Thief Of Souls ss-2

by Нил Шустерман

  At first Drew kept a notebook of all the wondrous things that occurred within the castle grounds, as well as a record of who had joined their numbers—but after the second day, he gave up the pad and paper in favor of a video camera, to journalize the days.

  But if anyone truly rose to the occasion, it was Okoya. With a quick mind and powerful spirit, he instantly became akin to a chief of staff. It was Okoya who kept track of the Happy Campers—organizing what they did, and when they did it—and when new recruits walked bleary-eyed out of the Gothic Study, with new leases on life, it was Okoya who led them away to be assimilated into the Great Repair that Dillon had begun.

  “They need to be debriefed,” Okoya had said. “I’d be happy to see to it personally.”

  And yet in spite of all of those responsibilities, Okoya made sure he had time to spend with each of the Shards. Plenty of time. As their personal confidant and advisor, Okoya was always there to ease their minds.

  ***

  “I admire you, Winston,” Okoya said. “You know so many things.”

  It was their fourth evening in the castle. Winston sat on his private balcony watching the sunset, and reading yet another of Mr. Hearst’s leather-bound volumes. Okoya had slipped in beside him without Winston no­ticing.

  “Yeah, I’m a regular encyclopedia,” he said, shrug­ging off the compliment.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Machiavelli,” answered Winston. “Personally, I think he’s full of himself.”

  Okoya ran a hand through his shiny hair; the wind lifted it, and cast it about his shoulders. “I’ll bet you could write things that would put them all to shame,” Okoya told Winston. “I’ll bet you could inspire millions. You could convince them to do anything—cultivate their minds in any direction you wanted them to grow.”

  “Flattery or truth?” Winston quipped.

  “I think you know.”

  The crimsons and cobalts of the sky were quickly fading to a rich violet, as the sun slipped below the horizon. Too dark to read by. Winston closed his book, and rubbed his eyes. It had been an exhausting day. They were getting better at their little medical triage sessions, but the Happy Campers had brought in almost forty people to repair today, most of them so badly injured it sapped all the Shards’ strength to do the job. Winston knew this was good work he was doing, but like so much of the information crammed into his brain, he failed to see how it fit into the larger picture. Even if they fixed the ills of ten thousand, in a world so large, it would make little difference. How could it stop this “great unraveling” Dillon was so fond of prophesizing? Dillon claimed to have it all worked out, but Winston suspected that, with all his skills of foresight and pat­tern recognition, Dillon was flying this one blind.

  “Don’t you think you could change the world with your gift of growth?” asked Okoya, whose face seemed more exotic than usual in the purple hues of the sky.

  “Maybe I could, and maybe I couldn’t. Anyway, I can’t see the point.” Winston folded his arms against the chilling night. He thought he’d have to explain him­self further, but Okoya nodded knowingly, and spoke in an intensely hushed voice.

  “All the world’s philosophy leaves you with more questions than answers, doesn’t it? And the more his­tory you read, the more you realize that no one truly learns from the past. You see math and science as proof of the many things we’ll never understand; and litera­ture as just a mirror of our own imperfections. You’ve broadened your vision . . . but lost your faith.”

  Winston stared at Okoya, not knowing if he should be stunned, frightened, or amused. Okoya had firmly pipped Winston’s frustrations, in away he couldn’t grip them himself. It occurred to Winston that Okoya had never really talked like a rural twenty-year-old. He was an enigma, and somehow that made Okoya thrill­ing to talk to. He wasn’t sure whether there was actual wisdom, or just showmanship in Okoya’s words, but they were comforting nonetheless.

  “Peace of mind is closer than you think, Winston.” It was then that Winston noticed the book clutched in Okoya’s hand by his side. The same book he had been reading since they had first joined company.

  “Haven’t you finished that yet?”

  “Each reading brings something new.” Okoya set the book on the edge of the iron railing before Winston, balancing it perfectly on the tip of a fleur-de-lis. It tee­tered in the breeze, swiveling slightly. Like a compass needle, Winston thought.

