by Posey, Jay
The old man was still watching him intently, and Wren felt the frustration rising. There was some game here, some riddle or puzzle that he didn’t see. He tried to remember the exact words the old man had said. One simple task. And then it clicked.
“You said to leave. The task was for me to leave.”
The old man dipped his head in a subtle nod, in a manner almost identical to the one Three used to have.
“The evaluation began last night,” he said. “You must learn to hear what I say, not what you think I say.”
Wren’s emotions did a somersault. He hadn’t failed after all. Or had he? There was no telling what the old man had been looking for; Wren hadn’t had any idea that he was already under scrutiny out there in the open. What evaluation could the old man have possibly done?
“This is the final portion,” the old man said. “And it will require your full attention. If you feel that you’ll be distracted by thirst or hunger, we can tend to those needs first.”
“How about being tired?”
“That part is expected,” the old man said with a smile. “Are you ready?”
“I think so,” Wren answered.
“Don’t tell me what you think, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Wren said. “I’m ready.”
“Very well,” the old man said. Haiku got up from the table then and without a word quietly left the room. The old man took a small black cylinder from a pocket and placed it on the table between them. “Sit up straight.”
Wren did as he was told, and the seriousness of the moment settled on him.
“Tell me,” the old man said. “What is this?”
Wren looked at it, there on the table in front of him. It was short, squat, black and seamless. There were no lights or displays. It could have been a solid chunk of metal or plastic, or it could have been filled with sand or ash. But Wren knew there was more to the question than mere guessing would provide. Or rather, a mere guess might tip things the wrong direction. He stretched out through the digital and tried to find a connection to the device. It was there, almost instantly he could see it, or feel it. He didn’t really have a word to describe what it was to connect this way because it was both sight and touch, in a way, and yet not really either. There was something to the device. And it was a device of some kind, though Wren couldn’t see its purpose.
“A device,” Wren said.
The old man’s facial expression didn’t change. Wren continued his interaction to see what more he could learn. The connection was there but it was difficult to latch on to. Evasive. Slippery. Like spots floating in vision, always fleeing when looked for. It was something like Underdown’s machine, though not as aggressive. Whereas the machine had actively resisted his attempts to connect remotely, this device seemed to passively avoid it; smoke curling around a grasping hand. Wren glanced back up at the old man who was still watching him intently.
“May I touch it?” Wren asked.
The old man nodded once.
Wren took the device in his hand, rolled it over in his palm. It was heavy, and cool to the touch. And now that he held it, the signal grew stronger in his mind. The connection became easier to hold in focus, though still it escaped his attempts to interface. An odd sensation accompanied it that he couldn’t quite place.
“It’s a device of some kind,” Wren said. “But I can’t connect to it.”
“Can’t?” the old man said, and his tone suggested Wren reconsider his words.
“Well, it’s difficult,” Wren said. And then a thought occurred to him. He wasn’t certain, but the hunch was there, and it came out of his mouth before he had a chance to talk himself out of saying it. “I might be able to get it if you’d quit moving it around.”
The old man’s face shifted into the barest trace of a smile.
In that moment, Wren realized the mysterious device itself was no longer important. It might not have even been important to begin with. The real test was in finding the old man’s signal, to figure out what he was doing, how he was manipulating the device’s connection protocols to prevent Wren from locking on to it. An invisible battle.
Wren had never tried this before, not really. With almost everything else he had ever done through the digital, he hadn’t been actively resisted. And that most likely explained the sensation he hadn’t been able to place before. The old man was there too, manipulating the device at the same time. Wren had no training for this sort of thing, no experience to draw from.
Except for the Machine. He had fought Asher there, somehow, more out of reflex than with any understanding. He tried to remember what that had felt like. Wren groped his way through the electromagnetic swirl looking not for a way to connect to the device, but for the hidden hand behind the signal. The old man was in there, somewhere. Wren knew it. But no matter where he looked or what he tried, he just couldn’t find any trace of him. Five minutes. Ten minutes.
Wren’s mind was already fogged with weariness, and now frustration piled on and threatened to give way to panic. This was his moment, his big test, and he was losing. And if he lost, he would fail. And if he failed, he would never forgive himself. But the more he tried to focus, the harder it all became. After twenty minutes, with no warning, the signal vanished.
“Enough,” the old man said.
“Wait,” Wren said. “I’m not done.”
“Yes you are.”
“No, please, I can keep going.”
“Perhaps you can, boy,” the old man said, “but I have learned what I needed to.”
“Sir, please–” Wren began, but the old man held up his hand and cut him off. It wasn’t the gesture that stopped the words, it was the hard, piercing stare of the man’s dark eyes. But Wren was desperate. This was his best chance, his only chance, and it was slipping away. The old man’s signal was there, it had to have been. The device was off. Haiku wasn’t connected. The only other signal nearby would have to be the old man’s.
Wren stretched out again, rode the wave of fear and frustration as it built inside. Invited it. And there, he found the old man’s signal, now unguarded. Without plan or purpose, Wren attached to it.
