And it wasn’t just our long-term plans. There were local concerns as well.
While Walnut Lane hadn’t yet been the target of any direct attacks, we were hearing of plenty of action elsewhere. We got most of our news through Merlin and Patrick, and it seemed that almost every week the Angels had taken yet another settlement belonging to breakaway Guardians, the Meridian or other independent psionics. We heard how they destroyed God-slayer houses as well as, surprisingly, an occasional Wolf unit. Even the paramilitary group that specialized in hunting psionics seemed to be fighting a losing battle now. In order to keep the existence of psionics concealed from the public, the Wolves had to keep a low profile too.
With a king at their helm, the Angels seemed more bent on capturing their victims alive than ever before, but that was their one and only disadvantage in combat. Even with their opposition shooting to kill, the Angels were still gaining ground at an alarming pace. The bleakest estimates now put their complete victory at less than three short years away. We even heard one story of how a small breakaway Guardian group willingly surrendered to the Angels and simply walked into their conversion to avoid the bloody inevitable. I had a feeling that others would follow.
One of the few issues Mrs. Harding and Terry were in complete agreement with was that we weren’t going down without a fight. A psionic destroyer’s greatest weakness was the controller who could turn him against his team. After what I had once done to Alia, I was never going to let that happen again.
But when she learned what I was planning to do, my sister was far more vocally opposed than Terry.
“You know what Cindy said, Addy!” cried Alia when I told her. “You’re still too young. You could really get hurt.”
“I’m sixteen now, Alia,” I reminded her. “I know that’s not quite old enough, but you were never old enough to do all the things you did either. We all do what we have to, when we have to. I’ll be careful, okay?”
Alia gave me a sullen look. “You’re never careful.”
I had no reply to that.
“If it starts to hurt you, please give it up, okay?”
“I promise,” I said. “I know this is dangerous. I won’t try to hide it if it’s hurting me.”
“Okay,” Alia said resignedly.
My sister clearly hadn’t forgotten her experience with the flying berserker.
What with our escape from New Haven, moving to Walnut Lane and opening a combat training school, I honestly hadn’t had much time to dwell on what possible damage the berserker might have done to Alia’s mind. Outwardly, my sister seemed unchanged, and I knew her to be an exceptionally resilient child so I was hopeful that there was no permanent damage.
As far as the age restriction I was breaking, I hoped that everyone was just playing it safe. After much begging, Merlin grudgingly agreed to allow me to begin blocking training with the other five. Rachael and James both asked to join our sessions too, but Merlin refused. “Terry and Adrian are a special case,” he declared. “The rest of you will wait until you’re older.”
Our first lesson was conducted the next evening when Merlin came by to repower the hiding bubble around our house. We gathered on the gym mats in the living-room dojo, and most of the younger kids had come to observe. Alia was there too, watching me with a worried frown on her face. I tried to give her a reassuring look, but I just ended up making her more anxious.
“It’s basically like this,” began Merlin, facing his six students on the mat. “All types of mind control are unique, and for the most part, they can all be resisted to a certain degree simply by supplying a conflicting emotion or mental focus. Peacemaking can be resisted through controlled anger. The effects of berserking can be lessened by heavy laughter. Memory alteration can be prevented as long as you are consciously aware of the memories that are being affected. That’s why mind-writers prefer to work with people who are asleep. They put up less of a fight.”
A few of the young onlookers chuckled at that, but I didn’t find it funny. I also seriously doubted that anyone could really force themselves to laugh during a berserker attack. Merlin hadn’t mentioned psionic draining as a means for breaking free of berserking and peacemaking, but I guessed that having poor power balance wasn’t considered a viable technique in his book.
Merlin continued, “Dreamweaves can be broken by self-doubt, among other emotions. Puppeteers like me find it hard to control someone who focuses all of his consciousness on reclaiming one body part at a time. But these are all just tricks that reduce the effect of the control, and experienced controllers can usually overcome your resistance. What you all have to learn is that blocking psionic control for real isn’t so much a battle of willpower as a cat-and-mouse game of finding the cracks in the controller’s song and exploiting them.”
By their expressions, I could tell that Terry and the others already knew this. Merlin was speaking for the benefit of the only wild-born of the group, but I was already having trouble keeping up. What the heck was a crack in a song?
“Imagine that you live in a very quiet house,” said Merlin, noticing the lost expression on my face. “But then someone in your family, a pesky little brother for example, decides to learn how to play the tuba, and practices twenty-four hours a day non-stop in your living room. You’ll at first be very bothered by the noise. It’ll make you cranky and keep you awake at night. You may be inclined to take the tuba away and hide it, or better yet, hide your little brother somewhere where he won’t easily be found. But sooner or later, you’ll get used to the noise and learn to accept your new environment. The annoying tuba will no longer bother you.”
Thinking I understood what Merlin was driving at, I asked eagerly, “You mean in order to resist psionic control, we have to get used to it?”
“Quite the opposite,” replied Merlin. “You must never allow yourself to get used to it. That’s what the controller wants. You must instead constantly be aware and be bothered by the sound of this tuba.”
