by Terry Brooks
Unable to help himself, he burst out of the trees and rushed over to her. “How did you do that?”
She looked up, not as surprised as he would have expected. “You followed me, didn’t you? Even though I told you not to.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “I wanted to see what you were doing.”
“It’s my business.” She frowned. “You shouldn’t have come.”
He felt a surge of anger at her presumption. “But I did, so tell me.” He pointed at the tiny plant. “How come you can do that, and I can’t? You have to teach me!”
“I can’t. You don’t have the gift.”
“What gift? What are you talking about?”
“Magic.”
“You can do magic? Then you can teach me. If you can’t teach me the trick with the plant, then teach me something else.”
The frown deepened. “I can’t. That’s all I know how to do!”
Abruptly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “You teach me, Tarsha, or I’ll tell Mama about this!”
Tarsha paled. He had guessed right. Their mother didn’t know. “If I show you how I do it, you must promise not to tell her. Will you?”
“I don’t tell her lots of things.”
“All right. Sit down.”
He sat, legs crossed in front of him, leaning forward eagerly. She was only ten years old, but smart for her age. Teaching him would not be difficult.
“You have to sort of sing to it,” she said, pointing to the plant. “You think about what you want it to do when it is a seed, and you sing to it to make it obey. I only found out a few months ago that I could do it. That’s why I have been going off by myself—to discover what else I can do. There’s more, I think, but so far that’s all I’ve learned.”
“But you can teach me that much?”
“Not if you can’t do the singing right. It’s a sort of humming, a kind of…I don’t know. A kind of reaching-out. I can’t explain it.”
“But you have it and I don’t!” he complained.
She shushed him. “Not yet, maybe. But you are my brother. You might find out it’s hiding inside you. Do you want me to help you find out?”
He nodded eagerly. “Let’s try!”
They did so for almost an hour, but Tavo could not make anything happen. Eventually, he grew frustrated. She recognized the signs of his growing rage and hastened to calm him.
“Maybe it will just take a little longer for you to find it. I didn’t know I had it until it just happened one day. Maybe that’s what will happen to you. I can keep working with you, but you have to keep your promise. You have to keep this secret from Mama and Papa. You can’t tell them. At least until you find out you can do it, too.”
He had accepted her explanation and asked only that he be allowed to go with her while she practiced using the magic so he could practice with her. That way, he could better understand what it was like and how it might feel when he discovered it, too. They were still close then, still very private in their sibling relationship—less a part of the larger community and more a community of two. Tavo loved his sister enough that he understood the nature of his responsibility for her. He was protective of her in the way a brother often is of a younger sister. He adored her. And even when he was angriest, he knew he would never hurt her.
Because in those days, he had no doubt that she would always be there for him, and they would always be close.
—
But even with her efforts to help him, even with all her coaching and support, he was almost seventeen before the magic revealed itself. It happened all at once—unexpectedly, shockingly, just as Tarsha had told him it might. He was off by himself, not far from his house, playing inside a fort he had constructed of old tree branches, deadwood, and heavy stones, pretending at heroic conquests and daring deeds, his thoughts so far from the magic it would have been difficult to measure the distance. His sister was elsewhere, gone off to the village with her mother to shop. Two years had passed since Tarsha had told him for the first time about the magic, seemingly a lifetime ago. In all that time, no sign of the magic had appeared in him. Her own use had grown considerably, allowing her to change things of all sorts and even sometimes to make herself disappear into her surroundings. Her skills were raw and unschooled, and often she failed to make the magic obey her. But at least she had some use of it. He had none—and he was beginning to believe he never would.
Inside the fort, peering out at the forest and the animals and birds, he was practicing being a hunter, spying on game, choosing his target. He had a slingshot with him, his favorite weapon, and he was usually quite accurate with it. Sometimes it bothered him when he killed small creatures, but mostly he considered it necessary so that they would not overrun the forest. Where he had come up with the possibility of this happening he had no idea, but he was having many strange thoughts lately—increasingly dark and unpleasant, but at the same time rather intriguing.
Upon spying a squirrel not too many yards from where he lay concealed, he shifted his position within the fort so that he was aligned with his target while staying hidden, sighted through the Y of his sling, and released a smooth, round stone.
And missed.
The squirrel shot away and was gone.
He tried again a few minutes later with a bird. Same result. He began to grow angry with his inability to do something he had done so often before—and without any problem. He got to his knees, settled himself in place, and waited. The minutes slipped away and he grew impatient as well as angry.
Then a raven landed close by, and he knew he had his target marked and readied himself. This time he would not miss. Deep breath, steady hands, and release!
The stone caromed off a patch of bare earth a good two feet from where the raven strutted.
Another miss.
He lost all control of himself, leaping to his feet within his enclosure, screaming and howling, stamping his feet and swinging his arms like windmills, so furious he was shaking with rage. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to destroy everything!
