Freakling

by Lana Krumwiede

  Da shook his head. “You can’t play psiball without psi. Your partner will know you’re not using psi.”

  “No. I mean, yes, he does, but . . . see, he doesn’t have much psi, either,” he said, glossing over the fact that he, himself, had none. “So we decided to try this really weird thing where we only use a little psi to color the holes. It’s pretty klonky, but it works. Sort of.”

  “Psiball without psi?” Mam looked baffled. “What’s the point of that?”

  “The point is to show that we can do it. That you don’t need psi to be good at something. Besides, nothing in the rules actually says you have to use psi. With no psi, the strategies are completely different. We’re counting on the element of surprise. Because the other team will have no idea what we’re doing.” Taemon shrugged. “And it’s fun.”

  “Ridiculous,” Da said. “Safer to stay out of the psiball leagues altogether.” He drew another sip of coffee.

  Mam stopped her embroidery. “We should think carefully about this. On one hand, playing psiball will help you seem normal.”

  The unspoken statement was impossible to miss — he wasn’t normal. It pained him to hear his own mother say it, but he couldn’t argue. He would never be normal again.

  Da shook his head. “But playing psiball without psi isn’t normal. It’ll cause a stir, draw attention. You’d do better to —”

  A knock at the door ended the discussion.

  “Who . . . ?” Mam’s embroidery dropped to the table. “Good Earth, did they hear anything?”

  Da used psi to open the shutter just enough to look through the window. His face turned white. He looked at Mam with apology in his eyes as he opened the door.

  A man stood on the porch.

  Taemon knew exactly who he was.

  Elder Naseph, the high priest.

  “May I enter?” asked Elder Naseph. His tone made it clear there was only one way to answer that question.

  Mam lifted a trembling hand toward her neck.

  Da stepped aside silently, allowing the high priest to walk in, his chin lifted, eyes half closed, shoulders pulled back. He wore robes embroidered with intricate patterns and colors so bright Taemon had to squint to look at him. Woven into the fabric were hundreds of ornaments — beads, medallions, gems, pendants — tokens of religious status. Even his long beard jangled with trinkets.

  Taemon thought of all the times Da had warned of a haughty countenance. Here, standing in their living room, was haughtiness personified.

  Da turned to Taemon. “Excuse us please, son?”

  Taemon left the room. The door closed behind him, likely by Mam. He hurried to the furnace room in the basement. With any luck, he’d be able to hear something through the air vents. He stood under the large duct, where he knew the voices from the living room would carry.

  “— your son,” Elder Naseph said.

  “Which one?” asked Da.

  This evoked a soft chuckle from the old sage. “The eldest.”

  Taemon leaned against the cellar’s stone wall, listening for a scream, a gasp, the sound of Mam collapsing. He heard nothing.

  The next noise was the back door opening and slamming, along with Yens’s voice. “Mam! Da! Wait till — Oh. Hello, Elder Naseph. Good wishes.” His words were buttery smooth.

  “My son is not the True Son,” Da said calmly.

  “Perhaps not. But he shows great promise. Still, we will test him. Train him. A decision will be made.”

  “Da, please. It’s my duty. I want to do everything I can for the people.”

  “Nothing good will come of this, Yens. Can’t you see they’re just —?”

  “I’d be very cautious about how you finish that sentence, Brother Willjamen. Very cautious.” The high priest’s voice took on a threatening tone: “You would do well to remember that we have been watching both your sons. Today we leave one son with you. If you decide to challenge the authority of the church, we may decide not to be so generous.”

  Taemon thought he heard a gasp that must have come from Mam.

  Did the high priest know about Taemon’s condition? He must. And he was using it to control Da’s objections. Taemon sat on the floor and hugged his knees. Being powerless hadn’t erased the danger he posed to his family after all, only shifted it.

  “It’s the right thing, Da. I’m going.” Taemon heard excitement in Yens’s voice.

  And from Da, silence. Da, the Stone.

