The Indifferent Children of the Earth

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter 26, Monday 12 September

  I went home, showered, changed. Grateful for a shirt without leftover mulch, not sticky with sweat, I ran downstairs and snagged a quick dinner of leftovers—porkchop, mashed potatoes, greenbeans—out of the fridge. Mom was in the backyard of course, her spade rising and flashing in the sunset, the weapon of some long-forgotten crusader. I could hear Dad’s clattering keys, but there was a different rhythm to them now. Something I hadn’t heard before, a musicality to the rise and fall of invisible words.

  Olivia was in Arcadia today, helping with the exhibit, so I grabbed the phone and, after a quick thumb through the school phonebook, dialed Mike’s number.

  “Hello,” a hoarse voice answered. A woman.

  “Hi, is Mike there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Alex. Alex León.”

  A moment later I heard her scream Mike’s name. Long seconds of silence, and I realized my hands were sweaty and sliding on the receiver. What did I say? Hey? Hi? Hello? It’s me? The sudden flurry of possibilities left me tongue-tied.

  “Hello,” Mike’s voice slid onto the phone, that smooth-watered edge of deepness.

  I couldn’t get anything out.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey,” I blurted. “It’s me.”

  “Asa?” he said after a moment.

  I was glad he couldn’t see me through the phone; I felt red as a beet.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Alex.”

  “What’s up, Asa?” I could hear the insistence on my name, and a wave of irritation washed away my embarrassment.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” Too formal, too polite. I’d made a mistake somehow.

  “I mean, your back—how is it? Were you able to go to practice?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m free tonight. I was wondering if you wanted to come over. I could show you some stuff about quickening.” The words came out with all the desperation of asking someone on a first date.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Cool dismissal.

  “Ok,” I said.

  “Yup,” and then there was a click. I hung up the phone and staggered upstairs. What had happened? He had seemed friendly the last two times we had talked; he had rescued me from Chad and his friends before we even knew each other, and then he had shown up in my house uninvited, practically bleeding to death. And when I called him, he acted like I was a telemarketer. I collapsed onto the bed, face buried in the pillow.

  The smell of hot tar, like when you stand on a road in the middle of summer, filtered into the room, but I barely noticed it through my self-pity. And then a tap on my window.

  I jerked my head up from the pillow. Mike crouched on the small section of roof outside my window; I could see slightly burned areas on the shingles. With a couple of steps I crossed the room and pulled open the window, and Mike slipped easily inside. He wore tight-fitting jeans and a polo, and I could smell something sporty and sharp. Cologne, or body spray, or something like that. Covering up the scent that I had noticed when he had been cut and bleeding. It was kind of like meeting a stranger. He wore the ground on his palm this time, tied on the way I had shown him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, nodding toward the bed.

  “Nothing,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked confused for a moment, then gave that calm smile. “You invited me over.”

  “And you acted like you didn’t know who I was.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. I had some friends over. I’m here now though.”

  “Great.”

  “What’s the deal? Are you mad about something?”

  “No,” I said.

  He pulled the gold focus out of his pocket and passed it to me. “Thanks again for that. Those cuts healed up fast, just like you said. There were still some scratches left on my back today, and I got a few comments from the other guys, but it was nothing like what it would have been. You really saved me.”

  I felt my frustration vanishing, and I took the focus. “Glad it helped.”

  “So we need to talk,” Mike said, taking the office chair, sitting down backward, and turning to face me. “What the hell are those things in the cemetery? What’s going on here?”

  I sat on the bed, my back against the wall. “The truth is, I know about as much as you do.”

  “I kind of doubt that,” he said.

  “Alright, fair enough. They’re called sprawls; they’re what happens when someone uses a lot of magic and it spills over; it finds a body, animates it.”

  “Shit,” he swore. “Am I doing that? I mean, you said I was being really inefficient. Is it my fault?”

