Lesser Gods

by Adrian Howell

  “I think I’ll go practice my Braille,” I said.

  But as soon as I heard Cindy walk down the corridor, enter Terry’s room and close the door behind her, I crept silently along the corridor after her. I could already hear Terry speaking angrily to Cindy, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  Once I was closer to Terry’s door, I heard Cindy reply calmly, “I take it you already asked him yourself?”

  Terry said vehemently, “You should have heard him when I did, Cindy! ‘The boy is lucky to be alive at all. I’m not going to risk any more of my men on some fool’s errand.’ That’s what he said! All I asked for was six good Lancers.”

  Cindy’s tone remained even. “Mr. Baker has to act for the good of all of New Haven, Terry.”

  “Well, I don’t care about New Haven,” said Terry. “I’ve been to every Council member, every unit commander, every healer. I’ve been through the archives twice. Every piece of information the Guardians have. You’re the one who said the historian is a last resort. Well, we’re there, Cindy! You have to talk to Mr. Baker and allow me to make the crossing.”

  “I’ve pulled quite a few strings on Adrian’s account already,” replied Cindy.

  “But that’s not why you’re refusing to support me,” Terry said matter-of-factly. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not afraid that Adrian’s going to ship off on another mission the moment he regains his eyesight?”

  “Of course I’m afraid!” Cindy shot back, her voice rising. “But don’t you dare accuse me of deliberately keeping him blind!”

  “Then why?!”

  “Because you’re grasping at straws, Terry! What do you expect the historian to do for you? In all probability, he could very easily heal Adrian’s eyes, but he won’t! The historian deals only in information.”

  “I know that, Cindy! But if there’s any other way to heal him, the historian will have that information. I just have to be sure!”

  Cindy remained silent, and suddenly Terry shouted furiously, “You can’t just leave him in the dark like that!”

  “And I can’t let you risk your life again, Terry!”

  “It’s my life to risk! Maybe you’ve forgotten why I live here, but I haven’t. I’m your bodyguard, not your child!”

  Cindy said quietly, “Adrian’s at the door.”

  I opened the door and asked meekly, “How did you know?”

  Cindy seemed to smile. “You got too close. I’m a finder, remember?”

  “Right,” I said embarrassedly, entering Terry’s room.

  “How much did you hear?” asked Terry.

  “I was spying,” I confessed as I stepped closer to their voices. “I heard all of it.”

  “Good!” snapped Terry. “That saves a lot of time.”

  I still didn’t understand exactly what Terry was asking of Cindy and Mr. Baker, but I was sure of what I said next: “I don’t want you to risk your life for me, Terry.”

  “It’s not such a big risk, Adrian,” scoffed Terry. “Mr. Baker doesn’t think your eyesight is important enough for any risk at all.”

  Cindy said, “Mr. Baker knows that the historian can’t help Adrian.”

  “Well, I don’t!” Terry said heatedly. “Please, Cindy. I’m begging you. Please!”

  The silence that followed was unbearable. I was actually glad that I couldn’t see Terry’s expression.

  Cindy finally said in a quiet but firm tone, “Terry, I’ll go talk to Mr. Baker right now, but you have to promise me that if the historian can’t help, you’ll stop there. Adrian is learning to cope with his condition. I’m sure you can too.”

  Terry didn’t answer. Even as I realized the full implications of Cindy’s words, I nevertheless felt grateful to her for saying them openly in front of me. It was proof that Cindy did not see me as a child incapable of dealing with reality.

  “Terry?” Cindy repeated warningly.

  Terry replied in a subdued voice, “I promise, Cindy. Thank you.”

  Cindy’s footsteps headed toward the door, and as she passed me, I asked, “You knew what Terry had been up to all these weeks?”

  “Of course I did, Adrian,” Cindy replied mildly. “Girls talk.”

  Then Cindy said to Terry, “Alia is at the park with Laila now. There’s a basket of lunch and snacks for four on the living-room table. Why don’t you walk Adrian out there with it? It’ll keep your mind off of the verdict.”