  The high priest told Yens he was not allowed to bring anything with him. Taemon thought he should stay downstairs until they called for him, but that never happened. By the time he decided to go upstairs anyway, Yens was gone.

  That night, Taemon pulled his copy of the scriptures from under his bed. He hadn’t read the True Son prophecies for a long time. What exactly did they say? Could it really be Yens?

  And the True Son shall be the blade that separates, and he shall sever the bonds that lash the burden of my people, for the True Son is the knife.

  Well, Yens was born under the day sign Knife, but there were only twenty day signs and everyone had to be born under one of them. There were plenty of other people born on Knife. And Taemon thought about something Da had told him and Yens long ago, when they were first learning scripture: in ancient texts, “he” or “man” or “son” was used to refer to men or women. The True Son could actually be a True Daughter, for all anyone knew.

  Taemon turned to another passage:

  He shall be born in the lineage of Nathan and shall bear the people into the next Sacred Cycle.

  Yens was a descendant of Nathan. But so was Mam, and her father before her, and back and back. There had to have been another Knife in there somewhere. What made the high priest so sure that the True Son was born now, in Yens’s time?

  He scanned down to the part of the verse that talked about the New Cycle.

  A cycle of peace. A cycle of knowledge. A cycle of deliverance. A cycle of new power. And the people shall be astounded by the great sign which shall begin the next age. Then shall the True Son enter the New Cycle through the North Gate.

  Interesting, but not very helpful. Da was right. There was no mention of when all this would happen. Which meant the high priest could decide when he wanted it to happen. And who he wanted it to be.

  It is for the Heart of the Earth to choose the True Son.

  Earth and Sky! That voice was in his head again. The one from after the accident, with Yens. This was dangerous. He had to get rid of it!

  Don’t talk to me, he thought as forcefully as he could.

  The Son who is worthy.

  I’m not listening.

  The Son who will do what is needful.

  “It’s my head, and I said get out!” He spoke out loud this time.

  Be it so. An impression of amusement flitted across his thoughts, and he felt the voice withdraw.

  “And stay out!” Taemon added for good measure.

  A few days later, Taemon raced home after school. No psi meant no lunch. He was starving. He dashed up the stairs to the refrigerator in his room, flipped the hidden latch he’d installed, and pulled out bread, a cheese bar, and some ginger water. He wolfed it down.

  “Slow down, Taemon. What’s the rush?” Mam stood in the doorway, her eyes turned away. She hated to see him eating with his hands.

  “Goin’ to Moke’s house.” Taemon swallowed. “Psiball practice.”

  Mam nodded. “I’ve been thinking about psiball, and you’re right. It’s important to keep up appearances. Your father . . . feels differently. But let me talk to him.”

  Keeping up appearances. Was that the only reason to play psiball? To Taemon it was something more, something to do with what Moke said about dealing with weakness. Something about living his own life. The words were hard to find, so he didn’t try. “Thanks, Mam.”

  “But Taemon, you have to be so careful. One slip and . . .” She sniffed and her mouth quivered. She smiled sadly.

  “I know, Mam. Believe me, I kn
ow.”

  She exhaled, relaxed her shoulders, steadied her voice. “Keep practicing. But no tournaments until Da agrees.”

  “Deal.” Taemon finished the last of the cheese and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Mam grimaced.

  “Oh . . . sorry.” Taemon used his shirtsleeve to wipe his mouth this time. He raced downstairs, out the door, and jogged the six blocks to Moke’s.

  When he got there, he saw the psiball stuck in the tree by the side of the house. Good. That was their signal that the practice session was on. At school that day, Moke hadn’t been sure if he’d have time to practice this afternoon, said his parents might need help at the crematorium. Taemon didn’t want to know what chores might need doing at the place where bodies were cremated. It gave him the tremblies.

  The gate in the backyard fence wasn’t locked, so Taemon let himself in. “Moke?”

  Only the birds called out in response.

  “Anyone?” Taemon walked over to the half-sphere and sat on the edge. All that hurrying and Moke wasn’t even here.