  “No,” I said. “Although I thought it was you at first. Sprawls are made by a grower’s magic, though—quickening, what you—” I stopped myself before saying you and I do and continued, “what you do, it makes sinks.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A sink is kind of what it sounds like. It just absorbs quickening, makes them faster and stronger. Also makes them hard for us to kill.”

  “And a sprawl?”

  “Well, you’ve blasted enough of them apart to know the difference there.”

  “True,” he said with that confident grin. “So what the hell is a grower?”

  “That I don’t really know. They use magic, like us. But it’s different. Totally different.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you know all those stories of blood sacrifice, like pagan worship?”

  He nodded, his smile fading.

  “Kind of like that. I honestly don’t know much more than that; they have a tree that’s the focus of their power, kind of like a composite version of our foci and ground. And they can live a long time. Their power is slower moving than ours; it’s not anything flashy.” I shrugged. “I’m kind of guessing on some of this, but it’s my current hypothesis.”

  “Wow that last bit sounded nerdy,” Mike said. I stared at him, kind of surprised. Another grin broke out over his tan face. “Don’t worry, it’s cool. We can be nerdy about something super cool like this.”

  “That didn’t even make sense,” I said.

  He just gave a shrug. “So, we know there’s a grower in town. Why haven’t the police gotten suspicious? Are these things clawing their way out of the ground?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Somehow, no one has noticed any bodies missing. The grower might be covering it up. Or sprawls might just be different that way. Another question is, where do they go during the day? The biggest problem, though, is that they’re getting smarter.”

  “I noticed. They’re really set on guarding the cemetery.”

  “The tree, in particular.”

  Mike nodded. “So we go burn it down during the day.”

  I thought of Olivia’s dad finding me there, can of gasoline in one hand, as he passed me on a riding lawnmower. “Maybe that can be our last resort,” I said. “I don’t really want to spend the next few years in prison for arson.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Mike said. “You’re too pretty for prison.”

  I found myself speechless again, although for a different reason.

  “So we need to get to the point where we can go, hold off those sprawls at night, long enough to destroy the tree.”

  “Basically,” I admitted.

  “Let’s get going,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to learn, right?”

  “You have no idea,” I said. I slid off the bed, pushed Mike and the chair out of my way, and dug out the chest. I unlocked it with the key I wore around my neck and started pulling out foci. Mostly silver, those were the easiest because they were the most balanced. A basic traveling focus; a couple of defensive and offensive foci; two different pushers—one of these was gold, the other copper, so he could get some practice with the different metals. I passed over the more powerful, and more dangerous foci, and replaced Isaac’s gold focus on the tray. When I had the ones
I wanted for today, I closed and locked the chest. My eyes never even touched the book inside, but I could feel it staring at me.

  Spreading the foci out on the bed, I sat down again. “The first thing you need to know about quickening is that it’s all about transformation. Turning one type of energy into another, turning one thing into another. And you, the quickener, are the catalyst for all of that. You’re responsible for all the changes, for everything.”

  “Right,” Mike said.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “You’re responsible for all of it. That means you’re responsible sometimes for who lives and who dies, for deciding how many people you can save, and for realizing that even when you use quickening to save someone, you risk waking a sink that could cause even more damage. It’s not just some football game, it’s not just being a popular kid at school. You have to be prepared to handle that.” I didn’t know if I was talking more to him or myself.

  Mike’s light blue eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was still even, still on the edge of deep, but there was an edge to it. “I understand.”

  I let out a breath, tried to let go of my own anxieties. I wasn’t supposed to be training him; I should have eliminated him. And I definitely wasn’t supposed to be lecturing him about the things that haunted me. My irresponsibility was my own problem; I didn’t need to project that onto Mike.

  “Sorry,” I said. “How much energy do you have?”

  “I’m pretty close to full,” Mike said. “I just traveled over here.”