  I heard Cindy’s quiet footsteps leave Terry’s room and head back down the corridor.

  I turned to Terry again, saying, “I always suspected you were out looking for a cure to my blindness, Terry, but I still wish you had told me.”

  “I probably should have,” said Terry. “Remember when that cow told you to wait outside her office?”

  I nodded, and Terry continued dejectedly, “I knew she had nothing but bad news, and I figured you should hear it straight. But I hoped I could find some good news for you, so I could surprise you with it. Well...” Terry let out a long sigh. “Surprise, Adrian. I found nothing.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. “Cindy’s right, though. If I never see again, I’ll still learn to cope.”

  Terry probably caught the lack of conviction in my voice. “Well, I’m still hopeful that the historian will provide some kind of lead,” she said.

  “So how can a historian help?” I asked.

  “Not a historian, Half-head. The historian.” Terry paused for a moment before asking in an incredulous tone, “You don’t even know who the historian is, do you?”

  “Wild-born,” I reminded her.

  Terry let out a weak laugh. “Let’s go to the park. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  We went back to the living room and Terry grabbed Cindy’s picnic basket. Cindy had already left the penthouse.

  “First off, it’s ‘the Historian’ with a capital H,” explained Terry as we got into the elevator. “It’s his title, and since no one knows his real name, it’s Mr. Historian if you ever get to talk to him.”

  I laughed at that, and then asked, “Have you ever met him?”

  “No,” replied Terry. “The Historian is a hermit. No one meets him without good reason.”

  “What makes him so special?”

  “If you can believe it, Adrian, the Historian is a 3000-year-old psionic.”

  “I’m already having trouble with that,” I said.

  “Well, it’s true,” said Terry. “The first psionic power he gained was complete physical regeneration. It is a power unique to the Historian. He can’t age, so he never grows old. He’s flesh and blood, so he can theoretically be killed, but he has gained so much power over the years that he’s the closest thing there is to a living god. Some people consider him to be an oracle of sorts, but I’m pretty sure he can’t tell the future. He likes to call himself the Historian, because that’s what he deals in: history and knowledge.”

  We exited the elevator. I used my cane to tap my way across the lobby as I asked, “Is he also a regenerative healer?”

  “In all probability, yes, but he won’t heal you. The Historian has taken a vow never to influence the natural course of history with his powers. He is a lore master, and trades information for various favors.”

  “Why is it dangerous to meet him?” I asked as we left the building.

  Terry touched my elbow to adjust my direction a little. “The Historian is a fickle person, but usually not a threat to anyone who comes to him in peace. The danger is in the approach. You see, the Historian has always had a soft spot for underdogs. Over the course of the war between the Angels and the Guardians, he’s been known to give a little extra help to whichever side is losing. Currently, that’s us, so the Angels will no doubt try to intercept any Guardian envoy attempting to make contact with him.”

  “That’s why you wanted a team?”

  “I’ll need a guide to get me through the mountains to where he lives, and we’ll need to bring gifts just to ask a question, regardle
ss of his answer.”

  “What kind of gifts?”

  “Cookies,” Terry said cheerfully. “I like peanut butter.”

  I heard her bite into one, and asked again, “What kind of gifts, Terry?”

  “Food, entertainment, fuel, money to pay for his servants, things like that.”

  “That’s it?” I asked disbelievingly. I had been expecting something a bit more fantastical, or at least harder to come by.

  “Even a 3000-year-old person has basic human needs, Adrian. Honestly, these cookies would be a good start.”

  “I’ll help bake some more,” I laughed.

  I couldn’t help feeling somewhat giddy remembering how forcefully Terry had spoken out for me back in her room. Cindy was right: It wasn’t at all bad having someone care about you. And while I realized that the Historian was my last hope at regaining my eyesight, suddenly that hope didn’t seem so faint.

  Terry spotted Laila and Alia cloud gazing in one of the park’s grassy clearings.

  “Terry!” Laila called out as we approached. “Adrian! You came!”

