The Worthing Saga (59 page)

Elijah sat on the stone and looked out over the held. He remembered how the clouds had come when he called, how the rain had fallen when he ordered it, how it had killed when he demanded it. But it was impossible, for if that was true, then Elijah could command the sky, and if that was true, then Elijah had murdered Worthing Farm.

Three broken stalks near him caught his eye. He looked at the stalks and told them to be green. They didn't hear. He spoke out loud. “Live,” he said, but they didn't hear him. Then he imagined them green and thriving, wished them green, demanded that they live and as he watched, green streaked up the stalks and they straightened and stood tall and lived. Elijah reached down and touched one of them. It was real. It bent gently under his pressure. His power was real. His gift, even as his Grannam had said, his gift was a great thing, his gift was a terrible thing.

Elijah stood and stepped on the three plants he had caused to live, grinding them into the soil. He twisted and twisted until they were crushed and split and broken. Then he stopped and surveyed the farm for the last time.

I killed you, he said silently, because you would have killed me. Curse me if you will, I accept it, damn me to any suffering you want but I'll never come back here again.

There was a sound behind him and he whirled. At the edge of the forest, peering around a bush, stood the little boy, Big Peter's son. His blue eyes flashed and he smiled.

“They're looking for you at the inn,” the boy said.

Elijah remained silent, looking at the boy's eyes.

“Are you all right?”

In answer Elijah reached out his hand, and the boy took it. Elijah turned him so he could see the stone.

“There's writing on that stone,” Little Peter said.

Can you read it? Elijah asked silently.

“No,” said Little Peter. “Except that it says Worthing, like the inn.”

Elijah gripped the boy's shoulder so tightly that it hurt and the pain made the boy wince. “This is the speaking stone,” he told the boy. “This stone has power over anyone who has eyes like mine.”

Little Peter looked up into Elijah's eyes and realized that their eyes were alike. Elijah's hand on his shoulder began to tremble.

“There's a curse on us, Little Peter, because we have left the farm. But there's a worse curse even than that, and we carry it with us.”

“What kind of curse?” Little Peter whispered.

“You'll discover yours,” Elijah said, “as I discovered mine. When you do, destroy it. Tear it out of you.”

“Tear what?” Little Peter asked.

“Tear out your gift.” Then the hands on Peter's shoulder relaxed, and Little Peter slowly turned to face the tall man standing by him. Elijah's face was hard, and dark, and his blue eyes were half-closed. But a shudder passed over Elijah's body and a grimace passed across his face and even as Little Peter watched there was a great cracking sound and the speaking stone split half. Both halves tipped over and the writing was hidden in the weeds. The speaking stone was down.

Elijah ran his hand through his hair and opened his eyes wide again.

“I've broken the stone,” he said defiantly. “I've killed it.” But as they walked back through the forest on the way to Worthing Inn, Elijah knew that the curse was still on him, that he was being punished for his hate and his disobedience, that breaking the stone had only worsened his crime. He closed his eyes and wept empty tears of despair all the way home as Little Peter led him by the hand.

As for Little Peter, he clearly heard Elijah's grief and all that he silently said to himself: Peter did not wonder how he could hear words that Elijah's lips didn't speak. It was enough to hear, and understand, and fear, and lead this old man home.

In the darkness, Little Peter lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, at the broad beams that held the heavy straw thatch. Outside it was raining, which made a soft rustling sound in the straw many layers above. A warm breeze blew in his open window. It was heavy and misty with the rain. He could imagine the dusty road outside reaching up with a million wide-open mouths to drink it. The thought made him laugh.

He kicked his legs high and his light blanket flew. He lay down flat, and felt it settle coolly on each part of his tingling naked body, and watched the air pockets slowly collapse. He kicked again, and then again, but this time left his legs high in the air, and supported them by gripping his hips with his hands. The blanket settled into a tent high above him. Around the bottom it was a foot off the bed—he could see faint light coming in through the window. Suddenly a gust of wind blew rain in the room. He felt the cold spray, and when he let his legs down onto the bed it was damp and deliciously cold. The rain was beating steadily in the window now, and he lifted his eleven-year-old body off the bed, and reached out the window for the shutters.

