by G. P. Ching
I shake her long fingers and nod as she works her way down the line.
Mercifully, the door closes and I run out of hands to shake. Still, everyone is staring at Korwin and me, and I don’t think it is in admiration of our clothing. We stand there awkwardly for a moment until Maxwell leans over and whispers, “Why don’t the three of you get something to eat? We won’t start the demonstration for another hour.”
“Demonstration?”
“The Liberty Party is going to want to see you in action, Lydia. The hope of a revolution hinges on convincing the people in this room that you are strong enough.”
I gape.
“Remember why you are doing this,” Maxwell says through a smile, then walks away before I can formulate a response.
I turn toward Korwin. “Did you know about this?”
He sighs. “You give me too much credit,” he mumbles. “Apparently there are lots of things my father doesn’t share with me.”
Music begins to play and guests take to the floor hand in hand. It’s like a ball. A grand reception for a new secret weapon. The thought makes me shiver.
Jeremiah clears his throat. “This is madness. We shouldn’t even be here,” he whispers. “Can you imagine what Bishop Kauffman would say about the vanity of it all?”
The thought of using my electrokenisis in front of this crowd makes me uncomfortable for more reasons than vanity, but I nod in agreement. My heart quickens, and I can feel it in my throat as my eyes skip over the nameless faces.
Korwin tilts his head, eyes boring into Jeremiah. “Don’t make it harder than it is. Lydia will get through this. You both will. And then you can both be free of this.”
There is hopelessness in his words. My gaze shifts between the two boys.
“Korwin, will you excuse us for a moment?” Jeremiah asks.
With a curt nod Korwin drifts toward the table of food and drinks Jameson has set up near the windows.
“Come on. Dance with me,” Jeremiah says.
My eyebrows shoot up. We have never danced. Dancing is seen as worldly and immodest in Hemlock Hollow.
“It’s rumspringa, remember?” he says.
With a nod, I take his hand and allow him to lead me to the edge of the dance floor. I glance at the other dancers and try to imitate what they do. One of his hands lands on my waist and I use the other to form a stiff frame, hand in hand but holding several inches between us.
He leans forward to bring his lips to my ear and his blond curls brush my cheek. “I think we should try to escape.”
I pull back. “What are you talking about?” I whisper. I glance around to make sure no one is listening but between the music and the boisterous discussion, we are alone in a crowded room.
“We could sneak out while Maxwell is distracted with the party and find a way to call Bradford Adams to take us home.”
“We can’t. What about my father?”
“He’s safe. Nobody here knows who he is. You and I can go home and when he’s better, Doc Nelson can bring him back just like we planned.” We sway and turn, blending into the crowd.
“You saw the news program,” I whisper in his ear. “Willow’s Province is crawling with Green Republic soldiers. We’d never make it home.”
“First of all, how do we know Maxwell Stuart is telling us the truth about all that? For all we know, that program was faked.”
“Can he do that?”
He shrugs. “Look at all the technology they have here. I don’t trust him, Lydia.”
“I don’t trust him either. But what if it is true?”
“They don’t know about Bradford Adams. He could help us. If we’re careful, we could be home in a couple of days.”
I don’t think it would be as easy as Jeremiah thinks, but arguing the point is futile. I take a different tack. “But we promised the Stuarts we would help.”
He shrugs. “It’s rumspringa. Their rules are not our rules. This is a sinful world. We don’t have to keep our promises here.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.” My whispering is getting louder. I make an effort to lower my voice. “It wouldn’t be right.”
Jeremiah squints at me, his mouth thinning. “Is it because…?” He stops mid-question and looks me in the eye. “I’m sure you would forget over time.”
“Forget what?”
“About your abilities. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That people will know you are different when we go back.”
Forget I could shoot lightning bolts out of my hands? I seriously doubt it, but he is right about one thing. I am afraid of being different, not because of what others will think as Jeremiah suggests but because everything has changed. My future life, what used to be a clear picture of a two-rut dirt road that led straight and triumphantly to heaven, is now a mystery to me. It is a winding trail leading into the fog.
“I’m not afraid of going back,” I say.
“Then what is it? Why can’t we leave? Mr. Stuart is treating you like he owns you. It ain’t right, Lydia.”
“I just…” My eyes flick away from Jeremiah’s and stare at the floor. “Can I ask you something?” I return my gaze to his.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“Why didn’t you ever kiss me? In Hemlock Hollow? All the time we spent together. All the hints and promises to court me, you never stole even one kiss. Did you want to?”
Jeremiah turns his head, his lips parting slightly so that I can see his tongue curl over the inside of his lower lip. “Of course I wanted to,” he says. “But, you know, it never seemed like the right time.”
I pinch my eyebrows together over my nose. “We’ve spent hours diving off the loft in the haymow and lying side by side in the hay. Entire days fishing in the river. Long walks in the woods. Evenings climbing my tree and sitting in the branches. When would be the right time?”
He tilted his head. “Think about what you’re saying. All of those things, they aren’t exactly… romantic. I might have done any one of them with a boy.”
“Huh?”
“You were young. We were best friends. It made sense for us to act like children. I was just waiting for a moment when I felt we were both ready for something more.”