  I felt Alia tugging on my arm. “Addy! Are you feeling better?”

  I smiled to show her that I was.

  It was still early for lunch, but Alia claimed she was already hungry, so we sat on the grass and opened Cindy’s basket. I had a feeling there’d be no cookies left for the Historian.

  “Were you lying here all day?” asked Terry.

  “No,” replied Laila. “Alia was showing me some of her moves earlier. You’ve taught her really well, Terry.”

  “She’s a Knight too, now.”

  “I know,” said Laila. “So, Terry, um...”

  “It’s okay, Laila,” said Terry. “Adrian knows what we’ve been doing.”

  I hadn’t known that Laila had been helping Terry on her quest, and I said so.

  “I only helped a bit while school was out,” Laila said embarrassedly. “And I couldn’t find anything.”

  “Neither could I,” said Terry. “But guess what, Laila? I’m going to see the Historian!”

  Laila seemed to jump. “You are!? That’s amazing!”

  “Well, actually, I’m still waiting on the final word, but I’m pretty confident.”

  Laila giggled. “I hear he’s really cute.”

  At first I wondered how any girl could describe a 3000-year-old man as “cute,” but then I figured that if the Historian had gained his complete physical regeneration at the average age for a psionic coming into his power, he was probably somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five years old for all eternity.

  “I don’t care what he looks like,” Terry said through a mouthful of something. “Just as long as he’s as smart as they say. He better be worth the trip.”

  After eating, the four of us took a long stroll through the park. Cane in one hand and Alia’s guiding arm in the other, I was once again reminded of all that I couldn’t do, but that day it was just a bit more bearable. I remembered how I had felt on my first day back in New Haven, when I was still high from my blind sprint and believed that I could overcome anything. I knew better now, but I felt almost as good.

  Wanting to hear the outcome of Cindy’s negotiation with Mr. Baker, Laila accompanied us back to the penthouse, but Cindy hadn’t come home yet.

  “Why don’t you stay till she returns, Laila,” suggested Terry in the living room. “We have a bit of catching up to do anyway.”

  Then Terry assumed a commanding tone, saying, “Adrian, go to your room.”

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “Like Cindy said, girls talk. Now beat it!”

  I growled in annoyance but obediently left them to the living-room sofas. Alia didn’t follow me, and I first considered returning to the greenhouse, but then I decided that I might as well do some reading. Back in my room, I grabbed one of my Braille textbooks from my desk and sat on my bed, propping my back against the headboard. I groped around for my bedside clock and tapped the button.

  “It is now 1:01pm. I really should be getting paid for this,” said the mechanical voice.

  Perhaps Cindy was having lunch with Mr. Baker or some Council members. As much patience as I had learned over the past two months, I still didn’t like waiting. If I got my eyesight back, could I really rejoin the Ravens and go Slayer hunting with them? Would they even let me?

  One thing at a time! I still didn’t even know if Mr. Baker would allow Terry to see the Historian, to say nothing of whether a 3000-year-old cute guy could really provide the information that would lead to restoring my eyesight. Even so, I couldn’t focus my attention on the little dots in my Braille book. Suddenly the whole idea of mastering a language for the blind seemed purposeless. One small spark of hope was all I had, but it burned brighter than the noon sun.

  I shook my head furiously. I couldn’t let my hopes up only to have them dashed again. But I realized that the book in my hands had mysteriously closed. I left it on my pillow and made for the door. Perhaps I’d go sit in the greenhouse after all.

  “Addy! Cindy’s home.”

  I hadn’t heard my sister’s footsteps so I assumed she was throwing her telepathy through the walls. I hurried back to the living room where I heard Cindy asking Laila if she would stay for dinner.

  “The Council will be holding a special session this evening,” said Cindy, “so your mother probably won’t be home till late.”

  Cindy must have noticed me enter, because before I could even open my mouth, she said, “Yes, Adrian, Mr. Baker agreed.”

  I couldn’t help grinning. “When do we leave?”