  He waited a few minutes. Was Moke coming or not? Maybe he had to work after all. Would’ve been nice if he’d remembered to take the ball out of the tree. Taemon decided to walk the five blocks to the crematorium. He could wait there just as easily as he could wait here. And at least he could find out whether the practice was on or off.

  The crematorium was an odd building. It looked something like a church in the front, with its stained-glass windows and wooden double doors. But it was boxy and squat, with none of the height and grandeur of a church. And it had chimneys in the back.

  The front door was ajar. Taemon leaned forward without looking in. “Hello? Moke?”

  Faint voices came from inside. Taemon forced himself to look. He’d never been inside, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. The front room looked well lit. Padded chairs lined the perimeter of the room, and paintings in pastel colors hung on the walls. It didn’t look so bad. Taemon ventured in.

  “Moke?” He didn’t think he should yell, so he tried as loud a whisper as he could manage. “Hoy, Moke!”

  He heard voices again. Was it Moke? He took a few tentative steps down the hallway on the left.

  “. . . due to the uniqueness of the situation.” That sounded like Elder Naseph. What was he doing here?

  “Our family has been running the crematorium for generations. This is clearly outside regulations.” The second voice belonged to Moke’s father.

  “The high priest requires it. You need no further explanation.”

  “So you’ll be taking both of these cadavers to the temple?”

  Cadavers as in bodies? Bodies as in dead? Taemon shuddered. Dead bodies had to be the most taboo thing in Deliverance. For good reason. Besides healers and midwives, no one was allowed to know what the inside of the body looked like. It was too much knowledge for a psi wielder. If you knew how the body worked, you might try using psi on the inside of the body. You could hurt someone like that — someone like your brother, who made you so mad you couldn’t stand it anymore.

  The front door clicked. Someone was in the waiting room. He’d rather not be caught eavesdropping. The voices came from a room on his left, so Taemon leaned on the nearest door to the right. It was locked.

  “There you are!” Taemon nearly jumped through the roof, but it was only Moke who came from the waiting room.

  “Don’t scare me like that.”

  Moke grinned. “A little jittery your first time in the crematorium? Can’t imagine why.”

  The voice from the room grew louder. “We will discuss this no further. The decision is made.”

  With a questioning look, Moke turned to Taemon and mouthed, “Who?”

  “Naseph,” Taemon whispered.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Moke whispered back. Taemon could not agree more. He was about to turn toward the front room when Moke used psi to open the door Taemon had been leaning against. They both stumbled into a dark, cool room.

  “We’ll wait here until they leave.”

  “Is it safe?” Taemon asked.

  Moke chuckled. “Yeah. Nobody’s allowed in here. This is where we keep the cadavers until the healers’ guild picks them up.”

  The answer sent chills across Taemon’s skin. “They were talking about taking cadavers to the temple.”

  “What? That can’t be right,” Moke whispered. “Only healers are allowed to have cadavers. You know, to train new healers.”

  “Your da seemed pretty upset,” Taemon said. “What would the high priest want with —?”

  Before he could finish the sentence, the door opened. Moke’s father and Elder Naseph stood in the doorway.

  Elder Naseph’s face hardened. “What sacrilege is this? Boys allowed to view cadavers?”

  Taemon looked over his shoulder. Light from the hallway spilled into the room and revealed two white sheets that covered whatever was lying on the tables. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was under the sheets, but Taemon refused to name it in his mind.

  Moke’s da shook his head and used psi to pull the boys into the hall. “This is my son and his friend. They are not allowed in there.”

  “Yet there they were. Do you understand how vital this is, Brother Daveen?” Elder Naseph’s face was red. The cords in his neck stood out. He was shaking enough to jingle his beard trinkets. “No one can have access to cadavers. This community’s safety depends on protecting the sacredness of the human body. If you can’t safeguard these bodies, someone else will take your place.”

  Moke’s father bowed his head. “I understand. I’ll be more careful.”

  Taemon and Moke tried to slink down the hallway, but Elder Naseph yanked them backward with psi. Taemon felt his chin being pressed upward, forcing him to look at the incensed priest.