The rain beat hard on his thin shoulders. When he had the shutters closed, he walked to the center of his room and shook like a dog. He was cold now. He ran and jumped on his bed, pulled the blanket over him, and immediately tossed it off again. It was soaking wet. Pouting, he got up, tossed it on the car, and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the small room.

No more blankets, of course. He would have to wear one of the woolen nightshirts, he supposed. His mother made him put one on before going to bed, but every night as soon as she left he took it off and lay naked under the covers. Even in winter. But to be naked
without
the covers would be tempting fate. What if his mother came in on him before he woke up? She'd be furious. Although she and Father often slept without clothes, on “those nights.” He laughed inside. If Mother knew that he had listened in on “those nights”— the first time he had stared at the ceiling, his shockingly blue eyes wide open, his fists clenched at his sides. Now he just listened calmly, taking turns hearing Mother and Father. If they knew that, he'd be thrashed. So they never would know. No one knew, except his friend Matthew, and he'll never tell, either. And, of course, the dark man in the cellar knew.

The dark man had been there the first time Little Peter listened. His father was talking softly to his mother in the kitchen. Peter was straining to hear, and suddenly something opened, and he could hear the great, burly man clearly. He could hear him even when his lips didn't move. Then he realized that he could hear his mother too and suddenly both were a hodgepodge in his mind. In a moment he had them sorted out, and realized that he wasn't hearing their words, he was hearing their thoughts. He plugged his ears and heard them just as well. He then listened to his cousin Guy, and his cousin John. They were very distinct, and their thoughts were so funny, he almost laughed aloud. He tried to listen to people who weren't in the room. That was harder, but he soon could hear every tenant in every room in his father's inn.

And then he had noticed the dark man, his uncle Elijah, sitting in a corner of the room, carving a small piece of wood. Elijah's brow was heavy, and his white hair made his sun-blackened skin seem even darker. Elijah had looked up then, and their eyes met. Peter was frightened of the dark man's blue eyes, so blue and deep. It was unnatural. Father had said that his, Little Peter's, eyes looked just like that, but Peter didn't believe him.

The dark man looked back down to his carving, and Peter listened to his mind. He heard a great storm, saw flashes of lightning, and was frightened. At that moment the dark man's mind clamped shut, Peter heard nothing, and looked up to see Elijah's blue eyes, now burning, look at each person in the room. And at last those terrible eyes fell on Little Peter, and rested there. Peter was frozen in that gaze, terrified. For a long time the dark man pinned him there, until Peter saw him savagely form the word
no
with his lips. And then he went back to his carving.

Since that time as Peter listened in the night, he had sometimes tentatively listened for the dark man who lived in a solitary room in the cellar. But always he heard nothing, could not find his strange uncle who could shut his mind. And when they met by chance in the house, the huge, dark man would stare down at him until Peter wasn't able to stop himself, and would run away. They never spoke, never acknowledged the other's existence in the house, but Peter watched every move the dark man made, and he knew the dark man watched him, too.

Once Peter had seen him in the yard, where the tombstones were: old Elijah had stood over the grave with the single word Deb marked on the stone. It was the grave where they had laid Elijah's wife within a month of their first coming to the inn. Little Peter couldn't understand why the dark man had a look of fury, instead of a look of grief. His uncle had stared heavenward, into the sky; and Little Peter felt a burning of hatred deep in his bowels, and he knew it came from Elijah. He had run away from him then, as always, but he never forgot that hot burning.

He hated his uncle Elijah. And tonight he had decided to kill him.

He felt a little warmer now that he was dry. He touched the blanket; it was still too wet to use. Never mind, he thought, I have a lot to do before I'll want to sleep.

Little Peter lay on the bed again, but this time without covers. He spread-eagled and gradually relaxed his body. He let his mind wander.