The old man’s eyebrows went up, surprised by Wren’s connection or maybe by his audacity.
“And what, boy, do you think you’re going to do with that?”
Wren didn’t know but he didn’t care. He had to show this old man what he was capable of, somehow. Attached to the signal, Wren started crawling his way up the chain, looking for something, anything he could grab hold of, or disrupt, or lash out at. It was like the time when Mama had been unconscious, after Painter had killed Connor, and Wren had been so scared and all he knew was that he needed Mama to wake up. Except Mama’s signal had been quiet and flat then, an easy, meandering stream. The old man’s was like a lightning bolt.
Before Wren could figure out what he was doing, pressure came against him. The old man resisting him, gradually pulling free. Wren had to do something. And he did the first thing he could think of. He broadcast. The way Lil had taught him or, rather, the way he’d figured out how to do it after Lil had taught him. He turned his signal outward, amplified it as much he could, the way he had against the Weir. And with it, the pressure that had threatened to force him out vanished, as if he had broken through it.
“Mm,” the old man said.
Wren was doing it. Whatever it was, he had broken through the old man’s initial defenses. And then, without warning, everything went terribly, terribly wrong. Pain blossomed in the middle of his brain, white hot. His ears rang. Was the old man attacking him back? Wren resisted, pushed harder, bent all his will and effort to boosting his own signal. But the harder he pushed, the greater the pain grew. The old man sat placidly in front of him, as if completely unaware of, or unmoved by, Wren’s distress. Wren opened his mouth to scream against the searing of his senses, but nothing came out. His entire body was seized.
And the next moment, it all ceased. Wren slumped forward with a choking exhale. But almost immediate
ly he began to recover, the pain fading quickly to memory, to something imagined. Whatever had just happened to him didn’t seem to have any lasting physical effect. The psychological impact was far worse.
“Haiku!” the old man called, his voice sharp. Haiku reappeared and stood at the entry. The old man motioned to a seat at the table, which Haiku walked over to and took.
The old man looked at Haiku for a span, and then at Wren for longer. Wren felt himself wilting under the gaze. It reminded him of the time he’d snuck out of the compound at Morningside one night. The night he’d found Painter. And when he’d come back with his shirt torn and bloodied, Mama had been so furious that, after she’d held him tight and checked his wounds, she’d sat him in a chair and stared at him something like that. Eyes smoldering while she tried to find her way through the emotion to get to the words underneath. The difference here was that while the old man’s eyes were just as intense, they were completely unreadable; no anger, no disappointment, no emotion whatsoever. And somehow that was even worse.
“Your problem, boy,” the old man said, “is that you’ve been told you are special.” He paused and scratched the tip of his nose with a finger, smoothed his wispy mustache and beard. “That you have a gift. A gift you said. Your words. And worse, you believe it, don’t you?”
Wren couldn’t withstand the man’s gaze or his hard words. Tears started to form, and he didn’t want the old man to see it. He looked down at his hands in his lap and started picking at the red spot next to his thumbnail.
“Look at me, boy.”
Wren couldn’t do it. Not yet. Get it under control.
“Look at me!” the old man said and his voice was so sharp and powerful that Wren obeyed even against his will. And when his eyes met the old man’s, he found he couldn’t look away. Tears dripped onto his cheeks.
“You are here, boy, because you believe it,” the old man continued, his voice returning to its normal crackly tone and volume. “Because you believe you are special. Because you believe you alone can change the course of events. Perhaps you even believe you’ve been destined for something great. Chosen.”
The old man leaned towards him across the table. “Is that what you believe, boy? That you are a Chosen One?”
No. Wren didn’t believe that. Did he? He’d never thought of himself as any of this, and yet the man’s words were sinking deep into his soul and making him doubt. Making him wonder. And the fact that Wren couldn’t be certain shook him.
The old man leaned back in his chair.
“You are many things. Small, frightened, fragile. Weak. But boy, you are most assuredly not special.”
Wren didn’t know what to say. It was clear he’d not only failed, but that he’d failed in some catastrophic way. He wondered if Haiku was going to face the old man’s wrath just for having brought Wren to him.
“I have raised many children. This test,” he said, holding up the dark cylinder, “was something my children could solve before their sixth birthday. You did not even reach the part meant to be a challenge.”
Wren glanced at Haiku, but Haiku was looking down at the table. Maybe he was feeling some of Wren’s shame.
“You’re too old. It would take months to correct much of the nonsense you’ve no doubt been filled with, the habits and patterns of thought that you’ve developed under careless eyes. And some of them you will never unlearn.”
That was all Wren could bear. It was bad enough that he’d wasted so much time and effort already. There was no need for him to accept this berating, no matter who the old man was. Wren wiped the stupid tears off his face.
“You can just say no,” Wren said. “There’s no reason to be so nasty about it.”
The old man didn’t reply. Haiku had looked up at Wren, and now his eyes were shifting back and forth between him and the old man. After a moment, Wren stood up.
