Thief Of Souls

26. All Things Unknown

Phoenix, Arizona. A graveyard. By no means the old-fashioned type where stones loomed large and foreboding, but the modern kind. The kind of place with master-planned aisles, and small, shin-high mark­ers on an endless, rolling lawn. Two gravestones side by side marked final resting places of Davis Roland Cole and Judith Martha Cole. Beloved Father and Mother.

Dillon knelt, and put two sprigs of flowers in the small holders on the stones.

“I wish I could tell you all the things that have hap­pened since you’ve been gone,” Dillon told them. “You have every reason to be ashamed of me . . . but maybe now . . . maybe now you can be proud of me, too.”

Nearby, Winston kept a respectful distance. Then, once Dillon had stopped talking, he ventured closer.

“I never liked graveyards,” Winston said. “They do everything to make ’em user-friendly, but no grave­yard’s ever gonna be a friend of mine.”

Still on his knees, Dillon adjusted the flowers, which he knew was unnecessary, because whatever he did, they were in a perfect, orderly pattern.

“Any feelings about where Lourdes might be?” Dil­lon asked.

Winston put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “Only that she’s somewhere far away.”

It was not good news, because now they needed to be together even more than before. They could not let what Okoya had done to them keep them divided. Dil­lon stood, but kept his eyes fixed on his parents’ grave­stones.

“So,” said Winston with a shrug, “are you going to do it?”

Dillon looked down at the two gravestones. His own parents had been the first two casualties of the Spirit of Destruction—their brains had been scrambled so badly just by being near Dillon, that they simply couldn’t hold on to life. It had been an untimely and unjust way to die—and if anyone deserved to be brought back, they did.

He turned to gaze at the endless fields of the de­parted. There was a funeral in the distance to his right, and to his left, an old woman shed tears for her hus­band. But they were good tears. They were natural tears.

“No,” said Dillon. “No, I’m not going to.” And he didn’t just mean his parents; he meant everyone—from the ones whose lives had ended when he had crossed the Pacific Northwest, to the ones whose deaths had had nothing to do with him at all. No, he would not bring any of them back.

“Death has got to mean something, Winston.” Dillon wiped the tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Even if it’s awful, and even if it’s unfair, it’s got to mean something. I know that’s screwed, but somehow it’s also right.”

He expected Winston to disagree somehow—he never had found approval in anything that Dillon did. But this time Winston surprised him.

“I’ve done some terrible things, too,” said Winston. “I suppose I could make myself feel better by making a hundred people walk again, but then I’d never know if making them walk was the right thing to do, or if I was just doing it for myself. Best to get our own heads on straight first.”

So Winston did understand. It was comforting for once, to be on the same wavelength with him.

“One problem, though,” Winston added. “You made a promise back at the castle, that we’d never be hurt as long as we followed you. Tory and Michael were part of that promise.”

Winston was right. Dillon had made a promise, and it left him in an irreconcilable dilemma. For as much as he wanted to live by his conviction that he would never abuse the power of resurrection again, he also knew that he would break his own rule for Tory and Michael, if he got the chance.

He wished Winston could offer him some pearls of wisdom, but he had none.

Dillon closed his eyes. It was hard enough to seek out the living, but finding the dead? He wasn’t even sure if they died in the rubble of the dam, or some­where else. “We’ll look for them,” Dillon said. “And if we ever find their bodies, we’ll decide what to do then.”

From here on in, Dillon knew, his decisions would only get harder. In the days since Okoya’s departure, tens of thousands had flown in from around the world to bathe in the healing waters of the Colorado and Co­lumbia Rivers, and to witness Dillon’s miracle of the Backwash. People whispered his name, from the hum­blest to the most elite of circles, as their alliances re­aligned toward him. Okoya was right about one thing: It was too late to stop it. How long until everyone in the world knew his name? Twenty-four days and count­ing, whether he liked it or not.

“Come on, we’d better get out of here,” said Win­ston. “This isn’t a good place to stand for too long, if you know what I mean.”

Dillon looked around, and knew exactly what Win­ston meant. Thanks to Dillon, all the dead flowers grac­ing the neighboring stones had become fresh again—and thanks to Winston, they were all growing new buds. Even more worrisome was Dillon’s sense that the rows of the dead were ever so slowly being coaxed back toward life by his own healing presence. It was everywhere around them—growth and rejuvenation, old life and new. It was a wonderful thing, and yet terrible all at once, for this world was not ready for their brand of talents, and they were not ready to wield them.

“Come on, Dillon. Can’t let grass grow beneath our feet,” said Winston with a wry smile, because in fact it was.

Dillon had to smile as well. He couldn’t read all the patterns ahead; there were too many variables now, too many gaping unknowns. But then he could never pre­dict the future, could he? He could only see the direc­tions that chance and design were supposed to take, as they moved toward an unseen future. But things change; and no pattern can ever be cast in stone. It frightened him to know that even with his remarkable vision, so much in the world was out of his control and unknowable. It was that fear of the unknown that bound him to what he was; never a god, and always human. There was comfort in that, and as they left the dead behind, Dillon took strength in the knowledge that so many things were still unknown.