The Conformity (28 page)

“So?” Tap says. He's trying to be aggressive—as always, fronting—but the way he says it, that one word has none of the force of anger or bitterness behind it. It makes him sound like a little boy.

“So,” Madelyn says, “when this is over, I hope you all can reclaim what's been taken from you. If not your innocence, then at least a respite from the weight of the world. Freedom from this crushing responsibility. I don't understand everything that's going on … this Shreve kid and his message … but no child should feel like they're responsible for the whole world.”

She turns and walks over to the clinic doors, leaving us standing there, looking after her.

“You three ever need anything, a roof, an ear, a meal, a place to crash. Someone to talk to. Anything. Come to me. I will take care of it. You understand?”

Not sure I do. This dumpy old woman says things that make me feel angry and confused all at once, like I've been pushed in the pool and don't know which way is up.

Jack, who's watching her intently, nods slowly, his jaw locked and the fine muscles in his cheek standing out in relief. He really is a good-looking guy. His awkwardness due to his height has fallen away. Maybe because of the sex, maybe because of some fractional growth—
filling out,
Grandma used to say when discussing my breasts with anyone who cared to hear—but Jack looks more like a man now and less like a boy. Or maybe because of what the old lady has said. We've skipped right over adolescence into adulthood. Hell, maybe Jack even skipped over childhood.

There's a lump in my throat, and no amount of clearing it will make it go away.

“You kids be safe. Protect each other. Be kind,” she says as she pulls out her key and unlocks the door. “I'll be here when you're through. Come see me.” She stops, gives a small, gloved wave, and says, “Bye, now.” The door shuts slowly and she's gone.

“Bye,” Tap says, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.

No need to hang around this town anymore. There's a break in the clouds and a column of pale winter sunlight passes over us, for a moment transforming the parking lot into a brilliant, crystalline dream. It's been so long since we've seen the sun, the sight of it makes my heart throb in my chest.

Jack looks at me, his expression calm. Quiet.

Time to go,
he sends. It echoes in my mind.

We rise up on the wind, into the breach in the clouds, perfect for our passing.

thirty-one

CASEY

The old loggers' cabin is hard to make out in the thick, snow-heavy woods. But throughout the day Nelson has been a steady guide—even those times when Shreve lost control of his horse, dropping the reins, and began frantically, helplessly beating at the air. Nelson remained calm and collected, turning his horse and collecting Shreve's before he could fall.

“If you hadn't pointed it out,” I say, nodding at the low-slung wooden structure, “I never would've seen it.”

“This is why you need to stay on the highways,” Nelson says, giving a soft smile. “Even old hands like me have a tough time making out in the winter.” Nelson dismounts and pushes his way through the knee-high drifts to the cabin's vacant doorframe and leads his pony past the door into the darkness of the interior.

“We're taking the horses inside?” Shreve asks, incredulous.

“It appears so,” Negata answers, sitting placidly on his little skewbald. He swings his leg over the pommel easily and hops down. Negata says he's never ridden a horse before, but it's hard to believe. I'm loath to admit it, but he's a better rider than I am, even with all the lessons I had. I've never seen a man more centered in his body.

I dismount, and Shreve haltingly follows suit.

Inside the cabin, the horses press together, breathing heavily. In the other half of the cabin there's an open space, a stone fireplace that looks like it was cobbled together when the world was young and there was no concept of right angles. Nelson strikes a match, a bright blossom of light in the gathering gloom, and in moments has an ancient oil lantern burning and hanging from one of the low-hanging rafters.

With Nelson leading, we gather firewood. It takes a few moments to realize that he's teaching us how to find dry wood under snowdrifts, his easygoing instruction style is so subtle. A natural teacher, I think.

When we've piled the wood back in the cabin, Nelson sets to work starting the fire. Negata and Shreve watch him closely.

Nelson strips the bark from one of the older, dryer logs and then uses a knife to whittle long, thin strips of wood from the smoother, exposed wood.

“Why're you doing that?” Shreve asks.

“Kindling. Starting fires is hard work and usually done at the end of the day, when you're tired, right?” Nelson says. Before long he's got a pile of long, thin pieces of wood. He splits the pile in half and says, “Put aside some, because you never know when you might need it.” With the remainder he makes a small, misshapen pile in the hearth. Taking one of the longer pieces, he lights it from the lantern and then returns to ignite the pile. Then he continues to feed the fire with increasingly larger pieces of wood until it's burning merrily.

Later, we gather snow for water and set beans to cooking. Everyone is silent. The constant static motion of the fire has a hypnotic quality, and I find it more entrancing than a television. Shreve makes a pallet and studiously does not look at me. If I stand in front of him, he looks elsewhere. It's only when I place my blankets by his that he glances at me. And then blushes.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Shreve,” I whisper in his ear. “Don't be so silly.”

We're silent for a long while until the beans are done. At the farm, Nelson seemed somewhat gregarious and good-humored, but now he's quiet, and there's never been much dialogue from Negata. We eat the beans in steaming tin cups with cheap spoons—all provided by Nelson—and listen as the fire cracks and pops. Exhaustion washes over me. It's been so long since I've ridden hours upon hours, and I can feel the burning in my thighs and calves and ass. I can't even begin to think of how Shreve feels.