“I’ll get my things,” he said. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Sit,” the old man said. Wren remained standing by his chair, hesitating. But the old man inclined his head towards Wren’s chair, and Wren felt compelled by the motion to retake his seat.
“These words are hard for you to hear,” the old man said, “because they are new to you. But you must hear them if you are to be my student. I am not a man who tolerates illusions. My House deals in realities only, and they are perplexing enough without the confusion of dreams and wishes.”
And now Wren was completely confused. After that raw, unambiguous, and vicious account of all of Wren’s faults, had the old man just implied that he might actually be considering taking Wren under his teaching?
“You have sensitivity, but no discipline,” continued the old man. “Determination without focus. Instinct and will, perhaps. And I will concede that you appear to have some natural talent, however small. In times of great stress or emotion, maybe you have noticed certain abilities manifest or become enhanced?”
Wren almost didn’t catch the question, and wasn’t even sure if he was supposed to answer. But the words certainly rang true. He remembered how he’d resisted Asher, or first turned back the Weir the night they killed Mama. The feeling that something was growing in his chest that threatened to make him explode.
“Yes, sir,” Wren said, when the old man didn’t continue. The old man nodded.
“I’ve spoken at length with Haiku. And though I believe he’s overstated a few things, I would never lightly disregard the recommendation of one of my children. I cannot make you all that you might have been, but I can fashion you to a specific purpose, if you are willing to submit to the training.”
It took a moment for Wren to realize what the man was saying. But when he did, his heart surged.
“You mean... you mean you’re willing to teach me?”
Again the old man held up his hand, cutting Wren off.
“Don’t think for a moment this had anything to do with your little outburst. I appreciate determination, not rash behavior where calculated patience is required. And I have no tolerance for tricks suitable for a circus. None of this will be easy for you. You are already far behind, and you will find that much of what you consider your strength is in fact a snare for you. The only way forward is through pain, struggle, and trial. I will teach you, boy. But I will teach you as fire teaches flesh.”
“I understand,” Wren said. The old man smiled at that.
“Not yet.”
Wren held the man’s gaze. “Whatever it takes.”
“Take the day to consider,” the old man said. “Eat, sleep, gather yourself. This is not a decision for you to make lightly.”
“Sir,” Wren said. “I made my decision before I left Greenstone.”
“Wren,” Haiku said. “To be clear, this isn’t something you can begin and then walk away from. You must be willing to give up everything from your previous life.”
“I’ll do anything to stop Asher.”
“It’s more than that. Much more,” Haiku said. “Father is inviting you to become part of House Eight.”
Wren felt the gravity in Haiku’s voice, and knew there was more to them than he understood. “I don’t know what that means,” he said.
“This isn’t merely a commitment you would make to me,” said the old man. “You would be making it to Haiku as well. To Three. To all those who came before you. There is legacy and lineage here. If you accept entrance, then forever afterward you will belong to House Eight. Even if you were to run to the other side of the world, that would not absolve you of your responsibility to the House.”
The world tilted as Wren’s entire perspective transformed. All this time he had been looking at the whole experience through a single focus; how this old man could help him overcome his brother. He’d thought all of this was about solving a problem that they were all facing, one he was uniquely positioned to handle. It had never entered his mind that he would have to make any lasting commitment to these people.
“This is why you must count the cost,” the old
man continued. “The price is your life. Nothing less.” He waited a beat while that thought sank in. And then–
“If your mother showed up today and told you to go with her, would you turn her away?”
The question struck Wren like an icy cascade. The old man had found his greatest weakness and struck it precisely, a knife-blade between the ribs.
“I...” Wren said, and then trailed off. The magnitude of the decision was on him with razor-edged clarity. His mind swirled with contrary thoughts. There was a weight of history here that he hadn’t anticipated, a world unimagined unfolding itself before him. It was too much to ask of him. He was only a boy. Was it truly worth giving up everything he had known before to cross into a new life he knew nothing about? How could he possibly know that now? And yet, how could he turn away from what was being offered to him? And while his thoughts raced and collided, and his heart pounded with the enormity of the moment, a hidden part of his spirit revealed itself in stillness.
None of what was going on in his mind or body truly mattered. He knew in his spirit there was no real choice here. Whatever else lay ahead, the man was offering ultimate victory at the end. Now that it had been laid before him, as frightening as it was, Wren could not willingly refuse to take it.
“I would have to, sir,” he said. And as the words left his mouth, he knew they were true. Some part of him let go, then. Let go of Mama. “The thing you’re promising me is the thing I would already give my life for.”
“I promise you nothing,” the old man said. “Nothing beyond instruction. When the time comes, I cannot guarantee you will succeed.”
Mol’s words floated back to Wren, the ones that had convinced him to take this journey. Or rather, the words that had given him the courage to do what he knew he should.
“If I die trying,” he said, “then at least when the end comes, I’ll know I gave all I could.”
“Mm,” the old man replied. “We’ll see.” He looked at Wren for a moment and something had shifted in his dark eyes. Still they pierced, though they seemed to search less. Maybe he was at last seeing the strength of Wren’s conviction, a conviction that had been absent until moments ago.