Freakling (8 page)

Moke puffed up his chest. “Then maybe I still have a chance. I always thought he should pick me.”

Taemon laughed and felt his tension ease. “Cha, right.”

He could trust Moke. He had to.

In the Sacred Cycle, Rain was a symbol of prosperity. It was prospering cats and dogs at the moment. Today was the Sabbath, and Taemon was going to church with his parents to bring an offering. Would the priests reveal what was going on at the temple? What would they say?

When Taemon came downstairs, he saw Da carrying the offering box with his bare hands. Homegrown tomatoes, squash, peppers, and three generous measures of grain filled the box. He lugged it into the living room, set it by the door, stood up, and rubbed his back. “Feels good to do things without psi once in a while. Builds character, builds muscle, helps you remember that psi is a gift from the Heart of the Earth.”

This was Da’s weekly speech about keeping the Sabbath. It used to be unlawful to use psi on the Sabbath day. But life without psi — even if just for a day — was inconvenient, difficult even, so everyone basically ignored that rule. Everyone except Da. His archaic Sabbath observance had always been a little embarrassing, but now it was the one bright day in each of Taemon’s dreary weeks, a short rest from the hard work of keeping up appearances.

I don’t need that speech anymore,
thought Taemon.
I do without psi every day.
But he didn’t say it. Mam and Da were anxious this morning, and he had no wish to make it worse.

“I can carry it if you want,” Taemon said.

“Go ahead,” Da said. “Take a turn. This is how my father took his offering to church, and my grandfather before that. See the worn handles on the box? That represents the Houser family’s tradition of devotion.” Da’s voice held the same passion, the same resolve, even under the pressure from the elders. Taemon had to wonder if Da was acting brave or foolish.

Into the room walked Mam, who used psi to place her embroidered tablecloth on top of the vegetables, then arrange it just so. Then she turned to inspect Taemon.

“Wiljamen.” She spoke to Da but didn’t look at him. Instead she was using psi to smooth Taemon’s jacket and straighten his cuffs. “You’re not going to make a fuss today, are you? Remember what’s at stake.”

“I’ll be fine,” Da said. “Let’s go.”

Taemon picked up the offering box and followed his parents out the door. They would walk to church, just as they did every week, since Da would never agree to drive the quadrider on the Sabbath. That would require psi. Good thing it wasn’t far.

Fat rain pelted Taemon as soon as he stepped off the porch. The box was heavy, and he felt clumsy with it.

“Don’t drop it,” Da said.

“I won’t.” Taemon tried to find a better position for the box.

Mam fumbled with an umbrella, an absurd mushroom-shaped thing with a handle. No one used umbrellas anymore. She attempted to cover Taemon and the offering box while she and Da got half-soaked in the rain.

Taemon noticed the strange looks from people passing by in their quadriders. They made an odd sight, the three of them lurching and stumbling down the sidewalk, awkwardly trying to stay together under an umbrella that couldn’t possibly cover them all.

At church, the sanctuary was buzzing with talk. Taemon couldn’t hear the words, but he was certain it was about the True Son.

Taemon was the only one who walked up and carried the box to the front of the sanctuary and placed the offerings on the table one by one. Everyone else used psi. He looked at the other offerings on the table. Gold and silver items were popular — cups, platters, jewelry, garden decorations. Glassware, beautifully crafted. Expensive spices. Quite a bit of clothing this Sabbath, in bright colors, elaborately fashioned and embroidered. There was a telescope that looked interesting. The vegetables and grain from Taemon’s family were among the few edible items. He returned to his seat.

Da was frowning, and Taemon knew why. Seemed like every Sabbath the offerings included less food and more trinkets. The offerings were supposed to help the poor people and also support the priests. Of course the priests were the ones who decided who got what, and Taemon was pretty sure that silver tray with the gold filigree edge wasn’t going to end up on a poor family’s table. Most of the finery went to the priests while the poor people got poorer. It didn’t sit well with Da.

Sure enough, Taemon heard Da whisper, “Poor people need tomatoes more than they need earrings.”

Mam glared at him.

When the singing began, Taemon felt himself relax. Hearing Da’s deep, rich voice soothed his thoughts.

The hymn ended, and the priest walked in. Only it wasn’t the priest who normally officiated at Taemon’s church. It was the high priest himself, Elder Naseph, who walked to the pulpit in all his finery and his jinglery. Taemon wondered if he used psi to make them jangle more noisily. Following the high priest were the innocents, the powerless people who lived in the temple and served the priests. Taemon had always ignored them before, but lately he’d been studying them when he could. Was there any way to tell they were powerless? Did it show in their faces? In their bearing? It was hard to say. The innocents kept their heads bowed and their eyes downcast.

Elder Naseph reached the pulpit, and the innocents took their places behind him. The huge book of scripture resting on the pulpit opened itself.

Da opened his book also. Da didn’t use psi, this being the Sabbath and all, so he held the book with his hands and turned the pages with his fingers. The pages rustled noisily. Done with psi, it would have been silent. People glared at him, including Mam, but Da acted like he didn’t notice.

A silent exchange took place between Elder Naseph and Da. The high priest’s intimidating glower seemed to have no effect on Da. He returned the glower with a steady, serene look, as if he’d done nothing wrong. Which he’d hadn’t. Not really.

Elder Naseph broke the staring duel when he looked down to read from the scriptures. “‘The Son who is True shall bear the people into the next Sacred Cycle. A cycle of knowledge. A cycle of new power. A cycle of leadership over many nations.’”

What was that? Taemon had just read that passage a few days ago, and he was sure it didn’t say those things. Where was the part about peace and deliverance? Without turning his head, Taemon shifted his gaze to Da’s book and followed the passage. Sure enough, it was just as Taemon had remembered it. Elder Naseph had changed it. He knew Da was reading along. Was he openly taunting Da? Daring him to object?