I caught a smirk on Terry’s face, and decided to keep my mouth shut so as not to risk making a fool of myself again.
Merlin touched his right temple as he said, “A psionic’s control comes from thoughts, and like thoughts themselves, the control consists of waves and rhythm. Much like the budding tuba player, a weak controller’s power lacks rhythm, so it is easier to find the bits of quiet in the sounds. Those are the cracks.”
Merlin paused once to make sure we didn’t have any questions yet, and then continued his metaphorical explanation. “As the tuba player improves, there is more rhythm to his song, so there are fewer silences. But then what if he joins a band and brings them to rehearse in your house? A quartet of beginners is definitely louder, but there are still plenty of cracks if you know where to look.”
Merlin paused again, looking around at each of us before continuing in a graver tone, “The strongest of controllers are like one-man orchestras. Their control is refined and multilayered. But even music from a full orchestra has brief moments of silence. With enough practice, you may someday learn to recognize them, though I’ll admit that I have never gotten that far myself.”
Nobody spoke, but I could tell that they all felt as uncomfortable with this as I.
Merlin smiled reassuringly. “Today, we will start with the tuba.”
Being the eldest, Scott was chosen to try first.
With but a quick nod in his direction, Merlin took complete control of Scott’s body.
“Shall I make him jump around like a monkey?” Merlin asked playfully.
Before we could answer, Scott was jumping up and down, furiously scratching his head and back. He let out a growl and beat his chest like a gorilla. The younger observers laughed and cheered.
I heard Candace whisper worriedly to Heather, “I don’t know about this…”
As Scott screeched and slapped his palms on the gym mats, Merlin calmly explained, “When a controller has your body, it is only natural to feel anger or panic. But strong emotions are not
conducive to finding the bits of silence that you are looking for.”
Merlin released Scott from his control. Unsteadily getting to his feet, Scott grinned and said, “That was truly amazing. I couldn’t find any cracks or even a song anywhere.”
“That’s because you don’t yet know what to listen for,” said Merlin.
Then he turned to Candace and asked in a diabolical tone, “And what animal would you like to be, dear?”
Candace took two steps back. “Um…”
“How about a mouse?” suggested Merlin.
Candace dropped onto all fours and spent the next five minutes scurrying around the dojo.
“If a puppeteer is not very powerful, he’ll want to keep you moving,” explained Merlin as Candace sniffed Heather’s feet and lightly nibbled on Alia’s legs. “This is to distract you and make it harder for you to focus on the song. As you can easily tell, I am not giving Candace my full attention, but even so, as long as she’s squeaking and running about, I doubt she will locate my control anytime soon.”
So it continued. Heather was made to do cartwheels and then marched three times around the room, swinging her arms widely while singing campfire songs at the top of her lungs. Steven was fuming after Merlin had him dance ballet, and we all kept our laughter to a minimum. Terry fared no better on her first attempt at blocking: Merlin made her kneel and propose marriage one at a time to James, Daniel and Walter.
Then Merlin turned to me and said, “Adrian, there will be no embarrassing performances from you today, though I guarantee you’ll get your fair share soon enough. You are my last contestant, so I’m going to give you a small chance to show the others how this is done.”
With that, Merlin took possession of my arms. I quickly discovered that the rest of my body was still my own, and as Merlin made me raise my hands over my head as if in surrender, I asked him, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Lower your arms, of course,” said Merlin. “That’s all you have to do.”
I looked up at my hands and tried to force my arms back down. I wasn’t particularly surprised when I found that I couldn’t. It wasn’t the first time.
Merlin chuckled, saying, “Perhaps it might help if we tickled his armpits.”
The crowd laughed loudly. Fortunately, Merlin was only kidding.
I tried focusing on just my right arm, and then just on my left, but still nothing happened.
“Forget your body, Adrian,” said Merlin. “Your arms aren’t important. Focus your consciousness on the control itself. Listen to its rhythm. Find the cracks.”
But Scott was right: There was no song, let alone cracks to find. I looked up at my hands again in frustration. If I could just move one finger…
“Stop worrying about your arms,” Merlin said again. “Calm your mind.”
Since I wasn’t being tickled or jumping around like a monkey, calming my mind wasn’t such a hard task even with a crowd of spectators. I had, after all, spent a large part of my life meditating with Cindy and sitting silently with Alia. Calm came naturally to me.
I closed my eyes, and the crowd politely gave me some quiet.
Years ago, when I first learned to sense the powers of other psionic destroyers, I associated them with instruments hidden in an orchestra. A psionic’s power flowed a little like music. I wondered if that was what Merlin meant when he talked about the “controller’s song.”
I thought back to how, when an Angel puppeteer first took control of my body, I had felt his presence at the back of my mind as he looked through my eyes, spoke through my mouth, and forced me to blast Alia so hard that she had almost died. When the puppeteer forced me to speak, my voice had been strangely deep and raspy. That man had been controlling me from a considerable distance, and perhaps that was why his control hadn’t been perfect. It was certainly strong enough to keep me from breaking free, but I had sensed his power.
Just as I sensed it now.