  Elder Naseph turned to Moke first. “You I can overlook. After all, you will work here someday. But you!” Now the priest trained his angry glare on Taemon. “You could go to the asylum for this. Have you been there? Seen what the serum does?”

  Taemon shook his head. The serum was a drug that caused disorientation and delirium. It was given to dangerous criminals to make them unable to focus, unable to use psi.

  Taemon felt his collar tighten around his neck as the priest continued. “It’s not pleasant, I assure you. We’re watching you, boy. You are this close to experiencing the serum firsthand.” He held his manicured, bejeweled fingers in front of Taemon’s face.

  Taemon tried to nod, but the upward pressure on his chin allowed little more than a tiny bob. Maybe the elders didn’t know he was powerless after all. Otherwise, why would Elder Naseph threaten him with the serum? If there was anyone who didn’t need the serum, it was Taemon.

  As soon as he felt the priest’s psi withdraw, Taemon ran out the front door with Moke. They didn’t stop running until they reached Moke’s backyard, where they collapsed on the grass.

  Moke’s panting turned into laughter. “Did you see his face? I didn’t know nostrils could flare that wide.”

  “He was mad, all right,” Taemon said. They were watching him. How? Were people spying on him? His teachers? His neighbors? Moke? Skies, he hoped it wasn’t Moke. His stomach turned at the thought. All these plots and secrets and suspicions. When had life gotten so complicated?

  Moke imitated the priest’s nasaly voice: “‘It’ll be the serum for you!’ It was like he was scared of something.”

  “I don’t know what he has to be afraid of,” Taemon said. “But you can bet I’m never going back to that place again.”

  “Everybody goes to the crematorium eventually,” Moke said darkly. “What I want to know is why does the high priest want cadavers all of a sudden? It must be connected to training the True Son. Have you heard anything about Yens?”

  Taemon shook his head. “Nothing for sure. We’re not allowed to talk to him, though Uncle Fierre saw him with the priests and a group of seven or eight other kids. No one we knew.” The True So
n was the only thing anyone wanted to talk about. Rumors were flying, and Taemon didn’t know what to believe.

  Moke puffed up his chest. “Then maybe I still have a chance. I always thought he should pick me.”

  Taemon laughed and felt his tension ease. “Cha, right.”

  He could trust Moke. He had to.

  In the Sacred Cycle, Rain was a symbol of prosperity. It was prospering cats and dogs at the moment. Today was the Sabbath, and Taemon was going to church with his parents to bring an offering. Would the priests reveal what was going on at the temple? What would they say?

  When Taemon came downstairs, he saw Da carrying the offering box with his bare hands. Homegrown tomatoes, squash, peppers, and three generous measures of grain filled the box. He lugged it into the living room, set it by the door, stood up, and rubbed his back. “Feels good to do things without psi once in a while. Builds character, builds muscle, helps you remember that psi is a gift from the Heart of the Earth.”

  This was Da’s weekly speech about keeping the Sabbath. It used to be unlawful to use psi on the Sabbath day. But life without psi — even if just for a day — was inconvenient, difficult even, so everyone basically ignored that rule. Everyone except Da. His archaic Sabbath observance had always been a little embarrassing, but now it was the one bright day in each of Taemon’s dreary weeks, a short rest from the hard work of keeping up appearances.

  I don’t need that speech anymore, thought Taemon. I do without psi every day. But he didn’t say it. Mam and Da were anxious this morning, and he had no wish to make it worse.

  “I can carry it if you want,” Taemon said.

  “Go ahead,” Da said. “Take a turn. This is how my father took his offering to church, and my grandfather before that. See the worn handles on the box? That represents the Houser family’s tradition of devotion.” Da’s voice held the same passion, the same resolve, even under the pressure from the elders. Taemon had to wonder if Da was acting brave or foolish.

  Into the room walked Mam, who used psi to place her embroidered tablecloth on top of the vegetables, then arrange it just so. Then she turned to inspect Taemon.