Chương 10: Seven

Three years passed more quickly than Joe expected. Simon had entered the Talent Hall at seven. Now he was ten. The difference showed. He had grown leaner and broader through the shoulders, and he was considerably stronger than most boys his age who spent their days helping around the fields. His posture had changed as well. Even when relaxed, there were traces of the stances he had repeated thousands of times, and his movements carried more control than they once had. His personality had changed much less.

Simon was still Simon. He enjoyed praise far too much, exaggerated whenever given the opportunity and possessed enough confidence for several children. Three years inside the Talent Hall had only provided him with more subjects to be confident about. He was also still kind. When Mary fell, Simon was usually among the first to pick her up, even if he complained while doing it.

Once, when an older boy mocked one of the poorer children at the Hall, Simon had apparently stepped between them despite Lily's repeated instructions not to involve himself in other people's trouble. According to Simon, the older boy had backed down because he knew Simon was stronger. According to one of the other village children, Mr. Hall had arrived before anything happened. Simon preferred his version. Joe considered his brother arrogant, loud and occasionally exhausting. He also trusted him.

Simon, for his part, had developed the strange habit of arguing with Joe's advice before following it anyway. Neither of them discussed the pattern. Joe suspected Simon would rather fight Thomas than admit his younger brother's opinion was useful. Joe's seventh birthday arrived near the end of Deepwinter. He knew the date because nobody else cared enough to track it precisely. Years earlier, Joe had begun carving a small mark into the old tree behind the house each morning. At first, the marks had been neat.

Several years later, one side of the trunk looked as though it had been attacked by an unusually patient animal. Joseph discovered what Joe had been doing only after hundreds of marks already covered the bark. He stood behind the house for several moments staring at them.

"What happened to my tree?" Joe looked at the marks.

"I was counting days." Joseph turned toward him.

"For how long?"

"About three years." His grandfather stared at the tree again.

"You've been cutting my tree every day for three years?"

"Not every day. I missed some and corrected the count afterward." That did not appear to improve matters.

"Why?" Joe considered explaining the difficulty of tracking exact dates in a household that measured time mostly by seasons, harvests and festivals. Instead, he settled for the simpler answer.

"I wanted to know when my birthday was." Joseph remained quiet for several seconds before pointing toward the far end of the yard.

"Use another tree." Joe accepted the ruling. Several days later, Joseph saw him walking toward the same trunk with a small knife.

"Didn't I tell you to use another tree?"

"I already stopped." Joseph looked at the knife.

"I'm cutting cord."

"Oh." He continued walking. Joe watched him leave. His grandfather's memory appeared to operate according to rules Joe had not yet understood. The seventh birthday itself brought no pale words. Joe had wondered whether it might. One year had given him Past Life Memory. Two had brought Perfect Health and Perfect Body. Four had produced No Regression. Other birthdays had passed quietly. Seven joined them. Joe waited through the morning and most of the afternoon before accepting that nothing new was coming.

The disappointment was real but brief. Another talent would have been useful. He had no reason to expect one. More importantly, turning seven finally made him eligible for Starlight. Unfortunately, Starlight was still nearly eight months away. Joe had been born near the end of Deepwinter, while the festival came after the main harvest in early autumn. Being officially old enough therefore accomplished very little beyond allowing him to begin waiting legally.

Eight months suddenly seemed longer than the previous three years. He tried not to think about it. That failed almost immediately. The black stone had been sitting somewhere inside the Talent Hall for his entire life, waiting for nothing in particular. Joe was the one waiting now. He disliked the imbalance. Most problems he had encountered in Green Hollow rewarded preparation. Reading improved when he studied. His body improved when he trained sensibly.

Fishing improved after enough failed nets and badly placed traps. The Starlight test offered him nothing to practice. Whatever the black stone measured, Joe could not deliberately improve something nobody around him properly understood. He could only arrive ready for everything that came afterward. If there was an afterward. By spring, the family had begun discussing the test more often. The atmosphere was very different from the year Simon became eligible.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. They hoped Joe would pass. They did not expect it. Two children from the same household qualifying only a few years apart was unusual enough that most people in Green Hollow treated Simon's success as something that had probably used up the family's luck for a while. Lily said so openly one evening.

"Don't spend the whole year thinking about that stone. Simon already passed. Two boys from one house getting into the Hall would be unusual." Joe nodded.

"If I fail, I fail." Lily gave him a suspicious look.

"You say that now, but I know how you are. You'll spend three days thinking about why the stone didn't like you."

"I don't think the stone likes anyone."

"There." Joe paused.

"What?"

"That."

"What did I do?"

