With that, she grabbed her purse and pleaded, "Can you stay with Galadriel—just until I get back?"
"Of course," Olivia offered.
When she was gone, Bron accused, "You made her forget feeding the horses, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Is it always that quick?" he asked.
"Pulling a simple memory? Yes, it can be done easily. She was just holding the memory short term. But training someone can take a long time, especially when you have to lay down a whole new skill. For those who can do it at all, it takes hours." She came around Bron and closed the door to the room, for greater privacy, then turned off the lights. "Go ahead," Olivia urged, "do it."
Bron winced at the unfortunate choice of words, yet he yearned to see if he really did have this power. The suction cups on his fingertips hardened into little ridges. He cautiously laid the white rose on Galadriel's med tray, and he reached out to take her face in his hands.
Her skin looked smooth and as luminous as porcelain. He pulled her head so that she was staring up into his eyes, but Bron could see no change in her expression, no sign of recognition. Her pupils were pinpricks, gazing off into eternity, as if she could see beyond him, beyond the room, beyond the atmosphere into space where galaxies whirled like pinwheels and universes grew ancient.
Instinct took over. Bron fumbled for an instant, trying to figure out where to place his fingers, but then he reached under her eyebrows with each thumb, careful not to touch her eyeballs. His fingers fanned out around her skull, moistened by the thin glaze of Galadriel's sweat, until his pinkie touched just below her ear.
Galadriel let out a low moan, as if in pain.
Then Bron just stood, holding her cranium in his hands as if he might crush it, or perhaps carry it away for safe keeping. He studied the helpless girl and didn't know what to do.
"Is something supposed to happen?" Bron asked.
"Give her your gift," Olivia said. She studied his face. He didn't understand. She shook her head impatiently. "You have to will it into her."
"I don't feel anything," Bron admitted. "I don't think that it's working."
Olivia came and stood beside him, observing. "What are you thinking about right now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Olivia peered into his eyes. "Nothing at all?"
"Not really. I guess I'm just curious to see what happens."
"Nothingjust happens," Olivia explained. "You have to make it happen."
Bron glanced up to the clock on the wall. It read 5:23. He'd been standing there for two minutes.
"What are you feeling right now?" Olivia asked.
Bron shook his head, moistened his lips with his tongue. "Empty," he admitted.
"Don't you feel anything for her?" Olivia asked. "Warmth? Compassion? Lust? Even the tiniest bit? This isn't just a body that you're holding—it's a life. You're holding her life in your hands...."
Bron considered. "I feel... relieved," he admitted. "If she was aware and knew what was happening, she'd be screaming. Right now, it's like she's asleep."
"That's the opiates keeping her dazed," Olivia whispered. "Don't you want her to get better?"
"To tell the truth," he said solemnly, "I'm not sure."
At that instant, he saw a purple flash beneath his hands, and the heart monitor began to beep violently. Galadriel's back arched off the bed and she opened her mouth in a wordless scream.
Olivia launched herself across the table and shoved Bron backward, so that he fell against the door to the room's restroom. She shouted, "Stop it!"
"What?" Bron asked defensively.
"You were killing her!" Olivia whispered vehemently. "You can't do that: you can't put your fingers to someone's head and wish them harm, not unless you really want to do them harm!"
Bron stared in disbelief, shocked at the accusation. He felt confused, afraid that he'd fail. He felt guilty.
He hadn't meant to harm Galadriel. He'd just thought, I wish she had died.
Now that the damage was done, he didn't know how to undo it.
Everyone was always pushing him around. In the past few days, he'd been pulled a dozen directions at once. He snapped.
"I give up," he said. "I'm out of here!" He headed out the door, and Olivia was left standing in shock.
She rushed into the hall, grabbed his arm, and spun him around.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"I... can't do it," Bron said. "You want me to heal her, to wish her well, and I can't do that. It's a lie."
"We can't leave," Olivia said. "I promised her mother."