With my eyes closed and the room nearly silent, I could feel Merlin’s consciousness inside my head, telling my body to keep my arms raised up high. It was like a quiet heartbeat, its pulse slightly irregular but nevertheless constantly pumping something into me. Something that was at the same time both thinner than air and heavier than stone. It was a desire. A pulsing desire to keep my hands held high.
Aiming for the split second between the pulses, I pulled hard on my arms.
My arms stayed up, but worse, I suddenly felt horribly nauseous and fell to my knees.
I heard someone clapping and opened my eyes.
“Very well done,” Merlin said happily. “You see? It is possible to find a crack in a tuba song.”
Breathing heavily, I looked up at my arms. They were still raised above my head, but my right hand was clenched into a tight fist.
Merlin released my arms and smiled at the class. “If a sixteen-year-old wild-born can do that on his first attempt, then you know that anyone can learn to block control with enough practice.”
Considering what Merlin had done to the others, I was the only one to get a fighting chance, but nevertheless quite a few of the observers applauded as I got back to my feet.
“How are you feeling, Adrian?” asked Merlin.
“Dizzy,” I replied honestly. “For a moment there, I thought I might throw up.”
I was afraid Merlin might tell me that I was still too young to continue this training, but I had promised Alia that I wouldn’t lie about my condition.
Merlin merely nodded. “Disorientation is very normal when you are just starting. You’ll get used to it.”
We had class twice a week from then on. Everyone got their first breakthrough soon enough, but progress was slow from there. While nobody actually vomited, everyone admitted to feeling on the verge from time to time.
“Every controller’s rhythm is slightly different,” explained Merlin. “Once a controller knows you’re onto his game, he can alter the rhythm, strengthen it, or even deliberately release your mind in a feint and then violently re-establish contact. You have to constantly find your own rhythm of defense to counter the controller’s power. Against a professional berserker, that is the deadliest mind game you will ever play.”
“Are there any berserkers in Walnut Lane?” asked Terry.
“No,” replied Merlin. “And you’re not ready to practice with one anyway.”
I whispered to Terry, “You’re actually disappointed, aren’t you?”
Terry shrugged. “We’ll need to learn someday.”
To our surprise, Scott and I were better than the others at finding the elusive cracks in Merlin’s song as he slowly strengthened his psionic control on us each week. Candace was pretty good too, while the worst two were clearly Steven and Terry. I suspected that Steven who was often angry and Terry who was feeling increasingly impatient these days both lacked the calm that was needed to sense the subtle waves and rhythm of Merlin’s control. I couldn’t help feeling pleased that there was finally something combat-related that I was actually better at than Terry.
“Patience, Teresa dear,” I said teasingly.
“I’ll give you patience!” barked Terry, chasing me around the dojo and giving me something purplish for Alia to heal.
As the lessons progressed, we discovered that even within the cracks in psionic control, there were paths of greater and lesser resistance. Finding the path of least resistance could mean the difference between breaking free of the control and just feeling horribly queasy.
Furthermore, the lessons were a lot more physically taxing than I had expected. Merlin usually required us to find his cracks “amidst distraction,” as he called it, meaning that his students were a regular zoo, circus and freak show combined. The lessons always drew a large number of spectators, often including children from other Walnut Lane families who came here just for entertainment.
“We should be charging admission fees,” Scott joked wryly after his failed attempt to break out of a forced duck waddle left visitors breathless with la
ughter.
It wasn’t at all funny for the performers, though. The conscious effort it took to seek out the cracks in Merlin’s control often left us very emotionally spent. On days following our evening blocking lessons, I often had trouble focusing on my cooking and other responsibilities. Alia once caught me accidentally refilling the sugar bowl with salt.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Addy?” Alia asked anxiously.
“I’m no worse than anyone else,” I said, and it was true, though I shuddered to think what might have happened over dinner had Alia not caught my mistake.
Near the end of November, probably due to exhaustion, Heather became sick and had to stay in bed for three days straight. Since her job paid by the working hour, Rachael agreed to fill in until Heather got over her illness. Alia’s healing power was useless for things like this.
It was also around this time that Walnut Lane struck its colors. Tiring of the two Guardian factions’ repeated demands for Knights, Mrs. Harding officially declared Walnut Lane an independent Guardian breakaway settlement. We were now the Walnut Guardians, or as some of the younger ones joked, the Nutters.
“There’s a danger to this kind of move,” admitted Mrs. Harding when she invited herself over for dinner to check up on us in early December. “Not only do we pit ourselves against the larger Guardian factions, but if we are attacked by Angels, there’s little chance we can ask for reinforcements.”
“You can get reinforcements from me,” Terry said confidently.
“How are your trainees doing, then, Teresa?”
“Quite well,” replied Terry. “The older ones anyway. If the Angels ever do find us, then between your Knights and mine, Walnut will be ready for them.”
“I’m happy to hear that, dear,” Mrs. Harding said in a slightly strained voice. “But please make sure they do nothing rash. We must keep the peace for as long as we can.”
The Quest (Psionic Pentalogy Book 4) Page 12