  “You should give it to Dillon,” Winston suggested. “If there’s anyone who needs a spiritual compass, it’s him.”

  “It’s beyond his comprehension,” said Okoya dismissively. “In fact, none of the others would grasp its subtle truths. None of them have the breadth of your perspective. Tell me honestly, Winston; do you really trust any of their decisions?”

  Winston found himself uncomfortable with the ques­tion. He always challenged Dillon, but that was his nature. Since their arrival, he had always presumed Dil­lon’s competence; that his perspective, as Okoya had put it, was broader than his own. But was there really any evidence of that?

  “Dillon sees things . . .” said Winston.

  “Dillon is unstable—and the others are not much better. Keep a close eye on them—never turn your back—and remember that trust is best left with your own wits, no one else’s.” Then Okoya leaned over, and whispered into Winston’s ear. “You are a great being. Don’t let the others take that away from you.”

  Okoya left as quickly and quietly as he had arrived, but the book remained, balanced on the spear tip of the iron rail. It seemed almost to float there, as if it had no substance, and the wind could lift it off the ledge, send­ing it spiraling into the sky. Winston sensed the book was not the only thing perched on the edge of a prec­ipice. He, too, was there, and if he leapt, would he fall or fly?

  “You are a great being,” Okoya had said. Winston had always been afraid to admit it—but why such fear? If the Almighty saw fit to make him closer to his own image than most anyone else on earth, why should he not accept that? And wasn’t false humility in the face of all he knew himself to be, a kind of arrogance in itself?

  If this book indeed contained wisdom that set him a plane apart from the other Shards, why not seize that as well?

  If I am great, then let me be great. With a power­ful lunge of will, Winston reached forward and took Okoya’s book into his hands. The volume felt warm and far heavier than it appeared. Winston cracked it open. Its pages were easy to read in the dim red light of dusk, as if it had its own crimson glow.

  The book was true to Okoya’s promise, and from the very first page, he was gripped. The words fell to­gether like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; the ideas put forth were filled with great insight and understanding. Answers to questions Winston never thought to ask— answers so perfect that they were beyond Winston’s ability to process . . . and so the words passed through his mind, and he forgot them instantly. Not a single thought could he remember. All he knew was that, what­ever he had read, it had fed him—satisfied his hunger for meaning in a way nothing else could.

  He went to bed that night remembering nothing of what he had read, but feeling his own wisdom; his pro­found growth and enlightenment from his great feast of words. It swelled inside him, bloating his thoughts, and he began to wonder why someone as important as himself had wasted so much time hiding what he was.

  ***

  Tory stole some time for herself, swimming laps in the chilly Neptune Pool. When she was done, the young woman assigned to her service—a former tour guide for the castle—wrapped her in a velvet robe, even be­fore she had fully stepped out of the water. Tory imag­ined this nameless girl, a cheerleader type, no older than twenty, had followed her back and forth by the side of the pool waiting for Tory to be done, as if Tory was now the central figure in this girl’s life. The girl fumbled with the robe, and its hem sopped in the pool as Tory tried to step out.

  “It’s all right,” Tory told her. “I can put on my own robe.” Tor
y slogged over to a lounge chair, removing the wet robe that was now keeping her more chilly than the air, and laid back to receive the sun. The girl, with nothing to do, stood there, conspicuously inactive, which was even more infuriating.

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the morning off?” prompted Tory. The girl quickly left, as if her freedom was an assignment. When she was gone, Tory closed her eyes, and cleared her mind, feeling the warmth of the sun. Tory hoped the sun would bring the hint of a tan to her skin, which sometimes seemed as smooth and pale as the Greco-Roman statues that stood around the Neptune Pool. Sitting there among the marble pil­lars and statuary, Tory could, for a moment, feel herself part of another place and time, somewhere, anywhere, far from Dillon and his mission.

  When she opened her eyes again, Okoya was sitting on the lounge beside her. “Mind if I join you in wor­shiping the sun?”