The scriptures on the pulpit closed, and Elder Naseph looked over the congregation. “The great day is at hand. You shall tell your children and your grandchildren that you saw the beginning of the Sacred Cycle of Power. It is time for the people gifted by the Heart of the Earth to lead the world in righteousness.”

The high priest paused to let his words weave their spell. Taemon wondered what “lead the world” meant. Was he talking about ending the hundreds of years of isolation from the powerless world? That couldn’t be right. When the first of Nathan’s descendants had tried to live in the nonpsi world, it had led to nothing but paranoia and hatred during the Great War. The idea alone made Taemon feel queasy.

He turned to look at Da. His father’s face was as still as concrete.

Elder Naseph continued. “Great blessings do not come without great sacrifice. You will be asked to contribute your psi to the community in ways that have not been asked before. There is no room for doubt. There is no place for questioning. Only through exact obedience will the new cycle of power take place.”

Taemon looked around the sanctuary. Were people believing this? Were they that blind? He studied the faces that surrounded him. Eager. Excited. Enthralled.

“Prepare yourselves and your families. For on the day One Quake, the True Son will be announced and the Cycle of Power shall begin.”

Taemon frowned. One Quake was his birthday, a couple months away. He would be thirteen.

Everyone in Deliverance was obsessed with the announcement of the True Son. It was weeks away, but everyone had a prediction about who would be chosen, about what astonishing thing would be done. Huge parties were in the planning for the night of the ceremony, and getting invited to the right party was crucial.

But Taemon had more important things on his mind. Things like how to get by without being able to open doors with psi. Or staying after school to finish a project because he couldn’t take it home without carrying it by hand. Or learning how to play a musical instrument without psi.

Music was a required class because it developed discipline and precision with psi. Da had arranged to get Taemon excused from music class until he recovered completely from his accident, but Brother Usaro’s patience had long ago run out, and it was time for Taemon to come up with a new plan. First, he convinced Brother Usaro to let him switch to the bass drum. He told the teacher he needed lots of extra practice and asked permission to take the drum home for the weekend. Da had to carry it home for him.

In Da’s workshop, Taemon took the drum apart. Knowing that drums used to be played with sticks and mallets in the days before psi, he tinkered with different contraptions until he figured out how to rig a mallet attached to a lever inside the drum. On the outside of the drum, disguised among the tension rods and mounting lugs, he added a bar that he could push with his foot or knee to control the mallet. He put it all back together and even managed to tune it properly.

He practiced for hours in the workshop, different positions, different ways to use the lever without drawing attention to it. Now it was time to join the music class.

Unfortunately, they were working on a particularly difficult piece at the moment.

“Not bad,” Brother Usaro said after the first run-through.

Not bad? The orchestra had the musical quality of a quadrider crash.

“We have to sort a few things out,” Brother Usaro said. “Try that again while I listen for trouble spots.” He used psi to start his baton bouncing the rhythm at the front of the room. Meanwhile, he walked around the classroom, weaving between the students, tilting his head and listening intently.

As the teacher made his way to the back of the room, Taemon found it more difficult to concentrate. He couldn’t seem to stay with the beat.

Brother Usaro stopped next to Taemon and waited for the end of the song.

Taemon wanted to groan.

“The foundation for every orchestra is the percussion. We’ll start with the bass drum.”

Why had he thought this could work? His plan was unraveling on the very first day of music class!

Brother Usaro stood right behind him. “Lay down a steady beat for us, Taemon.”

The drum was on its stand. Taemon stood next to it and casually rested his thumb on the lever. He played, keeping his body as still as possible like all musicians did. The idea was that movement or facial expressions might distract from the music itself. Taemon had to move his thumb a squinch, but he positioned his body to shield the movement from the teacher’s view.

Brother Usaro rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Something’s not right. Let me try.”

Taemon held his breath as Brother Usaro played the drum himself.

“Seems okay,” he muttered. “Let’s hear you play one more time.”

Again Taemon assumed his casual position, which he had rehearsed carefully at home, moved his thumb in place, and played the drum.

“Aha! I see what you’re doing.”

Taemon flinched and prepared for the worst.

“You are mistakenly applying psi to the inside of the drum and pushing it outward,” Brother Usaro said. “It’s a subtle difference, but I can see it now. I want you to use your psi to push on the outside of the drum. Push it inward, not outward. Try again.”

Skies! How was he supposed to push inward? The mallet only worked one way. Taemon took his position and played the drum the only way he could, which was exactly the same way he had played it a moment ago.

“No, that’s still not right,” Brother Usaro said.

Taemon bit his lip and screwed up his face, hoping to imitate utmost concentration. “I’ll get it this time.”

He played again. The same way.

Brother Usaro frowned.

The class murmured, and Taemon heard them shifting in their seats. He looked at Brother Usaro and shrugged. “I guess I’ve been practicing the wrong way all this time. It might take me a while to change.”

Brother Usaro nodded. “Keep trying. You’ll get it.” He moved on to the other percussionists.

Taemon closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the Heart of the Earth.

Uff!
The psiball hit Taemon in the stomach. He and Moke had been practicing psiball for two hours in Moke’s backyard.

“Perfect!” Moke yelled. “That’s exactly what we need. If you block the ball with your body, it doesn’t matter how much psi the other team has. Let’s do it again.”

“This time I’ll throw the ball and you do the
uff,
” Taemon said.

Moke laughed. “You’ll never get an
uff
out of me.”

After weeks of practice, their strategies were finally coming together. When the ball got past Moke and rolled into the weeds, they decided to call it quits for the day. Then, as had become their custom, they collapsed on the grass to discuss strategy.