"That's right," Bron said,"you promised her mother!"
He turned to walk away. He wasn't sure where he would go. Certainly he wouldn't return to Olivia's house. He imagined walking to the freeway, standing on the on-ramp, and sticking out a thumb.
"Bron," she begged, "this is important!"
He knew that he couldn't do it. He'd never had a close relationship with anyone. He loved no one, least of all Galadriel.
He stood with his head tilted, jaw set, unwilling to move.
"Please," Olivia said. "When you look at Galadriel, you see a stupid teenager. When her mother looks at her, she's her only child. You want to play the guitar, have people think that you're great. But if you miss this chance, nothing else that you do in life will ever matter. You'll never. Be. Great."
He thought for a long minute. He was afraid of failing. He was afraid of Galadriel.
Deep in his heart, though, he realized that what worried him most was that Olivia might be right about him. What if he had been bred to be cold and cruel? What if his emptiness, his lack of compassion, was like... having an amputated leg, a missing limb?
Shouldn't I fight against it? he wondered. If someone tried to make me into a merciless killer, shouldn't I prove them wrong?
That bothered him more than anything.
He returned to Galadriel's bedside.
"Let me help," Olivia suggested.
Olivia stood at his back. Galadriel kept gasping, and now she trembled over the length of her body. At any moment, Bron expected a handful of doctors to rush in with a crash cart. He worried that Galadriel was having a heart attack, but when he looked up at the monitor, Galadriel's heart seemed to be beating evenly.
"Try it again," Olivia said. She tried to hide some of the disappointment in her voice, and even some of the fear. "Try it again, but think only warm feelings for her. You have to love her, wish her well, with your whole soul. It's like, it's like you have this fire in your chest, a burning ember, and you have to will it out of you, will it into her, so that she can feel its warmth. Do you think you can do that?"
"I'll try," Bron said. He calmed himself, drew a deep breath, reached down, and took Galadriel's face in his hands.
He shook his head, gritted his teeth. Her skin felt surprisingly cold and moist, reptilian. He recalled a snake that he'd found under a board when he was a kid—a big king snake the color of a rattler, as cold as rubber on a cool day.
"What are you thinking?" Olivia asked.
"I was thinking that she feels cold," Bron said. "Like a snake, when you pick it up in the winter. It's barely alive."
"What do you feel for her? Compassion?"
"Nothing," Bron admitted. "I don't like her."
"You don't know her well enough to make that decision," Olivia suggested. "You're afraid of her, and we tend to try to destroy people we fear. But what if there is a side to her that you haven't seen? She was trying to impress you by showing how wild and reckless she could be, but there's more to her than that. You could help her become a better person. If only she had a little more ambition, if only she could dream. It's our dreams that shape us, all of our hopes and desires...."
Bron closed his eyes, shut out the lights of the room, the sound.
"Dreams shape us," Olivia whispered. "We come into the world as infants, empty of purpose and thought, and someday a dream comes along and gives our life a direction, a purpose.
Everyone's dream is different. Some dream of loving, or being loved. Some dream of fame or glory. Others dream only of being of service to the world.
"Could you love this girl," Olivia asked, "if she found a purpose for life?"
He wondered at that. Right now, Galadriel's life was a waste, a bore. He wondered if he really could change that.
I don't have that kind of power, Bron thought.
"I feel like I'm just standing here," Bron whispered. "Nothing is happening."
Olivia sighed. "Here," she said. "Maybe I can help." She walked behind him and put her arms up over his shoulders, so that her hands touched his face. He felt her warmth as her body leaned into his back.
A memory flared.
Suddenly he was transported back in time. Bron found himself as a child, standing upon a bridge over a roaring river. He was cold, and shivering. His butt stung from the spanking that Mr. Golper had given him. A kitten meowed plaintively in its bag, floating in the river, as the current carried it downstream.