  “And almost burned my house down while you were at it,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” I passed him the cluster of foci, their cords dangling from my fist. “Put these on; traditionally, they’re tied around the forearm.” I could feel the burned mark on my arm, hot as the sun, when I said this.

  “Traditionally?” Mike started lacing them on, fumbling with the cords.

  “Yeah,” I said. “People have argued that it’s not necessary to wear them there, but other people say the foci have less interference. I don’t know; I suggest starting with them on your arm, though.”

  He was still fumbling with the first one, his nose wrinkled in concentration as he tried to tie the cords single-handed.

  “Come over here,” I said.

  Mike scooted over in the chair, and I took the cords and began to tie the foci onto his arms. Big arms, I realized. My hands were trembling again, and suddenly, under that sporty cologne, I could smell him again. That sort of warm, almost dusty smell. I pulled the cords tight, moved on to the next focus, then the next, until I had tied all of them on.

  I leaned back, and Mike stood up. The amber ground sat on his right hand, and three foci ran up the inside of each forearm. Silver, copper, and gold. I felt a pang somewhere between jealousy and desire; I had worn those same foci. I had stood like that, strong, confident, full of power. And now I had nothing.

  Shaking off the wave of despair, I stood up, grabbed his left arm, and pointed to the top focus. Silver. “What does this one do?”

  If he was uncomfortable with me holding his arm like that, Mike didn’t show it. He just gave a shrug and said, “Dunno.”

  “Try pushing just a tiny bit of power through it. But seriously, hardly any power at all.”

  I could feel the shift in his body almost immediately, a flickering that cut off abruptly. “What the hell is that?” Mike asked. “It felt like I was falling into nothing.”

  “That,” I said, “is what traveling by quickening should feel like. No white-hot inferno. No pain. Just movement.”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said; I realized he was pale. “It felt like I was falling into an abyss. Like I’d never come out of it, just keep falling forever.”

  “That’s cause you weren’t focusing on a destination,” I said. “Trust me, it’s better than burning yourself to a cinder because you slipped up using your ground.”

  “What about this one?” I pointed to the next one. The copper pusher. “Again, just a sliver.”

  This time, I heard the pencils on my desk start to roll, and then the desk itself began to creak.

  “Ok, enough.”

  “I could feel that one,” Mike said. “It moves things.”

  “It’s called a pusher. Now just look at the one below it.”

  “It’s the same pattern,” Mike said after a minute. “But gold.”

  “Gold lets you pour a lot of energy through something, more than copper can handle, or even silver. But it’s less precise. We’re not going to use this one inside; I don’t want to explain to my parents why a wall is missing.”

  Mike grinned. “A grounding would probably be the least of your problems.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not actually grounded,” I said. “Dad just said that for your benefit.”

  “Why would he care what I thought?” Mike asked.

  I avoided the question; better Mike didn’t know about Christopher, or my past, for a time. I just grabbed his other arm and started again. “Right, how about this one? You can feed a little more power through this one.”

  I couldn’t feel any difference, not without quickening of my own, so I just went ahead and trusted that Mike was pushing some power through the focus. I dug a penny out of my pocket, walked a few feet away from Mike, and turned to face him.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Don’t flinch.”

  “What?”

  Before he could say anything else, I hurled the penny at his face. To my surprise, Mike didn’t flinch, but his eyes did get pretty wide. About a foot from his face, the penny let out a low, strangely dissonant ring and bounced back to land on the bedroom floor.

  “Kind of cool, huh?”

  “That’s amazing.”

  I couldn’t hold back my pride. “I made that one,” I said.

  “What do you mean? Like you poured the metal?”

  “Yeah, but I also invented it. Like, made it up. Myself.” I was grinning, I realized.

  “No way,” Mike said. “Do it again.”

  I retrieved the penny and threw it again; this time, it had barely left my hand when it flew back toward my face. I let out a yelp and dropped to the ground, and I heard the penny strike the wall behind me. Mike burst out laughing, bending over at the waist. I got to my feet and glared, but Mike just kept laughing, until he collapsed into the chair.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “You should have seen your face. That was priceless.”

