What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series, стр. 43
Something shifted inside his brain then. It was a feeling similar to taking a math test and knowing he would get a perfect score, or beating Willa at chess when she almost always won. It happened when he made the right move...the best move. Just like the special dreams, the sensation was a secret, one he had never told anyone about, mostly because it would be so difficult to explain. He didn’t understand it himself, but he knew he trusted it.
For a boy who chose not to speak, the Shift was just one more addition to the War Chest of Oddities.
And the Chest was close to overflowing.
Chapter 14
Fergus
Fergus opened his eyes to late morning sun filtering in through the cabin’s solitary window. A boy sat motionless beside him, staring.
Harlan pressed a finger to his lips.
Fortunately for them both, Fergus’s squeal reflex had been successfully squelched after millennia of silently overcoming squeal-inducing situations. Skeeter lay on his bunk, emitting the chainsaw snores of the tired and the elderly.
Harlan handed him a note, then motioned toward the door. Fergus nodded, pulled on his boots, and followed the boy outside.
The scintillating aroma of smoked pork drew his attention toward the kitchen house, but only for a second. He ignored the rumblings of his belly and turned his focus to the boy, then the note.
“Shall I read it here?” They stood just outside Skeeter’s cabin. People were on the move, performing various chores, paying them not one iota of attention.
Harlan shook his head, took Fergus’s elbow, and guided him to the front steps of the rickety school building, away from the center of activity. Serena Jo had canceled classes; nobody could concentrate on learning or teaching while there was a murderer in their midst. They sat side by side on the warped pine planks. Fergus opened the folded note and began to read.
He could feel the golden eyes — eyes that so resembled those of the mother and the sister — upon him. He scanned the note, and read again. Then he went back over it slowly and mindfully, fully digesting every word. Finally, he folded the note and stuck it in his pocket.
Without looking at the boy, he said, “There are some very special people left in the world these days. I’ve met a lot of them. You’re one of them.”
He sensed Harlan nodding beside him.
“I bet you’ve always felt different from other kids. From other people.”
Another nod. More vigorous this time.
“I’m sure your mother and sister know you’re special. They’re special too, but not in the same way. You know that thing that your grandfather does? How sometimes he seems to hear people’s thoughts?”
A slow nod.
“Can you do that?”
Harlan hesitated, then gave a shoulder shrug.
“I bet you can a little. Maybe it sounds confusing, like a television commercial from two rooms away.”
Another nod.
“When your sister makes you swear a blood oath, whose cut heals the fastest?”
Harlan grinned and pointed at his chest.
“I know this next question will sound strange, but I’m going to ask it anyway. I need you to keep it just between the two of us. Can you promise me that?”
He faced the boy now, projecting his own inherent decency and goodness. This kind of conversation would — and should — put a child on high alert if that child had been properly educated about stranger-danger.
Harlan gave him another slow nod.
“Have you ever touched a person, or perhaps even a pet or animal, that was sickly or injured, and afterward that person or animal got better right away?”
Enhanced langthal was the Holy Grail of talents, prized by The Ancient Ones more than any other. It had taken tens of thousands of years for the Cthor to genetically engineer the trait — the ability to self-heal rapidly and also to heal other living creatures. If Harlan possessed enhanced lanthal, like Jessie in Kansas, Fergus would have no choice but to recruit him and take him to Cthor-Vangt, away from his home and family.
Harlan merely gave him a noncommittal shrug. Probably just as well.
“Okay. Back to the astral dreaming. Even though it’s not commonplace, others do it too. I’ve experienced it myself on a few occasions. Quite pleasant, isn’t it?”
A giant grin and a vigorous nod.
“Do you think you could make it happen rather than waiting for it?”
A shrug of the narrow shoulders.
“Will you try?”
Yes.
“Can you tell me where you saw the Witchy Lady?”
Yes.
“You’ll write down the directions or perhaps draw a map?”
Yes.
Fergus tilted his head and studied the boy for a few moments.
“Harlan, why don’t you speak? Your sister says it’s a choice, not a physical issue.”
In response, the boy merely stared at him with unblinking eyes.
“Very well. It’s your business. I hope you brought some paper and a pencil. I’d like to learn sign language someday, but there’s no time for that now.”
Harlan reached into his coat and withdrew a wrinkled piece of paper covered in pencil-eraser smears. He began to draw.
What appeared on the grimy sheet over the next few minutes might have been a pre-oil sketch by Lorrain or Patinir or any of the Renaissance landscape masters. Fergus shouldn’t have been surprised. Many of Chicxulub’s survivors possessed astounding artistic talent, but Harlan was so unassuming and quiet — a glowing crescent moon to Willadean’s blinding noonday sun — that he had simply been overlooked.
“I know where this is. It’s not far from the cemetery, yes?”
Another nod.
“Very good. Let me know if you’re able to dream fly again tonight. Now, run along,