And all at once everything seemed to explode from inside him. He felt it rise into his throat and exit through his open mouth like a giant wind. The fort he had built flew apart, pieces of it spinning off in all directions. It shocked him so greatly that he went silent and motionless. The fort was leveled, and he was left standing amid the wreckage, staring into the trees beyond—now emptied of animals and birds alike.
But immediately, he knew. He felt a mix of satisfaction and fear, because he now wasn’t quite sure what to do with this thing he had wanted so much. How could he manage something that could be triggered so spontaneously? How could he find a way to make it do what he wanted?
He spent the remainder of that day trying to find out but was mostly unsuccessful. Either the magic refused to respond or it refused to do what he asked of it. By sunset he was so frustrated he was using what power he could manage simply to destroy things—trees and shrubs, small animals that wandered into view, birds that foolishly tried to fly overhead. He went home dismayed and disgruntled, but eager to tell Tarsha.
It should have gotten easier after that. Tarsha should have been able to teach him how to control the magic, how to make it do what he wanted. But for some reason, she couldn’t seem to find a way to explain it so that he could understand. She told him what to do, how to do it, what it would feel like, and how to keep the magic from breaking free. She had him practice using his powers over and over again, out in the forest, away from everyone. But he struggled with everything he tried, the magic elusive and stubborn, his efforts repeatedly falling short. He worked so hard, but nothing helped.
In the end, she told him it would take time for the magic to settle within him. His gift was incredibly powerful, and he was still very new to it. In time, he would learn to command it better. He would just have to wait.
But Tavo Kaynin was not patient and never would be. He was reckless and wild and infuriated by his failures.
He never quit trying to do as Tarsha told him, and after a time he gained a measure of control—but never like the control Tarsha had mastered, and never to a point where he could feel comfortable with using it. It was odd, but the only times he felt comfortable were when the magic broke free of its own accord, spiraling out of him like fire fed with accelerant, hot and raw. The destruction was terrible, but it eased his pain and sense of failure.
After a time—months after his discovery of the magic within him and while he was still struggling to come to terms with it—he began to actively court these spontaneous releases, encouraging them with his wild, irrational behavior. Tarsha warned him against doing this, but what did she know of his suffering? She meant well, but no one could understand what it was like to try to fight back against the dominating influence of such power. There was no escaping what it did to him when he repressed it, how it diminished his sense of self, how it scrambled his thoughts and preyed on his mind.
Eventually, his parents discovered the presence of the magic within their children and tried to stop them from using it, but they were woefully inadequate to the task—at least where Tavo was concerned. Tarsha pretty much did as they asked and used the magic only sparingly. But Tavo was less controlled, more susceptible to his anger. His use of the magic became wilder and more destructive. Property damage became rampant in the village of Backing Fell. Other children who taunted him into fits of rage found themselves mysteriously cast away by sudden winds. One of those children—a boy who bullied Tavo relentlessly—mysteriously went missing and was never found again.
—
Tarsha Kaynin could remember the exact day when they took her brother away. It was two days after her thirteenth birthday, one her brother had helped her celebrate in the family home with their parents. Tavo was being punished at the time, but Tarsha made her parents promise they would release him from his room where he was serving out a five-day disciplinary sentence for killing a neighbor’s cow.
Even with all the guidance and encouragement she had given him, even though he knew what would happen if things went wrong, events like this continued to occur. It was as if he couldn’t help himself.
“Listen, Tarsha,” he’d told her. “These are things I have to do, even if they go wrong. I need to find out what is happening to me. Why can’t I control this like you do? It’s so easy for you, but for me it is like pulling out my fingernails. I’ll try my best; you know I will.”
He always tried his best—or so he claimed. It was just that his best was never enough.
So he had used his gift—yet again, in spite of her repeated warnings—and the effort had failed and the cow had died. It was just a cow, he had argued as his parents locked him in his room and left him there. What difference did it make? No one cared about a cow.
But Tarsha did. She loved saggy-bellied old Bella with her whiskered face and her big dark eyes, and she cried when she was gone. She loved the way Bella had followed her around the field like a puppy when she went to help care for the old cow’s new calves. She loved how Bella nuzzled her with her soft nose. She was sorry for her brother, but he should have known better. He shouldn’t be so stubborn. Her parents, however, had gone way beyond the limits of their patience. For them, it was the last straw. They had put up with their son for as long as they could. The neighbors hated him. The people of Backing Fell hated him. If he’d had any friends, they would have hated him, too. He didn’t know how to win people over, to make them like him, even a little. No small part of this was his fault. But he would blame others, of course, as he always did, saying they picked on him, made fun of him, played nasty tricks on him, and sometimes hurt him, so that was why he hurt them back.
