Will said nervously, not wanting to linger any longer, wanting to go and catch up to the others. But I was hardly listening anymore, hardly feeling the touch of Will’s hand on my arm. All I could see was that unfortunate man. All I could think was that maybe there was something I could do to help him. I could wake him up. I could wake him up the same way I was going to wake up Poppa when I got down to Salina. No more silly voices in my head, it was time for my true savvy to kick in like it should. It had to happen now.
I took a step toward the lifeless lump of flesh that had once been a walking, talking, hoping, dreaming man—once been someone’s son or friend … or father.
“Mibs!” Will hissed my name and tried to pull me back, but I shook him off.
I knelt down on the pavement, barely feeling the gravel that dug into my knee. I got just close enough to reach my own hand out and place one timid, shaking finger on the inside of the prone man’s upturned wrist, as though I was trying to feel for his pulse.
I dug down deep into myself, searching for that thing, that spark, that powerful storm all my own—searching for the wellspring of my own savvy strength and concentrating with all my might on waking up the man on the ground in front of me.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Please. Wake up.
I thought it over and over in my head, whispering it like a chant just under my breath. I thought it harder than any thought I’d ever thought before. I concentrated so hard that my eyes began to water and my teeth ached from grinding them together.
My finger pressed harder and harder against the cold, bony wrist. I could feel the slow, almost hesitant pulse of blood beneath his skin. For a minute, nothing happened. Then a harsh and hollering voice blasted through my head, sending me backward and scrabbling against the pavement.
“Don’t want to see any more … feel any more. Just let me fade away … I’ve seen too much … too much!”
The voice in my head was filled with the undertow of bottomless despair. I felt the unconscious man’s ache and anguish just behind my eyes, rattling my brain like concussions of shrapnel.
“Seen too much! Leave me alone …”
But the man didn’t wake up.
I couldn’t wake him up.
That’s when I knew—then and there and sure as sure—that’s when I knew that there wasn’t anything—
anything
—I could do to help Poppa.
I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach and pulled out all my bones, turning me into a queasy useless blob of Jell-O. The ruined man shifted on the ground without waking, turning his hand over to expose a dull tattoo of a soaring eagle inked years ago on the back of his hand. As I listened to the distress and despair of the voice crying out inside my head, that eagle flapped and screeched and beat its wings as if gone mad, like all it wanted was to break free and fly away.
I realized then that it had been coincidence, not my savvy, that had woken Gypsy up that morning, and that Samson’s dead pet turtle had played a trick on me, merely come out of its long hibernation on this most important day with no regard for savvies or hopings or misunderstandings. Nature simply did what nature does, and I mixed that up with me.
For the very first time since I was old enough to know what it meant to have a savvy, since the day that I’d begun to dream of what my own talent might come to be, I wished that I was more like Poppa and had no savvy at all. No savvy to cause me heartache. No savvy to make me hope, and then leave me useless.
Chapter XVIII
“C ome on, Mibs,” said will quietly, helping me up off the ground and brushing the dirt and gravel from my hands. “Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting for us.” He turned me away from the unconscious man. But Will didn’t know what I’d heard. He didn’t know what I’d seen. He could turn away easier than I could because he didn’t have to listen. Weak-kneed and shaken, it seemed impossible for me to walk
I took a step toward the lifeless lump of flesh that had once been a walking, talking, hoping, dreaming man—once been someone’s son or friend … or father.
“Mibs!” Will hissed my name and tried to pull me back, but I shook him off.
I knelt down on the pavement, barely feeling the gravel that dug into my knee. I got just close enough to reach my own hand out and place one timid, shaking finger on the inside of the prone man’s upturned wrist, as though I was trying to feel for his pulse.
I dug down deep into myself, searching for that thing, that spark, that powerful storm all my own—searching for the wellspring of my own savvy strength and concentrating with all my might on waking up the man on the ground in front of me.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Please. Wake up.
I thought it over and over in my head, whispering it like a chant just under my breath. I thought it harder than any thought I’d ever thought before. I concentrated so hard that my eyes began to water and my teeth ached from grinding them together.
My finger pressed harder and harder against the cold, bony wrist. I could feel the slow, almost hesitant pulse of blood beneath his skin. For a minute, nothing happened. Then a harsh and hollering voice blasted through my head, sending me backward and scrabbling against the pavement.
“Don’t want to see any more … feel any more. Just let me fade away … I’ve seen too much … too much!”
The voice in my head was filled with the undertow of bottomless despair. I felt the unconscious man’s ache and anguish just behind my eyes, rattling my brain like concussions of shrapnel.
“Seen too much! Leave me alone …”
But the man didn’t wake up.
I couldn’t wake him up.
That’s when I knew—then and there and sure as sure—that’s when I knew that there wasn’t anything—
anything
—I could do to help Poppa.
I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach and pulled out all my bones, turning me into a queasy useless blob of Jell-O. The ruined man shifted on the ground without waking, turning his hand over to expose a dull tattoo of a soaring eagle inked years ago on the back of his hand. As I listened to the distress and despair of the voice crying out inside my head, that eagle flapped and screeched and beat its wings as if gone mad, like all it wanted was to break free and fly away.
I realized then that it had been coincidence, not my savvy, that had woken Gypsy up that morning, and that Samson’s dead pet turtle had played a trick on me, merely come out of its long hibernation on this most important day with no regard for savvies or hopings or misunderstandings. Nature simply did what nature does, and I mixed that up with me.
For the very first time since I was old enough to know what it meant to have a savvy, since the day that I’d begun to dream of what my own talent might come to be, I wished that I was more like Poppa and had no savvy at all. No savvy to cause me heartache. No savvy to make me hope, and then leave me useless.
Chapter XVIII
“C ome on, Mibs,” said will quietly, helping me up off the ground and brushing the dirt and gravel from my hands. “Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting for us.” He turned me away from the unconscious man. But Will didn’t know what I’d heard. He didn’t know what I’d seen. He could turn away easier than I could because he didn’t have to listen. Weak-kneed and shaken, it seemed impossible for me to walk
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