, he looks up. He s still squinting when he asks, Ya got cash? It s one twenty an hour.
I nod.
Okay, take a seat. Be with you in a few.
You re being careful, aren t you, Tony? the woman whines. You re not hurrying, are you?
Cupcake, I m just like a granny on ice. Don t worry. It s gonna be amazing.
She allows herself a small smile, then winces as the needle moves close to the bone. Good. This is for my latest guy, y know.
Yeah, yeah. Tony snorts. Gotta tell ya, Penny, I hope he goes the same way as the last one.
What? she screeches.
He chuckles. Relax. You and your guys-you re good for business.
Tony!
All right, all right. I hope you live happily ever after.
I tune them out. I pick up the book of designs and slump into a ratty chair in the corner. I start flipping through but barely register the roses, the ships, the hula girls, all the old-school stuff. Only one stands out: a white stag with intricate antlers crowning his head. The eyes of the stag are uncanny, almost life-like. It makes me pause. White stags are such powerful symbols of something.
My thoughts drift and settle on my conversation with Ike, the one that led to this. He had said, The Ice Man had tattoos. You re going to need some.
I said, Right. Like my folks are going to sign off on that one. Forget it.
You re such a freakin pussy, Kit, Ike said. You try hard enough, you ll find someone who ll do it. Or you could do it yourself, though I doubt you d have the balls for that.
Do it myself? Get real.
You think the Ice Man went to a tattoo parlor? Dudes have been doing their own tatts forever, man. Just like piercing. You don t need a pro for any of that shit. Bet you could go on the Net and find