Nightfall - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jake Halpern (www.jakehalpern.com) is an acclaimed journalist, author, and radio producer who has written for several publications including The New Yorker and The New York Times Magazine.  As a contributor at NPR, Jake produced one of the most listened-to episodes of This American Life. He co-wrote the Dormia series with Peter Kujawinski and is the author of Bad Paper, a nonfiction book for adults. Follow him on Twitter @JakeHalpern.

For eighteen years, Peter Kujawinski (www.peterkujawinski.com) was an American diplomat, on assignment in places like Israel, Haiti and France and at the United Nations in New York.  Most recently, he was the U.S. Consul General in western Canada, which included Alberta, Saskatchewan and the Northwest Territories.  While working as a diplomat, he started to write for adults and children.  He has contributed to the international edition of the New York Times, and with co-author Jake Halpern, Peter wrote the Dormia trilogy (Dormia, World's End and Shadow Tree).  He lives in Chicago with his family. Follow him on Twitter @kujawinski.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2015 Jake Halpern and Peter Kujawinski

CHAPTER  1

MARIN WALKED INTO  THE WIND  AND  FELT IT  GENTLY   PUSH back. A few more steps and she’d be at the edge of the cliff. Her focus was on the thistle, the prickly green plants that crunched beneath her feet. What  would  happen to these  plants  during the  years  of Night?  Would  they  wither and  die,  or  would they simply lie dormant, waiting  for the first rays of sunlight to peek up from  the  horizon?  She had  asked  those  who  had been through this before, but they refused to discuss it. No one talked about the Night, even though it was almost upon them.

She stopped near the precipice. The water below was dark, almost black, and it stretched everywhere, like a liquid version of the sky. In the last year, as the sun had begun  its final de- scent, the water  had gone from blue-green to iridescent blue, and from there it grew steadily darker. A hint of its fluorescence remained, but now it provoked  a shiver instead of a smile.

Marin took a deep breath of the cold sea air. When  the sun vanished, it would get even colder. Everything would freeze—at least that’s what people at school said. In any case, by the time that happened, she’d be long gone, along with everyone  else in Bliss. Only the buildings  would  remain,  silent  and empty, en- tombed in ice.

The wind flung Marin’s wavy black hair into her face. She was  smaller  than  other  girls  her  age, but  she  was  stronger than most. Her arms and legs were long and well-muscled, the product of years spent  climbing,  hiking, and sailing. She had honey-colored eyes, long lashes,  and  bronze  skin—a striking combination, which she inherited from her mother. Her cloth- ing, however,  was plain and purely  functional: waxed  canvas pants, a raw denim shirt, and leather boots.

“Has the tide turned yet?”

Marin spun at the unexpected voice. She had been waiting for her friend Line, but instead she saw Palan—a frail man with paper-thin skin and a bald head marked  with brown sunspots. Palan had lived through several Mornings and his skin bore the proof. His cobalt-blue robe rippled in the wind, revealing a left arm that ended in a stump just above his wrist.

“I’m not sure about the tide,” Marin replied.  “What do you think?”

The old man faced Marin, his watery eyes looking past her, into the distance.  “This is my fourth  Evening,” he said quietly. He tightened the heavy wool scarf wrapped around his neck. “The sun seems to be moving faster and faster with the years.” Marin  followed  his gaze. The sun had almost  disappeared below the horizon.  Only a sliver remained visible. The entire western sky was ablaze  in magnificent shades  of orange  and red. A few degrees more and the sun would vanish completely, plunging  the island into darkness for the next fourteen years. They said this would happen soon, perhaps in a matter of days.

It sounded a bit like the end of the world to Marin, and she still found it hard to believe.

The wind blew gently and Palan sighed. “It saddens me that I will never see this place again. When I leave here—I expect I won’t return.”

Marin  reached out  and  touched his  arm.  The  old  man turned away from  the  sea, back toward  the  island’s interior, and grasped her hand. “I’ve heard movement in the forest,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” asked Marin, worried that Palan may have become lost in his mind.

Palan gripped her hand tighter but did not reply. A muffled shout rang in the distance.

“MARIN!”

They looked up and watched a teenage  boy moving toward them. It was Line. If Palan hadn’t been there,  she would have run to him, but now she just waved back.

When he arrived,  Line appeared slightly confused.  Palan studied  them both, arched  an eyebrow, and smiled.

Line’s dark brown  eyes twinkled as he approached Marin. He was handsome in the  way that  few boys of fourteen are. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with an unkempt shock of reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, and a cleft chin.

“Elder Palan,” said Line. “Any news of the boats?” A gust of wind pressed  his curly hair flat against his head.

Palan  straightened, as if the  use of the  honorific—Elder— reminded him  of his  role  and  station.  “Sorry,  my boy, I’ve heard nothing of the boats,” said Palan. “But I am not here for that. Come—I’ll show you.”

He  approached the  cliff ’s  edge  and  pointed   downward. Marin  and Line followed  close behind  him and peered over. The face of the cliff was shrouded in shadow,  but they could make out several thick white veins coming out of the cliff and running down its side, like a hardened trail of wax from a giant candle.

“It’s ice,” said Palan. It was colder at the edge of the cliff, and his shoulders began to tremble.  “My father  brought me to this place as a boy. The ice always begins here. It squeezes  out of the rock and then, they say, it spreads  . . . until it covers every- thing. The island turns to ice.”

Marin and Line stood close together, near Palan. Line’s fingers grazed Marin’s.

Palan leaned  over several inches  more. “Somewhere down there  is the hag.” His voice turned hoarse. “At times, when the waves break just right, you can see her.”

He took a step back from the cliff and smiled with great con- tentment, as if recalling a particularly fond memory. Marin and Line looked down at the water. It seemed no different than be- fore. Palan often spoke in riddles,  in the manner that those of such age do.

“I’d like to get a better  view of that ice,” said Line, taking off the coil of rope slung across his shoulder and pushing  up the sleeves of his sweater.  His forearms and biceps were  tan and muscled from years of rock climbing.

“As you wish,” said Palan. “But be careful. Ice is much slicker than rock.”

Suddenly  impatient, Marin  and  Line  said  good-bye.  As Palan  shuffled  back  to town,  Line  set  up  the  rope,  tying  it securely to a small brass ring jutting from the rock. Marin and Line had been climbing the cliffs that formed the island’s pe- rimeter their entire lives, and recently, it had been just the two of them.  Going off unchaperoned was frowned upon,  but at the moment,  the town was too consumed with other  matters to pay them any mind.

Just before beginning, they checked to make sure they were each  securely  fastened to  the  rope.  Marin  faced  Line.  She tucked a lock of hair behind  his ear so it didn’t dangle over his eyes. “You were  late,” she said, scowling  as if she were  cross with...