Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls (11 page)

Abalone taps a few codes in what I recognize now as a search sequence. Finally, she shakes her head.

“There is nothing I can find quickly, but there's a lot of garbage in here, programming I'm not set to read. Let me have a day to clean things up.”

“Fine. I'll do some research. I know what empathy and memory are, but this magical thinking bears further investigation.”

I prop myself up on the sofa. “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

“Or take a long nap,” Professor Isabella says, pushing me back and drawing the covers over me and my dragons.

By the next evening, Professor Isabella has finished her research and Abalone has brought the Ivy Green files into a readable form. I have spent the day nervously house-
cleaning and every surface glistens. The air is heavy with the scent of polish.

“Who wants to start?” Abalone asks, propping her computer on her knees and leaning comfortably against a wall.

“Let me,” Professor Isabella requests. “I've been reading since yesterday and have come up with some rather interesting information.”

“About this magical thinking?”

“Yes.”

Drumming the floor with my heels, I suggest, “Make haste, the better foot before.”

“Briefly, then,” Professor Isabella says, “magical thinking is a concept referring to the irrational tendency of people to associate the qualities of the animate with the inanimate. In earlier days, this took the form of imagining that spirits dwelt in items or places. The practice is common. The Japanese Shinto is centered around spirits or ‘kami,' for example. The ancient Greeks imagined natural spirits—naiads, sylphs, dryads, which inhabited water, air, and trees.”

She pauses to check her notes. “The temptation to lecture further is overwhelming, but let me move closer to my point. Even though people no longer formally acknowledge their belief in spirits for the inanimate, the practice remains. Athletes are particularly conspicuous for their belief that a certain ‘lucky' item—shoe, shirt, bat—affects their play. Children insist that a certain treasured toy is ‘real'—not a thing of cloth or plastic. Even otherwise balanced, rational individuals will attribute traits of life to an unliving object.”

I nod. This makes perfect sense to me—so much so that I wonder at the need for a lengthy explanation. Abalone looks skeptical.

“You mean, like superstition?”

“Yes, but more.” Professor Isabella raises a finger. “Imagine if you can someone, an actual person if possible, whom you truly hate.”

The expression that flickers across Abalone's face is so ugly and intense that there is no doubt that she has fastened on someone quite specific.

“Now think of someone you like and trust—Head Wolf, for example.”

Abalone nods.

Professor Isabella smiles. “Now imagine I have two identical shirts here and I tell you that one was worn by Head Wolf and one by the other person. Which would you choose to wear?”

“Why, Head Wolf's!”

“Even if I told you that both shirts had been laundered several times since being worn?”

Abalone grins. “Yep, even if.”

“And if I gave you the wrong shirt by accident and you learned that you were wearing this other shirt?”

Abalone shakes as if to rid herself of an uncomfortable feeling.

“I wouldn't like it very much—I'd feel sick.”

“Magical thinking.” Professor Isabella gestures, palms outward. “No reason to it, just a human quirk. Or is it?”

“Go on,” Abalone prompts. “How does this tie into Sarah?”

“I suspect that she…Well, pull your files, dear. I don't just want to toss out guesses.”

“Okay.” Abalone works for a moment. “There's a series of these Brain Scan test charts. My guess from the dates is that they are the results of tests done at different times.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“Then there are these charts.” Abalone angles the screen so that we can see. “They're comparing three sets of results. The colors stand for different people. Most often, Dylan, Sarah, and Eleanora. Sometimes other people.”

“Hmm, other test subjects or possibly controls.” Professor Isabella drums the table. “Any write-ups on Sarah?”

“Some, really jargon filled but, from what I get, the fact that she didn't talk made it tough for them to guess what she had. They knew she had something, not how much. Dylan seems to be the big favorite; Eleanora scored way up there on memory, but lower in empathy and nearly null in magical thinking. After a point, she isn't shown on as many charts, usually just an annual survey.”