I arrange the blanket over us. Watching the fire, we push our bodies together against the cold. And sleep.

It's late, and the fire's been banked but is still giving off enough light to make out the rough shape of Nelson, lightly snoring in the corner nearest the horses, and the silhouettes of Negata and Shreve sitting near each other. The air smells of woodsmoke and horse, manure and piss. It's a swampy, moist smell that's strong but not totally unpleasant.

“It's not enough that you consider solely yourself,” Negata is saying in a hushed voice. “You can become infatuated with the flesh—and this is a good thing, I think, a
right thing
for a boy your age. The act of negation is much like meditation. It is a lessening of all desires. Stripping away of wants. Stripping away of needs until all that is left is the naked blade—”

“The match flame,” Shreve says. He's got a piece of wood in his hands, and he's slowly whittling off long, curling slices for tinder. There's some emotion there, behind his words, but like the fire, it's banked.

“If that is how you view it, then yes. I consider it a blade because—” Negata pauses here. His stillness is remarkable, and the space between words makes it seem like he's decided to stop talking altogether midstride. “A blade represents action. All paths will lead to that alone.”

Shreve bows his head, his hands still. He shifts and pulls the blanket that's draped over his shoulders—his cape—tighter. “Flames spread.”

Negata thinks on that for a moment. “That is so.”

“I don't know. I've spent so much time living so many other lives,” Shreve says, huddling in on himself. He holds up the knife to the fire and looks at it. “It's hard to … diminish. Is that the word?”

“I do not know.”

I don't either, truthfully. I'm having trouble following the conversation.

“It's a big burden,” Shreve says. He shifts slightly. “You know, I don't even know your first name.”

“It is Nobu.”

“Nobu Negata? So you are Japanese?”

“Of course. I thought this was obvious.”

“Not really. You don't talk much. And you don't really have an accent. Up until the moment I woke, you were invisible.”

“Yes.” Negata's voice is faintly tinted with amusement. “You once called me a ‘meatghost,' I believe. Which is amusing, because that is what we all are.”

“I meant you had no … no shibboleth. You had no …”

“Soul?”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

It's quiet now except for the crackle of the fire and Nelson's soft snores. Negata leans forward, picks up a small branch, and places it on the fire. After a moment, it catches and the interior of the cabin brightens and the shadows shift and flicker on the moldering timber walls and ceiling.

“How did you get involved with Quincrux and the Society of Extranaturals?”

“This is a large question. Larger than we have time for,” Negata says.

“Right, we've got that appointment in the morning with the governor.” Shreve draws the blade down the length of the wood, curling away a slice for the fire.

Negata raises his hand in a halting gesture. “I see your point. But we do have an appointment with some horses, and it is late now.”

“You don't want to say?” Shreve's voice pitches up. “At one time, I would have just snatched it right out of your head.”

Negata says somewhat sadly, “Ah, but that time has come to an end, has it not?”

“Yes. All that's over.” Shreve glances at me. My eyes are lidded, and I hope he doesn't realize I've been listening to his conversation. I want to reach out, to touch him with my hands. To touch him mind-to-mind. Anything.

But I don't. I wait. And listen.

“I am what is considered
nisei,
which means second generation. My father was
issei,
first generation. He was born in Kyushu, but eventually he made his way to Argentina, where
I was born. My first language was Japanese. My second was Spanish. And then English.”

“You don't have an accent. Which is kinda weird.”

“Yes. I've been told I have no accent in Portuguese as well. A natural. Very much about me is, as you would put it, weird,” Negata says. “My father was
tasai
, or gifted. He was, as you call it, a bugfuck.”

Shreve snorts. It's loud in the stillness of the cabin. Nelson's snores stop, and he shifts and rolls over in his sleeping bag. And then begins snoring lightly once more.

“He always told me he left Kyushu because of the flooding there before I was born, but as I got older, I learned it was due to the
mó fa
, the Chinese version of the Society. Above all things, Father hated the Chinese.”

“Why?”

“War. Always war. Japan was a very warlike nation then. And, consequently, many young men died.”

“Seems like that is the way of it,” Shreve says, his hands working steadily on the wood, knife moving. “Wars are declared by the old and fought by the young.”

“This is undeniable. The
mó fa
had approached Father and tried to recruit him, and much like you and your friend Jack, he fled. When he stopped fleeing—with my mother in tow—they found themselves in Argentina and made a life in Buenos Aires. Father was a card player. My mother, a seamstress.”

“A card player? Ha! Why didn't I think of that?”

“You were probably too busy running, and most card players don't like to play with children,” Negata says, and there's real warmth in his voice. I don't know if it's him talking about his family or Shreve letting his guard down, but it's like I'm watching two people become fast friends right before my eyes. It's a strange sensation: I feel jealous and not a little abandoned.

“When I was born, I was a problem for my father because, as I grew older, I could not be read. This was unspoken yet obvious. My father fretted and fought, but I was to him as water is in a hot pan. By the time I was ten, I was totally invisible to him both in psychic terms and in parenting.” He looks at me. “I am your companion, Shreve, and I will safeguard you, but I am not trying to fill your father's shoes. Bear that in mind with what I say next.”