If we are not to speak of the past or the future, why is she here?
“Pakistan always teeters on the brink, I fear. I believe it must have something to do with how our country was born. But we are more resilient than we appear.”
Her face grew somber. “I agreed to meet you because I had something to tell you.”
Pasha lifted an eyebrow in a silent question and waited for her to continue.
The smile slipped from her face, replaced by concern. “You have a daughter. Her name is Maya.”
Pasha felt his face slip into the blank expression that he used when he wished to conceal all emotion. His mind churned, unable to focus. They sat without speaking for several minutes.
“How can you be certain?” he asked.
She sipped from her tea and looked at him over the cup. “There’s no doubt. She was conceived in Karachi.”
“Even if that’s so, why tell me now, after all these years? She’s what, ten?”
“She would tell you ten and a half. The half is very important to children that age.”
“Again, why tell me now?” Pasha’s mind was functioning again, trying to anticipate where the conversation was headed.
“I knew you then better than you knew yourself, Pasha. And I think I still do. I realized it would be only a short time before you became aware of my return to the city. Of my family. Sooner or later you would start thinking about the ages of my children and begin wondering about Maya. And once that happened, you wouldn’t stop until you’d uncovered the truth.”
He shrugged, waiting.
“You scare me, Pasha. You and the ISI. Your hands are covered with the blood of innocents. I did everything I could to persuade Basri to refuse this appointment.”
“You know me less well than you think. I am not the ISI. And while I do what I must to protect our country, I would never harm those I love.”
“Who do you love, Pasha?” Miriam asked. “I want you to swear to me that you will leave Maya alone, that you will never approach her, never try to contact her in any way. She’s Basri’s daughter in every way but one.”
“Or?” Pasha asked. “That kind of declaration usually has an ‘or’ after it.”
“Either you promise, or I’ll expose our affair and ruin the only thing you care about—your precious career.”
“And what of your husband? You would destroy him also?”
“Maya is my life. I will do anything to protect her from your kind.”
“If the ISI is as evil as you say, an affair would hardly destroy my career. Who knows, it might even enhance it. Your threat means nothing.”
But of course, that’s not true. She could ruin me. Denial again?
“You have my promise. I have no room in my life for you or a child.”
He’d pushed back his chair and left the shop, angry and saddened. Over the next several days, his curiosity about his daughter evolved into an annoying obsession. He’d decided that there was nothing in his promise to keep him from learning about her.
It had been an easy matter to identify Maya’s school. There were only a few in the city that were used by high-level diplomats. He’d assigned a team to surveil Myriam and quickly learned that his daughter was attending a private grammar school on Street 4, just off Isfahani Road.
Once he had that information, he’d designated the school as a training target for new ISI agents, a way to practice their surveillance tradecraft. They penetrated the school’s computer system and extracted the names and schedules of the teachers and students. The information was updated whenever there were any changes. It was good training.
Pasha arrived at the cyclone fence that bounded the school’s outside exercise area. He came to watch Maya play several times a month, always careful to remain in the background. He stood under a nearby tree and watched the organized chaos of dozens of kids as they spun around the few hapless teachers who were trying to supervise them.
Maya had her mother’s honey-colored hair and easy smile. She was a good student, particularly in math. Prone to colds, she’d missed three days this term. Her laughter rang across the exercise yard like the peal of a crystal bell. She’d begun Transition a week ago, but he was too far away to see the lavender of her eyes.
I wonder if she feared Transition as I did. What would she think of being able to use magic at will?
His interest in his daughter had become more than a “fuck you” exercise aimed at his former lover when the codex surfaced. He imagined a gossamer thread reaching out from the distant past, linking him to Maya and the Kalash boy. He didn’t yet understand the nature of the connection, but was certain that it existed, waiting to be revealed.
He watched until the children were called back into the building, then returned to his car and drove to his meeting with the director-general.
2008 CE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Boundary, New York
The United States
“Morning, Dylan. Come in.”
It was two weeks after Dylan attacked Clint West, and this was his third counseling session. The state of New York had a small family services office in Boundary and one counselor, Ms. Eleanor Wimple, who doubled as a public assistance caseworker and therapist. During their second session, she had explained to Dylan that she used to be Boundary’s town librarian. Her job had left plenty of time for her to earn certificates in social services and family therapy from an online university. Social services had been a big step up in pay and benefits, she’d told him.
Principal Toliver had agreed that sessions with Ms. Wimple would meet his conditions for Dylan’s return to school after the month-long suspension. The arrangement was fine with Dylan—it meant his mom didn’t need to drive him to sessions in some other town. His walk to Ms. Wimple’s office took less time than his mom’s to drive to work.
Ms. Wimple was a large woman who seemed to have a preference for big bead necklaces and dresses splotched with prints of roses or lilies. Her grey hair was always pulled into a bun so tight that it pulled the wrinkles around her eyes back to her hairline.
