don’t understand why this girl is going back on her word. Doesn’t she understand how important this is? Drifters are considered dangerous by the few who know they exist. The clans keep to themselves because the danger goes both ways. Conquests are an exercise in balance – if a drifter loses control he can hurt both the person he’s conquering and himself. But if Ntatemogolo’s right and drifters are meant to help communities rather than hurt them, all of that will change. If the drifters are cautious they can live peacefully among ungifted without ever being found out.
Maria’s community has mixed feelings about her. They fear her because unlike other drifters she stands out – blue eyes, dark skin – but they also have no problem making use of her abilities. Of course, they don’t realise she has abilities. All they know is that she has “a way with people”. When she’s around there’s less conflict.
Maria’s different in another way; she’s attached to her non-drifter community. Ntatemogolo thinks this is because she’s first-generation. She was born to help those people, so it’s natural for her to love them. This bond weakens with time and is eventually eclipsed by the bond between members of a cell. For ordinary drifters leaving places is easy. For her it’s not.
I take a deep breath. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe she doesn’t want to meet another stranger. What if you tell her you’ll go alone?”
“It has nothing to do with you,” my grandfather assures me. “She doesn’t trust me. We have no choice but to wait until she is willing to co-operate.”
“That could take for ever!”
He shrugs. “In the meantime I will pursue other avenues.”
“There are other avenues?”
“There might be another first-generation drifter on the continent. But you didn’t come here to discuss the drifters, did you?”
“No, I came to discuss Henry Marshall. I think his kidnapper could be gifted.”
Ntatemogolo frowns in the dim light. “I don’t know Marshall well, but I have reason to believe he is gifted.”
Now that’s an interesting twist to the tale. Marshall doesn’t fit the profile at all. He’s a prominent member of the community with a high-profile job. It’s difficult to hide a gift; for someone in the public eye it’s almost impossible.
“Are you sure, Ntatemogolo?”
“As sure as I can be without confirmation.”
“Then why didn’t he protect himself? Whatever his gift, it should have allowed him to sense danger coming, or defend himself from it.”
He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray at the edge of the mat. “You are assuming it was a kidnapping. There is a chance he fled for some reason.”
“I don’t think so.” Something is bugging me. It’s an odd nagging feeling, like I’m missing something important. My thoughts roll back to the dreams I had and the wrenching pain I felt. I don’t think what happened to Marshall was a random incident. I think it’s part of something bigger.
I hesitate before speaking. “I had two strange dreams the day he disappeared.”
Ntatemogolo looks at me sharply. “What kind of dreams?”
“The one I told you about before, the recurring one with the rock, and another in the same setting. There was a girl with green eyes. She said the gifted are dying. Then there was this red thing, like a sword or a laser or something, and it cut me open, and the pain was…” I swallow hard, my pulse racing at the memory. “When I woke up I was sick. I had this terrible feeling, like something bad was about to happen.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he snaps, leaning forward.
“I tried calling you the next day – you didn’t answer, and when I checked the news all I found was the Marshall thing, so… I don’t know. It’s like I know something, but I don’t know what I know.” I hesitate, feeling foolish. I wish I could speak with more conviction but all I have is a hunch, not even a premonition.
“Go on, my girl. Tell me what you are thinking.”
I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. “Well, you say Marshall is gifted, and the girl in my dream said the gifted are dying, and that night he disappeared, and there was the other dream with the rock…” I stop and take a breath. “Maybe I’m supposed to prevent more gifted from disappearing.”
“Ah,” Ntatemogolo murmurs, and I know what he’s going to say next. “Don’t place that burden on your shoulders, my girl. It is not your job to save the world.”
He’s said this before. My premonitions come when they want – before an event, during it or long after it’s happened. I have premonitions of some things but not of others. A lot of the time they alert me to things over which I have no control. I used to get so frustrated. What’s the point of seeing something if you can’t do anything about it?
But that’s the nature of gifts. I’m not going to see every threat before it happens, throw on a spandex suit and run off to save somebody. Still, sometimes I get the feeling I’m meant to be useful to the world in a bigger way than I’ve been. Is that arrogant? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel like crap when someone gets hurt and I couldn’t stop it.
“I don’t want to save the world,” I tell my grandfather. “Just Henry Marshall.”
He’s quiet for some time. Usually he’s the hardest person to read, but today I know exactly how he feels. He’s worried about me. He’s been worried since he got back. He thinks the time I spent with the Puppetmaster has had a detrimental effect on me. The last thing I want to do is add fuel to that fire, so I decide to keep my growing powers to myself a little longer. It’s ironic that I don’t see the question coming.
“Connie, have you noticed anything strange about your gift of late?”
For a second I’m too stunned to respond. How did he know?
“Some of my clients tell me they are having trouble controlling their gifts,” he continues. “They seem to be stronger than usual. I thought my gift was unaffected, but now I can feel a slight surge in power. Do you feel it as well?”
I have to make a conscious effort to keep the relief from showing all over my face. It’s not just me. Thank God. “Yes,” I breathe, and the word is a weight off my chest. “My gift has been more sensitive lately.”
He strokes his beard. “I haven’t heard news of any significant supernatural event, but something is going on. It might also explain why you are having these vivid dreams. Describe the first one to me again.”
I oblige. I remember every detail, down to the scent of wet soil on that misty field.
“Could the object pushing the rock into the ground have been a staff?”
I frown. “Like the kind wizards carry in stories? I don’t know. It seemed heavy. Dark and rounded.”
“The head of a staff?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Why? Would it make a difference?”
“Oh, yes. There are rituals that involve placing markers at specific points. Quartzite is often used for such purposes. You can’t touch the markers or they will become tainted, so a sorcerer will use a purified staff to fix the markers in place. It is possible your dream is a premonition of such a ritual. But it is also possible the dream is a metaphor.”
“A metaphor for what? Is it saying something is buried that I need to uncover?”
“I wish I had the answers. I will do what I can to learn more.” He reaches for another cigarette, then changes his mind. “It has been a long time since our last training session.”
I look at him in surprise. Was that a note of indignation?
“I suppose you are too busy, or perhaps you no longer