“Sarah's files end when?”

“About when she must have been transferred to the Home. I'll do some more hunting to see if either of the others have later records.”

“Very good. However, what you have found thus far confirms some of my guesses.” Professor Isabella steeples her gnarled fingers. “I believe that Sarah and her siblings were part of a project to cultivate magical thinking. Whether they were the result of breeding for the tendency or something else, I cannot guess at this point. What I can
guess is that the experiment was most successful with Dylan. His charted abilities are higher than Sarah's in magical thinking and empathy. Sarah's memory is listed as better. Eleanora, although extraordinary in some ways, was apparently a washout from the experimenter's point of view. What do you think so far?”

I nod. This matches my awakening memories some, although Eleanora is but faintly remembered and those memories see her as near grown while I am quite small. I doubt that I saw her often.

“I pass with relief from the tossing sea of Cause and Theory,” I comment, “to the ground of Result and Fact.”

“Yeah,” Abalone agrees, “but what I don't get is why anyone would want to create superstitious people.”

“Ah,” Professor Isabella smiles. “Not superstitious—magical thinkers—people who so believe in or perhaps sense the living spirits in the inanimate world that what is dead matter to you and me might somehow be able to communicate with them.”

“Sharp old bird, ain't she,” Betwixt comments.

“Sharper than most,” Between cuts in. “Now, hush.”

I scratch them both at the base of the necks and listen.

“Whoosh!” Abalone shakes her head so that the locks dance like candle flames. “That's a lot to believe: Sarah able to talk to ‘things.' She can't even talk to people.”

“I'm not certain that Sarah can talk to things any more easily than she can to us. I've noticed that even when she's muttering to herself she uses the same quote patterns as the rest of the time. What I am saying is that things may be able to talk to Sarah.”

“What do you think, Sarah?” Abalone asks. “Has the professor hit on the truth?”

I hesitate. The professor's theories about Ivy Green and investigation into magical thinking are tantalizing. They fit many curious holes in my memory, holes that I am beginning to be suspicious about. I should remember more. I had been nearly an adolescent when I left there for the Home. And some memories—of Dylan especially—have been coming back so vividly.

I shake myself out of conjecture and try to honestly answer Abalone's question.

“'Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange—Stranger than fiction,” I finally say.

“Oh, wow!” Abalone's eyes get round. “If we could only be sure about this.”

Professor Isabella smiles slyly. “I think we have proof already, Abalone. When I take Sarah to a museum, she often spends time muttering to a painting or sculpture. I started noticing that she was quoting things I had never read to her—but I dismissed this, thinking someone else must have taught her and she's simply remembering. You, however, have had a more definitive experience.”

“What?” Abalone is clearly puzzled.

“What did Sarah say when you asked her how she got out of the secretary's cell at the police station?”

“She said something about the walls having ears,” Abalone says slowly. “Oh, flip-it! You mean…”

“That's right. What if for Sarah the walls don't only have ears, but mouths as well? What if the wall told her how to get out?”

She looks quizzically at me. In memory I hear a happy voice chirping “I got a secret” and smile.

“Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge,” I reply, nodding.

“Let's test this out,” Abalone says, leaping to her feet. “Sarah, can you hear anything talk?”

Again I am at a loss how to answer honestly. I am beginning to believe I might be able to hear anything speak if I try hard enough, but on the occasions I have—such as the terrible day in the Jungle when memory of Dylan opened my mind—the rush of voices has been more than I can handle without being overwhelmed.

I shake my head, reluctantly telling a half-truth.

“I am a brother to dragons, a companion to owls,” I suggest, proffering Betwixt and Between.

“You're saying you can hear them?” Abalone confirms.

When I nod, she goes on, “What I have in mind is for Sarah to go into her room and close the door. Then we'll whisper something to Betwixt and Between and if she can really communicate with it, she'll be able to tell us what we said.”