Dylan bounced into the office, closed the door behind him, and took a seat in one of the two brown leather recliners that faced each other across a low, round oak table. The chairs and table sat on an island formed by a worn red and blue oriental rug in the center of the room. The window blinds were closed; a floor lamp standing in one corner cast a soft yellow glow.
“I’ll be right there.” Ms. Wimple was behind him, rustling papers on her desk.
Dylan thought back to his first session. He’d decided that he wasn’t going to hide his feelings. He’d been desperate. Happy, sad, or angry—it didn’t matter. He always felt like he was riding a beast that he couldn’t control. A beast that was all teeth and that was going to eat him alive.
He’d told Ms. Wimple about the beast and about the switch in his brain. She’d said, “That’s interesting,” and moved on to ask him a bunch of questions about his father. She never seemed to realize that he didn’t remember much about his father.
He’d decided that she was a nice enough person but didn’t have a clue about how to help him.
A box of Kleenex and a vase containing purple chrysanthemums were placed next to each other in the center of the table between them. Dylan reached forward, took a tissue, and moved the tissue box a couple of inches off center.
“You figured out what’s wrong with me yet?” he asked.
She smiled. “What do you think is wrong with you?” She moved the tissues back to their proper place.
I bet she doesn’t realize she’s moving it.
“No matter what I say, you turn it around on me. Can we just talk?”
Dylan didn’t want her to ask a bunch of questions that would ruin his mood. Even since he’d gotten out of bed, he felt like all the problems with school and the lawsuit had simply vanished. He was so happy that he’d danced around the house, telling his mom that things were going to be okay and that she shouldn’t worry
.
“Sure. How about this? Recline your chair and close your eyes.”
Dylan had been flipping the handle on the side of the chair up and down, raising and lowering the footrest. He grinned. “Is this just a way to get me to sit still?”
“That, and a little more,” Ms. Wimple said. “Go ahead, lie back and close your eyes.”
When he closed his eyes, Dylan could see squiggles moving across the inside of his eyelids. He imagined they were woodland fairies, skittering across his brain.
“Now, relax the muscles in your feet, starting with your toes, then moving to your feet, and then to your ankles.” She paused for a few moments. “Now move slowly up your legs, relaxing each muscle as you go.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me?” His eyelids twitched; he clamped them closed.
“No, I’m not. This is just a simple relaxation exercise. You can do it yourself any time you feel the need.” She continued to talk to him in a soft voice, working her way up his body, muscle by muscle.
“Weird,” Dylan whispered. “When I relax one part another one gets tense.”
“That’s okay. This takes a little practice, and it’s easier to do some days more than others. You feel like trying something else while you’re relaxed?”
He nodded. His eyelids felt heavy now, but he didn’t feel sleepy.
“Then let’s try the same exercise we did last week. Think about how you’re feeling right this moment. When you’re ready, say whatever words come to your mind. Say them one at a time. Just let them flow, and try not to think about them too much.”
Dylan didn’t have to think. The words were there and wanted out.
“Excited.
“Twitchy.
“Happy.
“Glorious.
“Magic.
“Explosive.”
Ms. Wimple cut him off. “Tell me about magic. Why that word?”
“Because magic solves everything, makes everything better.”
Ms Wimple didn’t respond.
“Should I keep going?” he asked.
“When you say magic, are you thinking of Transition?”
“What?” Dylan opened his eyes and raised his chair. “No, not Transition.”
Shit.
“I mean magic like in fairy tales. Good fairies and pots of gold. Like that.”
More silence.
“Dylan, I promised you when we started that I’d be straight with you. I need to inform your mother and Principal Toliver that you mentioned magic as a solution to your problems. I don’t want to dwell on this, but—”
“I know how dangerous Transition is. That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, then, let’s move on. Do you recall the words you mentioned last week? When you didn’t feel as good as you do today? Words like ‘tired’ and ‘restless’ and ‘bored.’ As I recall, the only word you listed then with much emotion was ‘sad.’ Why the difference between then and now, do you think?”
He felt his happiness slide sideways and disappear.
She’s like a crow pecking at a dead animal. Always jabbing at everything I say.
The image of the switch in his brain shoved its way forward. It was still in the down, safe, position, but pulsed with a blood-red light.
“Do you know what’s wrong with me?” Dylan’s voice cracked, became a boy-man’s angry growl.
Ms. Wimple locked eyes with him.
She never blinks.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, other than a hot temper when you don’t get your way. Lots of people have that problem. And there are some very good techniques that can help you manage your temper.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Wimple, but it’s more than just getting pissed off.” His voice had bounced back up to its normal register. “One day I’m so happy I can’t sit still. The next day I don’t want to get out of bed. I think I’m crazy. And I don’t think you can fix that.”
Which is why Transition is my only way out of this.
“Dylan, you’re very bright. Your mother tells me that you read a great deal. How much have you read about puberty?”
He didn’t answer.
“Being happy and sad and mixed up are part of what it means to be an adolescent. Your body’s hormones are changing. That’s why you feel the way you do. You get a little more angry than most kids, but that’s understandable. You’ve had a difficult childhood. No father, your mother has to work so she’s not available to you, you’re poor, you move all the time. These are tough problems that are bound to affect you.”