  “Very clever,” I said. “You can expand the field by putting more energy into it.”

  Mike let out a last chuckle and wiped his eyes. “Oh my God,” he repeated. “Sorry, teacher. Keep going.”

  I tried to be mad, but he was in such a good mood, and his smile was contagious. “The last two we won’t test here,” I said. “The bottom one is to attack with quickening; it’s more refined than what your ground will produce, so it will work even against highly conductive materials.”

  “And the one in the middle?”

  “Compare it to the magnetic shell,” I said.

  He took a moment to study the two foci. “There are some similarities,” Mike said. “But a lot of differences too. Something to do with defense or with metal, I’m guessing.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “It’s defensive, makes a shell like the magnetic one. But it defends against quickening attacks, although the more refined the energy, the less effective this shield will be.”

  “Why would I have to defend myself against other quickeners?” Mike asked.

  I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Michael, the only people in the world you’ll have to defend yourself against regularly are quickeners. Quickeners are territorial, possessive. More than that, it’s just part of the culture. A lot will kill you just to eliminate a future threat; others will only kill you if you violate their particular code of quickening ethics. Some will kill just because they can.”

  “So why are you helping me?” Mike
said.

  That warm, dusty smell, like a summer afternoon; the way his cheek curved above his smile; my hands trembling when I stood near him. Memories of that broken subway station, of the great focus made of railroad tracks, of the smell of dust and blood. And anger, anger at my grandfather, anger at myself. I couldn’t say any of those things, not without alienating him forever. So I lied.

  “Because I’m not like other quickeners.”

  Mike just shrugged and gave a smile. “Good for me, I guess.”

  “Let’s go somewhere we can practice,” I said. “Somewhere you can try out some of the other foci.”

  “Where?”

  “Pick somewhere,” I said. “You seem pretty strong, judging by the fact you didn’t burn yourself alive with the ground, so I’d say you’ve got a pretty good radius. If you used a gold traveler, you could go farther, but you’d have to be pretty skilled to get exactly where you wanted. Copper, closer but more specific.”

  “So what? Could I, like, end up inside a rock? Or get caught in a tree, or something?”

  I hadn’t really thought about that before; quickening had always just been natural to me, something I hadn’t questioned. Unlike Christopher. “Maybe if you were using gold,” I finally said. “And you were pushing yourself really far, farther than you should. Even then, though, it’d be pretty unlikely.”

  “How far should I aim for?” Mike said.

  “Picture a place,” I said, “and start feeding energy into the focus. Start with somewhere really far. Let’s try Hong Kong.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I just said. You’ll see what I mean, and then you can stop putting energy into it.”

  Mike looked nervous, but he closed his eyes. After a couple deep breaths, he went pale as a sheet and opened his eyes.

  “Holy shit, that’s scary. It was like falling into a well again. Everything broke up into darkness.”

  “That’s a sign you’re pushing the limits; you could try and hold the image, stabilize it, and force power through the focus. Most likely you’d black out, but it might work. Your body will do what it can to keep you from messing things up too much, though. Pick somewhere close by. Outside of town, but within a few hours drive.”

  “Look,” Mike said, “I’ll just use the ground to take us somewhere. I know how to do it, it’s safe. I’ve done it before.” He was talking fast. Too fast. And he was still pale. He was terrified, I realized.

  “No,” I said firmly. “You’ve taken enough risks with the ground. You need to learn how to use a focus.” I stepped up, grabbed him by the upper arm. “Take us somewhere you know—close, but not too close.”

  He looked at me, his eyes wide, and I could feel the panic rising in him. I could read it in his eyes.

  “Do you trust me?”

  He swallowed and gave a nod.

  “Do it.”

  He closed his eyes again; I was surprised to see sweat covering his forehead. For a moment, nothing happened.

  And then the world dissolved around us in white.