“You mean, when I acted more wifely and less like your equal.”
He smiles and breathes a sigh of relief. “Exactly.”
I don’t blame Jeremiah for thinking this or saying it. In our Ordnung, the man is the head of the household, and his family is as submissive to his will as our community is submissive to God. We have clear gender roles, and diving off haymows and climbing trees is not something married Amish women do. His thinking is normal in the Amish sense. Still, my heart feels heavy. I’ve always thought Jeremiah liked how I was different. Sure, he teased me about allowing him to be the man, but I thought it was just that, teasing. I thought, even when we were married, he would always respect that I could run faster and jump higher. The married life I pictured with Jeremiah was one of shared winks and knowing smiles where we went through the motions of Amish expectations and wifely submission, but in private we were the same friends we’d always been. No, it is not wrong or odd for Jeremiah to feel the way he does, but it is the first time I truly accept and understand those feelings. They disappoint me. I’m not sure I can live like a good Amish woman. Will it be enough for me? Or am I too selfish and vain to give myself over to that calling?
We sway back and forth in silence for a few beats, both of us far away in thought. We pause when Korwin taps Jeremiah on the shoulder.
“Can I cut in?” he asks.
A glower is all Jeremiah gives Korwin in response. Rude. I release his hand and reach for Korwin’s. “Of course,” I say politely.
With nothing but contempt, Jeremiah backs away from us, slowly drifting toward the buffet table.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “He’s very protective of me.”
“You don’t say.” Korwin’s hand finds my waist and instantly, my body responds. Unlike the strict
frame I made with my arms to remain a proper distance from Jeremiah, I close the space between us and release his hand to snake both arms around his neck.
I’m close enough to hear him swallow. “My dad says we’re supposed to meet him in Test Room B in twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” I say. I chew my bottom lip.
“I know this makes you nervous, but it will be over before you know it. We will make a few lightbulbs glow and zap a few logs and the Liberty Party leaders can go away happy.”
“And plan an offensive attack,” I say. “This is far from over.”
“I suppose. Yes. It will take some time for them to come up with a plan and execute it. Do you think you can last here that long? It must be difficult to be so far away from home. I’m sure this is a much different life than you’re used to.”
I search his face. “How long do you think I’ll be here?”
“I don’t know. A few more weeks, maybe. If my dad says he’ll get you home, he will. As much as I question his means, if he says he’s going to do something, he does it.”
“A few weeks,” I repeat wistfully.
“Lydia, there’s something I need to tell you,” Korwin says. “But I might be out of line.”
“I guess we won’t know until you say it.”
“I don’t want you to go.” I don’t just hear the words; I feel them. A thrum of energy hums into me from where his hands touch my hips. I sigh. This boy who I’ve saved, who I have known for only a matter of days, makes music in my very soul. Who and what he is speaks to the heart of me, without expectation or judgment.
With both hands, he pushes me away. “Lydia, stop,” he whispers suddenly. “People will notice.” I glance downward and I realize I am glowing.
Fitfully, I try to pull the energy back inside. I back up a fraction of an inch and wipe a bead of sweat from my brow. To my relief, no one seems to have seen me. The music stops and the dancers break apart.
Korwin takes my hand. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the stairwell. We escape the busy room to the basement, past the blue palominos, and the garden, to Test Room B. “We’ll have a few minutes to talk privately before my dad arrives.”
Like Test Room A, Room B is insulated, but more than lightbulbs and wood await me there. The room is twice the size, with a ceiling as high as the one in the gardens. A level above me, a half circle of mirrors lines the space.
“What’s that for?” I ask, pointing at the mirrors. My voice echoes in the large room.
“Observation booth. Like the other one but bigger.”
“Oh.” Three metal rods are mounted on the wall. Sand is heaped on the floor near my feet.
“I thought you said there would be more lightbulbs and wood,” I say frantically. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I assumed it would be. My father must be confident in your abilities. This is an advanced demonstration.”
“What? What if I can’t do it? What if I fail?”
The corner of Korwin’s mouth bends upward. “You won’t fail, Lydia. You are as capable as I am.”
His words strike straight to my heart. He believes in me. Genuinely and truly admires my abilities. Coming from Hemlock Hollow, where I was always second, always presumed to be the weaker sex, a follower, submissive, his words mean more to me than he can possibly know.
“Besides. If you fail, the worst that can happen is the Liberty Party loses confidence in Dad’s leadership and decides against an offensive.”
And Jeremiah and I will never make it home, I think. Jeremiah already wants to leave. He’ll never make it to Hemlock Hollow safely on his own. For his sake, I cannot fail.
“Show me what I need to do.”
“This test is about control. Can you control the heat you produce? The goal is to turn the sand into glass.”
“Okay,” I say, remembering how I’d poured my power into the logs.
“But Lydia, he’ll want you to do it with control. Don’t just heat the sand. Try to create a rod. Manipulate the melting glass. Observe.”
Korwin faces the sand and throws his hands toward the floor, palms up, with a snap that straightens his fingers. Blue fire crackles to life and then lightning connects to the pile of sand. Awestruck, I watch as he melts the sand, forms it into a rod, then bends it into a pretzel shape. When he’s done, he pulls the power back into himself and looks at me. “Have fun with it. Think of it as art class.”