But she knew better. He did it because he wanted to see if he could. Just as he did with Bella.
So, two days after her birthday, her parents made the decision to send him to his uncle—his father’s brother—who lived ten miles south on a small farm. There he was to remain until he had outgrown his dark proclivities and learned to manage both his temper and his gift. His uncle would let them know when he was beginning to come around and become the young man he was supposed to be. His uncle would tell them when he had ceased to misbehave.
In the meantime, he would not be allowed to use his gift for any reason. He would remain on his uncle’s farm and do the work he was given. He would see them now and again, but he was not to come home on his own.
Tarsha was still young then and not fully aware of all that had happened because of Tavo’s foolish acts. She knew of some of what he had done, but some her parents had kept hidden from her. She knew enough, however, to understand that everyone was afraid of Tavo—especially her parents—and letting him continue to live with them in the family home was no longer an option.
Nevertheless, she begged them not to send him away. She cried and wailed and pleaded and demanded, but nothing would change their minds.
Later that same night, Tavo came into her bedroom and sat at her bedside and told her not to worry. Sending him away was not going to mean they would never see each other again. It did not mean they wouldn’t continue to be each other’s best friend. He would serve out his time on the farm and come home again. He would show them that it didn’t matter what they did to him; he could endure any punishment and still be strong. He wouldn’t stop using his gift, either. He would not let his uncle know, but he would keep using it. And he would be careful, just as she had told him.
“No, Tavo, no,” she had pleaded. “Don’t do it. Don’t take the risk. Please don’t use the magic without me there to help you!”
But he talked right over her, repeating himself. He kept saying the same thing, over and over.
He would show them. He would show them.
When he left, she was afraid she would never see him again, that he would never return to her. And eventually, she decided to do something about it.
THREE
Tarsha waited two whole years before taking action. She had asked her parents repeatedly when Tavo was coming home, ever since the day he had been taken away to live with his uncle, but their responses were always the same.
“It’s too early for a visit, Tarsha.”
“He needs time to adjust to his new life.”
“We don’t want to interrupt his rehabilitation.”
“We have to be patient.”
By the time she was fifteen, she was done with being patient. Only seeing her brother again could reassure her that he was all right. There had been no communication between them, even though she had written him notes, which her father had promised he would deliver. But Tavo had never replied.
So now she would go see him on her own. She had no other choice.
It was a big undertaking for a fifteen-year-old girl. But her entire life had been a big undertaking, right from her birth, when she had emerged almost two months early from her mother’s womb weighing a little more than three pounds. She should have died. That’s what everyone told her later. She shouldn’t have survived such an early birth in such a small body. But it was clear from the first that she was no ordinary child. She was tough and resilient, and she gained weight as she grew and fought off childhood illnesses and even recovered from the bite of a neighbor’s dog that tore a chunk from her leg. She worked hard from an early age because she had to; her parents were poor and struggling with her brother. She endured beatings and advances from older boys and a few girls; she taught herself to read and write when no one else had the time; she learned to ride horses and plow fields and harvest crops; and she tended to both parents on numerous occasions when they became too sick to tend to themselves.
Her looks were striking, and not in the usual ways. She was pretty enough but not especially so. She was more exotic than beautiful, with a complexion pale as fresh cream and hair so blond it was almost white. Her eyes were a strange lavender color. She was narrow-featured, with prominent cheekbones and a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. When she laughed, the sound was bol
d and lusty and seemed as if it should belong to an older person.
At fifteen, she knew little of the larger world, but she was capable enough, in her judgment, to make the daylong journey to her uncle’s farm. She would have to walk it because she had no other means of transportation. She would have to make up a story, too—one to explain where she was going without being entirely honest about it. To her friend Albaleen’s home in the nearby village of Quenn Ridge, perhaps. She would have to cover her tracks and make certain she was back by the following day. Eventually, her parents would find out what she had done, but she hoped they would understand her reasons and not punish her for her deception.
But if punish her they did, she would accept it and not feel regret for doing something she felt so strongly about. She was not the kind to back away from a challenge.
However, her plans went wrong almost from the start. When she told her parents she was going to spend the night with Albaleen, her father insisted on driving her there in the cart. At fifteen, he said, she was too young to be out on the road alone. Young girls at that age were far too vulnerable to men whose moral principles had been abandoned long ago. She wasn’t sure she understood exactly, but she got the gist of it. So she chose to reveal the real reason for her journey, trusting that her father would understand and help her. She was mistaken. He told her flatly she would not be going—not then, and not until Tavo was better. And nothing she said after did anything to change his mind.
“You are a young girl with no real understanding of the problems of the world, let alone your brother’s,” her father said.
“Papa, I am almost grown! I have the use of magic. It can protect me against anything I might encounter. It is important that I see Tavo!”