“I'll agree,” Professor Isabella says, “if we use a quote from some work that Sarah knows. I've noticed that she can't parrot anything—she needs to attach importance to it. I suspect that this is a side result of her empathy.”

“Flash with me,” Abalone agrees. “Are you game, Sarah?”

“Yes.” I nod solemnly.

“Us, too,” Between says, “and thanks so much for asking while you're at it.”

I go to my room and sit on my bed, contemplating the
oddness of this all. Around me, I can hear the comfortable grumbles of the building's brick walls as they twinge and settle in the chill and damp.

A rap on the door summons me. Abalone and Professor Isabella look expectant and Betwixt and Between sit in the middle of the rug, looking smug.

I pick them up and scratch Between's eye ridge and Betwixt's jawline coaxingly. The dragons sigh happily.

Between says, “
Merchant of Venice,
One, three. The bit about the devil and scripture.”

I smile, aware that the dragons are salvaging their pride by being a bit difficult. Then I look at Abalone and Professor Isabella.

“The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul, producing holy witness, is like a villain with a smiling cheek, a goodly apple rotten at the heart: O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!”

“She got it!” Abalone says excitedly.

“This is hardly a controlled experiment,” Professor Isabella murmurs, “but, ruling out telepathy and other unlikely phenomena, I agree. She does seem to have it.”

They are so excited that even Betwixt and Between willingly accede to further tests. When we have finished some hours later and are sipping tea with honey, Abalone suddenly looks apprehensive.

“If Sarah can talk to things, does that mean she can, like, well, learn stuff about people? Private stuff?”

Professor Isabella smiles softly. “Probably. But the question isn't really ‘can she?' it is ‘would she?' isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Abalone says, scuffing her feet on the linoleum.
“Once I learned how to crack files, I got really interested in finding out what other people were hiding. I guess I'm wondering if Sarah is like that, too.”

“Ask her,” Professor Isabella suggests.

“Well, Sarah, I figure you know I've been kinda secretive about some stuff. Did you ever, like, check me out?”

I shake my head, patting her hand. “A secret's safe ‘twixt you, me, and the gatepost.”

“Does this make me the gatepost?” Professor Isabella chuckles. “Honey, you didn't even ask, did you?”

I shake my head. “Those friends thou hast and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.”

Abalone squeezes me. “You're all right, Sarah. Y'know, weird as they make them, but all right.”

Smile fading, Professor Isabella says, “I'm worried. If Ivy Green let Sarah go something like fifteen years ago, why do they—or someone—want her back now?”

“Now?” Abalone shakes her head. “I'm not sure, but I can think of lots of reasons for wanting someone who can do what she can do.”

“We can keep asking questions,” Professor Isabella says, “but you do realize what this means. We have to get Sarah out of here—this is no longer just keeping her from getting recommitted. This is keeping her from getting kidnapped.”

Abalone considers this. “What do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could go out into the countryside, get Sarah to a place where she doesn't have to be walled in but where she can go out of the house without someone identifying her as the Brighton Rock girl.”

“I'm not sure that she'll be any safer,” Abalone objects, “and I'll find hiding my tracks harder away from a city. Here I can go to any of a thousand places to link my computer—anyone traces me and they find a rented room or a closed office. Out there…”

As Abalone trails off, Professor Isabella nods.

“Perhaps there is safety in numbers. We'll need to dye Sarah's hair and she'll need to wear contacts to recolor her eyes. We can't take risks with wigs now.”

I strike a pose. “I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair.”

“I was thinking of red—a less-flamboyant shade than those that Abalone favors—it would go well with your coloring. Perhaps we can manage dark brown eyes.”

I nod, well pleased with the image. I had been disappointed that they hadn't disguised me more thoroughly earlier—the romantic image of it enthralled me, but then I had heard Professor Isabella saying, “It broke my heart to have to hide her this way—at least at home she can be herself.”