“I never had art class,” I whisper. As I say it, I realize it’s not entirely true. My mind flashes back to my lessons with Martha Samuels, when I learned how to cut and stitch fabric. She always said my quilts were the most beautiful in Hemlock Hollow. I could create if I wanted to.
He flashes that ornery half-grin I’ve grown to adore. “Give it a try.” Moving a few steps back, he motions for me to take his place.
I turn toward the pile of sand. They’ve certainly given us enough to work with. Even after Korwin’s pretzel, the pile is almost as tall as me.
Firing up isn’t as easy for me as it was for Korwin. I coax the elastic ribbon from my brain and move it to my hands. It’s an awkward push and pull as I try to maintain control of it. When I feel it burning in my palms I throw my hands toward the sand and the familiar pulling starts.
I understand now what the book in the library meant about the molecules in the sand dancing with my molecules. Just like yesterday with the logs, it is a mutual attraction at the most basic level, a dance of competing energies. I see that now, or more accurately, I feel it.
To maintain a steady flow into the mound, I mentally tie off the elastic.
The sand forms a hollow tube where I zap it. I experiment with moving my stream of energy to a different part of the sand and back again. Control is key, but how do you control lightning? I might as well harness the wind. I pull my power back inside, then loose it again in an effort to manipulate the glass I’ve already made. But I only succeed in creating a bumpy, bubbling mess.
“It’s okay,” Korwin says from behind me. “Keep trying. Don’t think about it so much. Just go with what feels right.”
I try again. While I play with the electric blue taffy, my mind wanders to last night in the garden when Korwin kissed me, how our energy flowed between us. How when we’d danced, I’d felt alive in his arms. Even now, I feel his presence behind me and feel stronger for it, as if I could take on the world as long as he was there.
But then Jeremiah’s face drifts into my thoughts. Last night, a shadow darkened his eyes and his shoulders slumped when he saw me kiss Korwin. He’s asked me to go home. I have a vision of us growing old, with me baking bread and sewing quilts and never ever thinking about taking on the world again. Do I owe Jeremiah that? Do I want that? What social contract does our history commit me to? Do I still have a choice?
The melted glass sifts between my electric fingers. I step closer to get the right leverage without actually touching the sand. My mind is a storm of questions. Clearly, Jeremiah wants me to return to Hemlock Hollow with him and expects me to court and marry him as a proper Amish woman. But if I do go back with this power awakened within me, will I even be able to kiss him? If my power accidentally flowed into Jeremiah the way it did into Korwin, would it kill him? Would I accidentally blow him up like the wood or the garden? Do I actually have a choice to go back, or has fate made the choice for me? It isn’t safe for me to be with Jeremiah, is it?
I tunnel the glass into a tall vase, and I don’t quit there. My forehead drips with sweat, but I like the heat. I like the effort. It makes everything clear. These last few days I’ve been in denial that anything has really changed. I’d thought and believed that I could return to Hemlock Hollow and continue my life as if nothing had happened here. But unleashing like this, pouring myself into the sand, is therapeutic. I see now that I was wrong. Even if I go back, I will always know this boundless power is just under my skin, waiting to be released.
My thoughts return to Korwin. I have to stop making excuses.
It isn’t fate and it isn’t this power that’s kept Jeremiah and me from moving forward in our relationship. It is me. The old love we’ve always shared can’t evolve to become something more passionate. If we’d stayed in Hemlock Hollow, maybe I could have changed. We’d probably have gotten married and would have been content, as happy as we’d expected to be. But here, in the greater world, I have tasted a heat, a passion far beyond what Jeremiah and I could ever produce. The more I work the sand, the clearer it becomes. Korwin is the wind, and I want nothing more than to open my sails and see where he can take me.
The truth is, my heart’s desire is Korwin. I want to stay with Korwin.
The glass in front of me takes shape. I’ve used the entire pile of sand to create a replica of Korwin, carved in black glass. I pull the ribbon back inside, panting with the effort, and rest my hands on my knees. The room starts to sway. I lose my balance and fall.
Korwin catches me before my head can hit the floor. “Whoa. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he says, cradling me in his arms.
I smile up at him, dizzy and weak. The rest of the world melts away.
“You were supposed to attempt a pretzel, not create a full-sized sculpture of me.” He grins, and my heart does backflips. He pulls me completely into his lap.
“It just happened,” I say honestly. “Oh no, your father. The demonstration! I’m tapped. I don’t think I can do any more.”
“Let me worry about my father,” he says. His face is very close to mine as he holds me in his arms, close enough for me to feel my skin pull toward his. He shakes and sighs, fighting the invisible force. And then he gives in. His lips drop onto mine, harder than they did last night, more completely.
Energy flows over my tongue and down my throat. Unlike last night though, I don’t immediately give it back to him. I’ve felt this before. When we were in CGEF, and Korwin reached for my hand to help me up, I’d pulled energy from his body. He’d juiced me from the wires in the elevator. And later, he’d borrowed energy from me to fight off the Greens.