  “I’m sure the sun will be kinder to you than it is to me. Skin like mine burns to a crisp in minutes.” But then Tory added, “Of course, what do I have to worry about? With us around, melanomas don’t stand a chance.”

  “Perhaps the sun should be worshiping you,” sug­gested Okoya.

  There was a clattering of metal, and Tory turned to see the servant girl returning with a silver tea caddy stacked with enough lotions, potions, and oils to fill a small boutique.

  “I thought you’d like some skin creams,” she said.

  Tory turned to Okoya. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I once asked for some body lotion, and they raided the mall.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  The girl made an awkward gesture, something be­tween a bow and a curtsy, and scampered away.

  Tory turned her attention to her cuticles, pulling away the fraying skin. “I’m just not used to being served. It feels . . . unnatural.” And then Tory laughed. “Listen to me—who am I to talk about things being unnatural?”

  Okoya grabbed her hands, looking at her fingernails. “You have such beautiful hands. Why do you pick at them so?”

  Tory pulled her hands away. “Bad habit. There’s worse, I suppose.” Tory grabbed one of the various lotions on the tray, sniffed it, and began to spread it across her arms.

  “It smells nice,” commented Okoya. “In fact, you always smell nice. The others might not notice it, but I do.”

  “I could say the same about you. That cologne you always wear—what is it called?”

  Okoya shrugged. “The name escapes me.”

  “Maybe I could try it some time.”

  “If you like.”

  Tory smiled. For Tory, Okoya had become closer than any member of her family had ever been. Closer than her boyfriend in Miami, who had gone from putrid to pure before her eyes. Closer even than Winston, with whom she had come so far. Like the others, Tory had given up trying to figure out on which side of the gen­der line Okoya fell. Even now Tory couldn’t tell what was hiding under the loose shorts and colorful T-shirt Okoya wore. But that was all right, because it meant Okoya could be anything and everything. He could be a brother, when that was what Tory needed, or she could be a sister. Today Tory decided she needed a sister.

  “Do you bathe a lot?” Okoya asked, in a way that made it clear she already knew the answer.

  “You know what they say about cleanliness . . .”

  “Yes, but why would you need to?”

  Tory sighed. “I don’t know.” Tory figured it was all those years living under a layer of festering flesh, that made it impossible for her to feel entirely clean. The troll might be gone from beneath her bridge, but its memory lived on.

  Okoya reached into her pocket, pulling out the small crystalline bottle of cologne that rested there. She pulled the stopper and dabbed a tiny bit of the pale pink fluid on her neck. It vanished as it touched Okoya’s skin. Tory thought Okoya might offer some to her, but she didn’t.

  “Strange,” said Okoya, “that the Goddess of Purity can’t feel clean.”

  Tory had a good laugh at that one. Goddess of Pu­rity? Well sure, why not! The Neptune Pool seemed a place lofty enough for such a fantasy. She didn’t mind entertaining it for a moment or two.

  The wind shifted slightly, and Tory caught the scent of Okoya’s cologne. She breathed it in, feeling it deeply in her lungs and spirit, like a pungent aromatherapy.

  “I know in time, you’ll be able to feel . . . purged,” Okoya said. “But then again, perhaps it’s the world that needs purging—perhaps that’s what you’re feeling; the need to burn away the chaff, like a smelting furnace, leaving behind only that which is pure. After all, the world could do with some human purification.”

  Tory pushed herself up on her elbows, and turned toward Okoya, but the sun made her squint, and Okoya’s face was painted in dark silhouette. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “I mean that you’ve spent so much time turning your gift of purification inward—but there’s nothing left inside you to cleanse. . . . Still you keep searching—sensing impurity that’s no longer there; subjecting your­self to boxcars and ragged clothes, as if you had to.”

  Tory knew there was truth in Okoya’s words, but also knew that it was a dangerous truth.

  “If you want to ease your compulsion,” Okoya ad­vised, “then set your cleansing power free. Use it, the way it was meant to be used.”

  “I am using it.”

