didn’t you tell me sooner?” he snaps, leaning forward.
“I tried calling you the next day – you didn’t answer, and when I checked the news all I found was the Marshall thing, so… I don’t know. It’s like I know something, but I don’t know what I know.” I hesitate, feeling foolish. I wish I could speak with more conviction but all I have is a hunch, not even a premonition.
“Go on, my girl. Tell me what you are thinking.”
I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. “Well, you say Marshall is gifted, and the girl in my dream said the gifted are dying, and that night he disappeared, and there was the other dream with the rock…” I stop and take a breath. “Maybe I’m supposed to prevent more gifted from disappearing.”
“Ah,” Ntatemogolo murmurs, and I know what he’s going to say next. “Don’t place that burden on your shoulders, my girl. It is not your job to save the world.”
He’s said this before. My premonitions come when they want – before an event, during it or long after it’s happened. I have premonitions of some things but not of others. A lot of the time they alert me to things over which I have no control. I used to get so frustrated. What’s the point of seeing something if you can’t do anything about it?
But that’s the nature of gifts. I’m not going to see every threat before it happens, throw on a spandex suit and run off to save somebody. Still, sometimes I get the feeling I’m meant to be useful to the world in a bigger way than I’ve been. Is that arrogant? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel like crap when someone gets hurt and I couldn’t stop it.
“I don’t want to save the world,” I tell my grandfather. “Just Henry Marshall.”
He’s quiet for some time. Usually he’s the hardest person to read, but today I know exactly how he feels. He’s worried about me. He’s been worried since he got back. He thinks the time I spent with the Puppetmaster has had a detrimental effect on me. The last thing I want to do is add fuel to that fire, so I decide to keep my growing powers to myself a little longer. It’s ironic that I don’t see the question coming.
“Connie, have you noticed anything strange about your gift of late?”
For a second I’m too stunned to respond. How did he know?
“Some of my clients tell me they are having trouble controlling their gifts,” he continues. “They seem to be stronger than usual. I thought my gift was unaffected, but now I can feel a slight surge in power. Do you feel it as well?”
I have to make a conscious effort to keep the relief from showing all over my face. It’s not just me. Thank God. “Yes,” I breathe, and the word is a weight off my chest. “My gift has been more sensitive lately.”
He strokes his beard. “I haven’t heard news of any significant supernatural event, but something is going on. It might also explain why you are having these vivid dreams. Describe the first one to me again.”
I oblige. I remember every detail, down to the scent of wet soil on that misty field.
“Could the object pushing the rock into the ground have been a staff?”
I frown. “Like the kind wizards carry in stories? I don’t know. It seemed heavy. Dark and rounded.”
“The head of a staff?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Why? Would it make a difference?”
“Oh, yes. There are rituals that involve placing markers at specific points. Quartzite is often used for such purposes. You can’t touch the markers or they will become tainted, so a sorcerer will use a purified staff to fix the markers in place. It is possible your dream is a premonition of such a ritual. But it is also possible the dream is a metaphor.”
“A metaphor for what? Is it saying something is buried that I need to uncover?”
“I wish I had the answers. I will do what I can to learn more.” He reaches for another cigarette, then changes his mind. “It has been a long time since our last training session.”
I look at him in surprise. Was that a note of indignation?
“I suppose you are too busy, or perhaps you no longer need my help.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. When the Puppetmaster impersonated my grandfather we worked hard on my gift and I grew tremendously, more than in all the months I trained with my real grandfather. Ntatemogolo is jealous of that fact, though he won’t admit it. The Puppetmaster pushed me in ways my grandfather never would. Ntatemogolo’s technique is more tough fitness trainer than Zen master with a big stick. He may not have led me to build a full-time psychic barrier or unlock a magically sealed box with my mind, but I wouldn’t be anywhere without his guidance.
“I’m always going to need your help,” I tell him gently. “We can start right now.”
He’s trying not to smile. “I want you to show me your new trick.”
“Opening boxes with my gift? I’ve only done it once.”
Ntatemogolo gets up and walks to the chest in the corner where he keeps his tools. He returns carrying a small hardcover book.
“That’s not fair!” I grumble. “You know how difficult it is for me to read paper.”
He gives me a smug smile and places the book on the mat between us. “What was the Puppetmaster teaching you if you still have trouble with paper?”
I grit my teeth. This is the thanks I get for reassuring him that he’s still my number one mentor? Well! “What do you want me to do?”
“I have written some notes in the book.”
I pick up the book and open it. The pages are blank. “Invisible ink?”
He laughs. It’s clear he’s been planning this game for some time and intends to relish every moment. “I concealed them. You must find a way around my security system.”
I take a deep breath. “All right. Prepare to be amazed.”
“I am not amazed,” he remarks a while later, after my eleventh attempt.
I push the book away in frustration. I thought it would be easier than usual, with my growth spurt and all, but it wasn’t. I could sense the concealments but couldn’t find a way to undo them. Training your gift is like training your body – the first session after a break feels like you’re back at square one. Right now my brain wants to burst out of my skull.
Ntatemogolo chuckles. “OK, enough for today. You see, my girl, I may not be a powerful sorcerer, but I am still a master.”
I nod, too tired to argue. “You’re the man, Ntatemogolo.”
He’s in too good a mood to object to my colloquialism. He walks me out and stands on the veranda, chortling. When I turn around halfway down the street, he’s still grinning at me. My head is pounding, but I can’t help smiling. It’s good to have him back, even if he is the most annoying old man on the planet.
I’m less concerned about the changes in my gift now that I know