The switch was vibrating, threatening to trip and drive him mad. “All sorts of kids don’t have fathers, or mothers even. They don’t try to kill a kid on the playground.” He was shouting. “And us moving around a lot hasn’t made me crazy. Being crazy has made us move.” He stopped, his chest heaving. His face felt hot, like he had a sunburn. “I gotta get out of here. See you next week.”
“No, wait. We still have twenty minutes. We need to talk about—”
He pushed out of the chair and stormed from the office, slamming the door behind him.
• • • • •
Dylan ran home, away from Ms. Wimple and away from the thoughts that kept crowding his mind and scaring him. He bounded up the three rickety wooden steps on their front porch and slid to a stop before the front door. He’d just unlocked the door when heard the phone ring. It sounded muffled and distant.
Where is it?
Then he remembered. He’d been using it the night before to talk with Mr. Toliver about the periodic table. He threw open the door, hurried into his bedroom, and grabbed the cordless handset from his bed. He glanced at the caller ID and pressed the Talk button.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You okay, Dylan? You sound out of breath.”
“Sure. I was running to get home, that’s all.”
“To get home or to get away from Ms. Wimple? She just called me, very concerned about you.”
Dylan laughed. He was feeling great again, almost silly, like the guys smoking pot in the movie Pineapple Express. “Away from Ms. Wimple. She’s not worth what we’re paying her.”
“Which is nothing, is that what you’re saying?” His mother paused. “Remind me to talk with you about showing more respect for adults in general, and people who are trying to help you in particular. And quit trying to distract me. Are you okay? Do I need to come home?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m fine. There’s no need to come home, honest.”
“I think you scared poor Ms. Wimple half to death. She’s very worried about you.”
“She said some stuff about dad and you that I didn’t like. It made me mad and I left. I might have yelled some. But I’m fine.”
“Then get busy on your homework. Don’t forget that Mr. Toliver is coming by right after lunch for forty-five minutes, so you need to have your work finished. I’ll pick you up after my shift ends and bring you back here for dinner. Then you and I need to have our own session.”
“Dinner would be great. Our own session about what?”
“About how I help you get better.”
Great. Wimple has her spooked about me using Transition. She’s thinking of putting me in a hospital.
Dylan was active on the Internet site TransitionWeb. The U.S. government ran TW to give kids the facts about Transition and warn about its dangers. It was on TW he learned that rich people sometimes put their kids in the hospital until they were done with Transition. They kept them groggy and unable to say the ritual until the month had passed. And he’d learned that the government had passed a law that made hospitals do this for poor people’s kids too, for free.
“That’s fine, Mom. I’ll see you a little later.”
I gotta do this now, while I can.
• • • • •
Dylan hung up and walked over to his closet. He threw all the stuff on the closet floor out into his bedroom and knelt down. The closet, like the rest of the house, had wide
pine board flooring. He pressed down on the edge of the board in the left rear corner of the closet. The board tipped up. He pulled it loose and removed a sheaf of papers from the small cavity underneath. He replaced the floorboard, then tossed all his junk back into the closet. He tucked the papers into his jacket pocket and headed to the woods behind the house.
When they’d first moved into the house, his mom had discovered an old gray cedar picnic table for sale on the public bulletin board at Wegman’s Grocery. She’d called and haggled with the farmer who’d posted the listing until the old man agreed to sell it for twenty-five dollars. Dylan had piled into her pickup truck with her for the fifteen-mile drive to the farm, where the guy had helped them load it into the back. When they got home, they’d hauled it out of the pickup bed and dragged it, one breathless step at a time, into the back yard, and then another fifty yards into the woods. His mom had used their titanic struggle to teach Dylan about the legend of Sisyphus. It was his most favorite memory.
Dylan zipped his jacket as he crossed the yard and entered the forest. The September air had a bite to it. Boundary was closer to Montreal than it was New York City. Snow would be coming before long and stay until next April or May. The leaves of bigtooth aspen rustled in the breeze as he strolled through a woods on fire with color—orange-red sugar maples, purple gums, golden hickories. He’d learned the Latin names and how to identify thirty different species and had planned to learn the other 120 that were native to New York.
He sat down at the picnic table and pulled the four pages from his pocket, unfolding them, holding them tight against a wind that wanted to tease them from his grip.
He’d been planning to use Transition magic for the past year. He’d found the ritual online, on TransitionWeb. Memorizing it was no big deal. But the final verse was where he would say what he wanted to use magic for. And that couldn’t be anything anyone had ever used before.
He’d come up with dozens of different final verses. In the end, he’d settled on four and had printed each one of them on a separate piece of paper, which he’d hidden in his closet hidey-hole. They all did the same thing but in different ways. He prayed that each of them was unique but had no way of knowing. All he could do was pick one and see. If he was wrong, he’d die. He understood that and was okay with it. He’d rather be dead than continue to be pursued by the furies in his mind.
The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic) Page 13