“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 gripped Winston’s frustrations, in a way 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.” Tory 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 had 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 worshipping 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 worshipping 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, 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 sometime.”
“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 iPod, 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 are 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 breast.”
Michael wouldn’t confirm that it was Okoya’s music that had shifted his mood, because he felt strange saying it aloud—as if the music was something he had to keep secret.
But with the music gone, his old frustrations and worries spilled in to fill the vacuum. Okoya seemed to know. “Your troubles will go away, you just need to take some action.”
“What do you think I should do?”
Okoya seemed to know the answer without thinking. “The thing you’ve been afraid to do,” he said.
The thing he was afraid to do . . . Michael knew what that was, but was he willful enough to take such a bold and brash action? “If I’m afraid to do it, then maybe I have a good reason.”
“Close your eyes,” Okoya said gently. “Think about the music I just played for you.” Michael closed his eyes, trying to recall the tune. He couldn’t remember the notes, but he did remember their effect on him.
“How did the
music make you feel?”
“Powerful,” answered Michael. “Invincible.”
“But you already are those things. The music can’t make you feel what’s not already there. It can only remind you of what you already know.” Then Okoya leaned close to Michael’s ear. So close that Michael could feel the moistness of his breath on the fine hairs deep in his ear canal. It was sensual, but in a very different way—as if Okoya was calling to something in Michael that was levels above eroticism. It touched not his libido, but his soul.
“You can have the music always, Michael,” Okoya whispered. “You may take it from me whenever you wish.”
Take it? thought Michael. He had always thought of music as something that was given, not taken. But Michael now sensed that Okoya’s music was not a passive thing—and that to listen to it took a supreme force of will. To seize it, to envelop it, and to drag it in through his ears. Yes, Okoya might play it, but its power was not in its playing, but in its taking.
Okoya left, but the power of the music remained with Michael. My music, thought Michael. It’s mine now, because I have taken it. And knowing that gave him the fortitude to seize more than just the music, but the moment, and to take that singular decisive action which he had so feared.
AND SO THAT NIGHT, while the rest of the Shards slept, Michael climbed the narrow winding steps to the Celestial Suite in the dark, counting each step as he went, like a countdown to ignition.