  Terry said sternly, “We do not leave, Half-head, because you aren’t going.”

  “I knew that.” I cringed, feeling extra stupid as Alia burst out laughing.

  Cindy explained that Terry would join a team of Lancer Knights departing New Haven in two days time. The Council was going to gather later today to discuss what other questions they would ask the Historian.

  Cindy said, “Mr. Baker wants to make sure that the reward for the Guardians is well worth the risk.”

  “Well, that sure makes me feel important!” I joked sarcastically.

  Terry and Laila laughed, but Cindy was unamused. “Mr. Baker does value you, Adrian,” she said reprovingly. “The Council already sent an expedition to the Historian early this year, so if it weren’t for you, we probably wouldn’t be going again for at least another two or three years. You be sure to thank Mr. Baker next time you meet him.”

  “I will,” I promised, choosing not to bring up the fact that Mr. Baker wouldn’t have agreed to this if Cindy hadn’t intervened. It didn’t matter. The Historian was now within reach.

  “What other questions will the Council ask the Historian?” I asked, suddenly curious.

  “That’s what they’re going to discuss later today,” Cindy reminded me.

  “Well, what did they ask on the last trip?” I pressed.

  Cindy replied a little stiffly, “As always, a number of things designed to gain leverage on the Angels and other factions.”

  “Like how to find and kill the Angels’ second master?”

  “That was asked,” admitted Cindy, “but the Historian didn’t know.”

  Laila decided to stay for the rest of the day and have dinner with us, but she spent most of the afternoon in Terry’s room. Terry had made it clear that I was unwelcome there so I stayed in the living room. Alia went back and forth between us until I reassured her that I was perfectly fine on my own.

  “Are you sure, Addy?” she asked in a concerned tone.

  “Do I look like I’m in a bad mood?” I asked, smiling. “It’s okay. Go have fun with Laila. I’ll help Cindy with the cooking today.”

  “Okay.”

  Before Alia’s footsteps left the room, I asked, “What are they talking about in there, anyway?”

  “Can’t tell you, Addy.”

  “Why not?!” I demanded.

  “Terry made me promise. She said she’d tickle me for an
hour if I told.”

  “That sounds dire,” I agreed, knowing from experience that Terry always followed through on her threats. “You better go back before she gets suspicious.”

  I wasn’t curious enough to risk getting caught at the door twice in one day, so I didn’t follow her. While tickle torture was Terry’s standard approach to keeping Alia in line, she had even more painful ways of dealing with me.

  Over dinner that evening, I learned that the trip to see the Historian would take about seventeen days altogether. Seven days each way, including air travel and trekking through the mountains, plus a scheduled three days on site. If all went as planned, Terry might be back four or five days before my fifteenth birthday.

  “But don’t count on it,” warned Terry. “There’re always delays, so I’m not going to promise like I did for Cindy.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “Just another lesson in patience, Terry.”

  Cindy had once explained to me that emotional ups and downs were a common part of post-traumatic stress disorder. Upon reflection of that day, from my embarrassing temper tantrum in the morning to the cheerful anticipation I felt now, I had to admit that I probably did have a touch of PTSD. But nothing could break my mood that evening. If Laila had asked, I probably would’ve agreed to go to church with her the next day, but she didn’t ask.

  Terry was packed and ready well before sunrise Monday morning. She and the Lancer Knights had a 7am flight to catch. After a rushed breakfast, Cindy and Alia wished Terry good luck at the door, but I insisted on riding the elevator down with her.

  Some of my excitement had worn off during the previous day, and I was now in a more realistic mindset about the risks Terry might face and the possible outcomes of her mission.

  As the elevator started descending, I said worriedly, “Terry, I’m not sure how dangerous this is...”

  “It’s not dangerous,” insisted Terry.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I repeated. “But I know you can take care of yourself. Just... if this doesn’t work out, then listen to Cindy, okay? I’ve been blind for a while now. I’ll be alright.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Adrian,” said Terry, touching my arm lightly with the end of her left stump. “You never gave up on me, remember?”