  Okoya waved her hand in disgust. “Dillon is squan­dering your talent. Using your insights and taking the credit. Didn’t you tell me that you were the one who made that leap of understanding, and figured out the truth about yourselves? That you were the Shards of the Scorpion Star?” Okoya stood and stretched, her stint at sun worship over. “You have a purity of in­sight,” she told Tory. “Protect it. Don’t let the others taint it.”

  And then Okoya left. It was only after she was gone, that Tory noticed the vial of cologne had been left be­hind on the lounge chair.

  When Tory turned, she saw the servant girl standing there once again, but this time Tory didn’t send her away with a self-conscious dismissal. Okoya was right. There was no need to be a Cinderella, dressed in rags, cowering in shame. The ball had begun, and it was high time she began dancing. Tory reached out and grabbed the vial of perfume, making it her own.

  “I’m tired of swimming in a cold pool,” she told the girl. “I’d like it heated.”

  “But . . . the Neptune Pool hasn’t been heated for fifty years,” the girl explained. “We’d have to build a whole new heating system.”

  “Then do it,” ordered Tory, as she dabbed the nape of her neck with the stopper. “You have until noon.”

  And when Tory swam again later that day, the water temperature of the pool was already rising.

  ***

  In the first days at the castle, Michael found himself avoiding Lourdes and her smothering affection. He felt like a hapless puppy caught in the grip of an overeager child, and would do anything to squirm away. And then there was Drew, who did not fawn the way Lourdes did, but still, Michael caught those secret glances that were an ever-present reminder of Drew’s attraction lin­gering just beneath the surface.

  There is something you can do about it, Michael kept telling himself—for there was more than one way to mend Drew’s broken heart, and end that attraction for­ever. But it gave Michael a shiver just thinking about it.

  It was Okoya who helped Michael gain a bead on the situation.

  During those first few days at the castle, Okoya shared with Michael ancient Hualapai tales, and Mi­chael shared with Okoya his music. He had even lent Okoya his Walkman, and it seemed Okoya had taken to the powerful rock tunes and jazz fusion with a pas­sion. In a way, it made Michael jealous—as if his music had suddenly abandoned him for another. But for Michael it seemed a fair exchange—for, since the mo­ment Michael arrived, Okoya had been there with a sensitive ear, always willing to listen; always ready to advise.

  Today, they sat together in the Assembly Room, Mi­chael sprawled out on one of the
many sofas, while Okoya sat at the piano, playing uninspired scales up and down the keyboard.

  “You feel things very deeply,” Okoya told Michael; “so deeply that the world around you becomes an echo of what you feel.” Okoya changed keys. “With feelings that powerful, why should it matter that you don’t feel love?”

  “Because what I feel more deeply than anything else is the hole where it ought to be.”

  “There’re other ways to fill yourself,” said Okoya.

  Michael closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, trying to wrestle down all those unresolved emo­tions. And then, in a few moments, he realized that Okoya’s music had changed. The monotonous scales had mutated into a grand rhapsody spilling forth from the piano. The music seemed charged with red-hot emotion. It wasn’t classical, it wasn’t Jazz or rock, but a synthesis of all three, and more. The music entered Michael, resonating within him to fill the gaping hol­low.

  “Why worry about love?” he heard Okoya say, but his voice sounded faint behind the swell of the music. “Why worry about something so unimportant, when you have the power to level mountains and subdue the spirit of millions? A power like yours could bring everyone in the world into line. That’s what Dillon wants, isn’t it? The world in order? Everything in con­trol? You’re the one to do it. Not Dillon.”

  The second Michael opened his eyes, the music stopped—and he was startled to find that Okoya was not at the piano. Michael could feel his heartbeat in the rims of his ears, as if the music had warmed them, and he had the strange, uncanny feeling that Okoya was standing right behind him, cupping his hands around Michael’s ears, as if his hands were a pair of head­phones, feeding him that wonderful music.

  Michael turned, to see that Okoya was behind him—but was peering out of the window.

  “The weather’s changed for the better,” Okoya said. “Music must truly have charms to soothe the savage beast.”