Mr. Golper pulled at Bron's hand, dragging him toward the car, but Bron fought and turned to see if his kitten was still alive.
Something changed. His memory of events seemed to twist.
Suddenly the bag sprang open, and the kitten's head popped up in the water. It meowed plaintively as it tried to swim to shore, the fur of its head looking slick and black. Its tiny white paws lashed at the waves.
Swim! Bron cried in his memory. You can do it!
Bron tried to stay for a moment, hoping that the kitten would escape.
Mr. Golper whirled in anger, lashing out at a willful child. "Come on!" he said. "Let's go. Live or die, that kitten is none of our affair."
But Bron wanted it to live. With his whole soul he cried out, "Boots! Come on!"
Mr. Golper jerked Bron's arm, pulled him away.
In his imagination, the kitten was swimming blindly against the current, borne downstream toward rocks and white rooster-tails of foam.
Something inside Bron broke.
A stone seemed to erupt from Bron's chest, as if it tore free. Bron staggered backward, winded, and stared at his chest, as if perhaps the Alien had burst out. He was in the hospital room, blinking.
Purple sparks lashed out of his hands, flashed and popped around Galadriel's head. She gasped, and her eyes flew wide. She let out a strangled cry and rose up for an instant, clutching at Bron. She grabbed his shirt, and then fainted.
Bron waited to make sure that she really was out, then Olivia invited, "Come, sit down."
He sat on the couch with her beside the bed, so exhausted he wasn't sure he could stand any longer. He bit his lip, brooding. For a long moment, he said nothing, then at last blurted, "You screwed with my memories!"
"Only a little," Olivia said.
"Could you have been any more obvious in your manipulation?"
"Not if I tried," Olivia said. "You still remember what really happened that day. I didn't take that away from you. I didn't try to insert new memories in your sleep. I only showed you a possibility, one that you had never imagined."
"What do you mean?"
"When you left the bridge," she tried to explain, "the bag was floating away. You've always believed that the kitten drowned, and perhaps it did. Probably, it did. But maybe it escaped. It could have fought its way free and climbed ashore downstream. It happens every day. Cats are surprisingly resilient. Even now it might be living with some family who loves it."
Bron fell silent, considering the possibility, and he remained quiet even after Marie Mercer returned.
They said goodbye, with Galadriel sleeping peacefully, her face pale and breathing slowed from sedatives.
Bron remained subdued as they drove toward home, with clouds growing black over the red mountains. He closed his eyes, weary to the bone.
He felt like that kitten, tossed into dangerous currents, bound by conventions and responsibilities. There was no solid earth beneath his feet, and he was beginning to feel desperate.
Perhaps he too could get free.
Chapter 16
Numerous Plans
"When you're a child, it seems that everyone has plans for your life but you. There comes a time when you must take control of your own destiny."
— Bron Jones
Olivia drove home from the hospital as Bron nodded off. By the time they had gone five miles, he was sound asleep. When they reached the house she roused him and offered to make him dinner, but Bron staggered from the car.
"That wore me out," he explained groggily.
Olivia fixed him with a measuring gaze. She'd never seen him like this. "It can be tiring," she admitted, though it had never made her that tired. "Go lie down. I'll bring you some dinner in an hour."
Bron went to his room. It was late enough so that Mike would be out taking his evening rounds. Olivia made hamburgers and fries. Outside, with the coming of the storm, the wind raged and the cottonwoods beside the house swayed. Here in the mountains, the clouds swept in low over the valley floor, and when lightning began to strike, it seemed to be right on top of her. In the clear mountain air, the thunder snarled and boomed as if it were meting out the judgments of god.
Mike went out to secure the barn. The cattle often went mad with fright in such storms and would huddle under the cottonwoods down by the creek. One bolt of lightning, a few years earlier, had killed nine head of cattle at once. It was a terrible loss, of course, but Olivia had learned something from it: all nine of those cattle were surprisingly tender.