In the next room his father and mother were asleep. His father was having a dream in which he was flying through the air, and the ground was a brown ocean below him. Peter was tempted to follow his father's wanderings—but when he listened to dreams he often fell asleep. Mildly disappointed, he let his mind wander to the room where Guy and John slept. Guy, age twelve, was the only one home: John had been apprenticed to a carpenter in Switten a year ago and would come home only once a year. Guy himself would be going to Linkeree in the spring. But now Guy was busy forcing open the trunk where John was storing his belongings while he was gone. Peter almost laughed aloud. John had expected it, and had placed a large deer's head in the trunk, and nothing else. His real valuables were stored here, in Peters room, because John trusted him.

Sure enough, he heard Guy's reaction of consternation and shame at having been so fooled. He listened to Guy plan a revenge when John returned. Peter knew that Guy would soon forget; he always did.

Peter started listening outside the inn. Next door, in the stable, he heard old Billy Lee, the aging horse-boy, viciously cursing the master's favorite mare, for having bitten the horse-boy's apprentice that evening. At the same time he was firmly brushing it down, and now and then caressing its nose and patting its shoulder. For all that his words were angry, the only emotion Peter could hear in the old man was love for the great beast. But Billy Lee was through now, and as he left the horse, Peter's mind listened on through the town, chasing the idle dreams and conversations of his neighbors.

He woke up suddenly, cold and afraid. He had dozed off in his wanderings. Quickly he listened through the house. No one was awake yet. The sky was still dark, though the rain had stopped. He could still do it. Calming himself, he lay out flat again, and now he prepared to kill the dark man in the cellar.

He had discovered the power today. He had been walking through the weeds near the stable watching the rain clouds come in the dusk. He stumbled, and suddenly a swarm of wasps rose buzzing at his feet. He ran, but was stung several times. His arms and legs were swelling, his face hurt excruciatingly, but dominating the pain was a fierce anger. He saw one of the wasps hovering a few feet away, and instinctively he seized the whole of the insect's structure in his mind and then he mentally squeezed it, broke the fine muscles and ripped open the tiny brain. The wasp fumbled in mid-flight and was lost in the weeds.

Still furious, Peter had turned back to the buzzing horde at the site of the ruined nest. One by one, faster and faster, he destroyed them, and then, panting with the exertion, he walked over and looked at the twisted bodies strewn around the nest. A strange feeling washed over him. He shuddered, and a chill ran from his limbs to his head. He had killed them with his mind. He started to laugh, delighted in the realization of his power. And he turned, and saw the huge dark man watching him from his dapple stallion. He hadn't heard him ride up.

For a full minute their eyes had locked. And this time, his power still strong in him, Little Peter refused to give way to those heavy brows and the rinsing gaze. He stood—afraid but
standing
—until Elijah, expressionless, dismounted in one quick movement, rung on the reins, and led his horse smoothly around the corner of the stable.

Peter was drained, felt like a wrung-out rag. He turned away, and stepped into the wasps with a crunch. The pain of the wasp-stings returned and he stumbled to the wall of the house. It was then he thought of using his power to heal himself. He imagined his own body, held it in his mind, and began to smooth out the pain, to carry away the poison. In fifteen minutes not a trace remained of the swelling. He had never been stung.

His mind could heal and his mind could kill. Tonight he would kill the dark man as he slept in his shadowy cellar room. Slowly and carefully Little Peter pictured Elijah's body in his mind. Every detail must be perfect. He pictured him lying on his back, breathing slowly, his eyes shut, his mouth frowning.

Inside the great barrel chest Peter found the heart, pumping rhythmically. In Peter's mind the heart began to slow, to writhe, to twist out of shape. He made the lungs begin to collapse. He moved down to the liver, made it release bile into the blood. And now in Peter's mind the heart had stopped. He had done it.

Suddenly Peter flew straight up into the air and slammed into the beam above him. Then he was slammed down to the floor. His mind spun. He didn't know what was happening. He couldn't breathe from the force of the blows. He was lifted up again and held in midair. His back arched, farther, painfully arched until his heels touched his head. He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn't come. His body flew straight out, and he hit the wall, and fell crumpled to the floor.