Later she had heard from another farmer that electrocution caused the muscles to relax, and at some slaughterhouses, cattle were electrocuted in order to tenderize the meat.
Today, though, they didn't want a herd of tenderized calves, so Mike stood out back and called them into the barn.
She fixed dinner and let Bron sleep. Mike came from the fields and announced, "The calves are all in. Wisdom's Promise had her calf this afternoon—a sweet little heifer."
"Everything look okay?"
"The mother and calf are fine. They're in the birthing stall, under a heat lamp."
Suddenly blinding light flashed outside, followed by a boom that nearly took Olivia off her feet.
"Zeus is pissed," Mike said. He looked out the window, just as a web of light tore through the clouds. "What's Bron up to?"
"Napping," Olivia said. "He spent the night worrying about his first day at school—didn't get a lick of sleep."
Mike grumbled thoughtfully, stalked around the house, peering outside. "So how was Galadriel?"
"She was resting peacefully when we left," Olivia replied.
"Humph," Mike said. He mused for a moment, wondering what could have happened to the girl, but when he didn't come up with any new insights, he went into the living room and turned on a DVD of Braveheart. The storm raged outside.
Olivia finished dinner, then peeked into Bron's room.
He was lying in bed, face to the wall. It was the same pose that Galadriel had in the hospital. Olivia tried to chalk it up to coincidence, but she worried: Was this normal for a dream assassin? Would he get weary each time he used his powers, or had he given the girl too much?
And what was with the violet lights when he transferred? Other masaak gave off lights—pale blue, yellow, citrine, or even scarlet flames—but she'd never heard of anyone giving off violet flashes. It had been centuries since the world had seen a dream assassin, and she wondered if those colors only came to people like Bron.
She went back to the kitchen and puttered about the house until she realized that she was too worried about Bron to let him sleep anymore.
She cooked the fries and made up a hamburger, adding tomatoes and relish, ketchup and lettuce. She wondered if Bron would like it. Would he have preferred vegetable soup to fries? Would he have rather had peanut butter sandwiches than a hamburger?
I hardly know this boy, she realized. She loaded the plate, grabbed a cup of milk, and took it to his room.
Bron ha
dn't moved.
She went to his bed, sat on the edge, and poked him awake.
He rubbed his eyes and looked up. "What's going on?" he asked. He sounded concerned.
"It's time for dinner."
Bleary-eyed, he gazed at the food blankly. "Not hungry." He turned over to go back to sleep.
She grabbed his shoulder and pulled his face so that he looked toward her. "Bron, this is important: do you like hamburgers?"
He raised a brow, as if that was the strangest question in the world. "Yeah."
"Then," she begged, "eat this before it gets cold."
Bron sat up sleepily and began to eat.
"Are you really that tired?" she demanded.
"I'm sorry. I'll wake up in a bit."
She mussed his hair, went into the kitchen, and peered out the window. Summer storms in Utah usually didn't last long, dropping half an inch of rain in an hour or two, then passing on. This one looked as if it would hang around for a bit. There were nice puddles out in the driveway, and scattered droplets ruffled the puddles' surfaces. Gray skies loomed, and though the thunder had quieted, it grumbled in far places.
Olivia went to her cell phone, pulled Marie Mercer's number from her contact list, and punched in a call. Marie answered.
"Hi," Olivia said. "Sorry to disturb you. I was just worrying about Galadriel?"
"She's doing spectacular!" There were smiles in Marie's voice, but Marie was the kind of person who liked to hide bad news. Her family was always doing "wonderfully." She could have been standing in the driveway with a bear trap on her leg, and she'd have said that she felt wonderful.
"So she's awake now, and talking?" Olivia prodded.
"Oh, it's a miracle!" Marie exclaimed. "I've never seen her so effusive! She really wanted to thank Bron for that rose; it's so beautiful. The doctor was just here. He said he's never seen anything like it. He's thinking about releasing her."
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