"Exactly that. You always have another sentence ready." Simon laughed into his bowl. Joe looked at him. Lily pointed toward Joe with her spoon.

"Just listen for once." Joe decided that this was an excellent opportunity to do exactly that. Simon, encouraged by his silence, straightened.

"I still think he'll pass." Lily looked toward him.

"Maybe."

"He learns everything too quickly."

"That doesn't mean the stone cares."

"No, but it has to care about something."

"Wonderful," Pam said from beside the hearth.

"Three years inside the Hall and we've finally reached the great secret." Simon frowned.

"I didn't say I knew."

"That's never stopped you before." Mike laughed. Simon looked betrayed. Joe remained wisely silent. He had already learned that being the subject of an argument did not require participating in it. Pam was less optimistic about Joe's chances, although her reason was more interesting. Her knees had worsened over the last few years, and she no longer moved around Green Hollow as easily as she once had. Somehow, this had done very little damage to her ability to collect information.

Pam had grown up with half the older women in the village, knew relatives scattered through several surrounding settlements and regularly learned things nobody remembered telling her. One afternoon, while Joe helped shell beans beside her, she brought up Starlight.

"Don't worry too much if the stone doesn't react." Joe dropped another bean into the bowl.

"I wasn't worrying." Pam looked at him.

"You've been thinking about it."

"How do you know?"

"Your face." Joe considered asking what exactly his face was doing. Pam continued before he could.

"They say what the stone finds isn't only strength."

"I know physical strength doesn't decide it."

"No. I mean something else. Something natural." Joe stopped shelling. That was new.

"What?" Pam shrugged.

"Something people are born with. Or gather. I don't know. Martha explained it badly."

"The elder's wife?"

"How many Marthas do you think I talk to?" Joe knew better than to answer.

"What exactly did she say?" Pam frowned while trying to remember.

"Something about it coming from nature and returning slowly. Families that produce one talented child usually don't produce another close together." Joe considered the statement.

"Returning to where?"

"Nature."

"From the family?"

"I think."

"How?" Pam looked at him.

"If I knew that, I'd be Theodere." Fair. She continued shelling beans.

"They say whatever Simon had, he may have taken most of what your family could give." That explanation made very little sense as stated. Joe did not dismiss it. Pam was repeating information she had received from someone else, who might have received it from someone equally uncertain. Whatever the original explanation had been, several conversations could have transformed it considerably before it reached this bowl of beans. Still, the underlying observation might be real.

Talented siblings close in age were apparently uncommon. Why was another question.

"Does Father believe that?"

"Your father believes you'll pass."

"That's not what I asked." Pam laughed.

"There you go again." Joe looked at her.

"What?"

"Pulling words apart as if somebody hid something between them."

"Sometimes they do."

"You're seven."

"I know."

"You're not supposed to talk like that." Joe considered the objection.

"How am I supposed to talk?" Pam opened her mouth and stopped.

"Less." Joe smiled. She pointed a bean at him.

"Exactly." They returned to work. For a while, only the soft tapping of beans falling into the bowl filled the space between them. Then Pam said, "Sometimes I wish you'd been born first." Joe looked up.

"Why?"

"You've always been quicker than Simon." That was not entirely fair. Simon was an ordinary boy growing up in Green Hollow. Joe had entered childhood carrying decades of another life and several inexplicable talents. Comparing the two directly made little sense. Pam did it anyway.

"Simon has a good heart," she continued.

"But that boy's mouth reaches places before his head does. You think first."

"Sometimes."

"Most times." Pam glanced toward the doorway before lowering her voice.

"And you actually listen when I speak." There it was. Pam and Simon were too similar in one unfortunate way. Both liked having an audience, and neither particularly enjoyed becoming one.

"With your head," Pam continued, "you would've done well at the Hall if you'd been the first boy to test." Joe dropped another bean into the bowl.

"The stone might not care about my head."

"Maybe."

"Then being born first wouldn't change anything." Pam sighed.

"You really can't let a nice thing remain nice."

"I was agreeing with you."

"No, you were correcting me politely." Joe thought about that. Pam saw his expression.

"Don't." He returned to the beans. The conversation stayed with him. Not Pam's belief that Simon might have somehow used up the family's chance. Joe had nowhere near enough evidence to treat that as anything more than village speculation. The important part was simpler. Nobody knew what the stone measured. Not Simon. Not his parents. Not Pam's collection of elderly informants. Perhaps Hall knew. Theodere almost certainly knew more. Neither had any reason to explain it to a seven-year-old who had not yet qualified.

Joe found that frustrating. He also understood it. By early summer, Mike had become the most openly optimistic member of the household. He rarely understood Joe's preparations in detail, but he noticed results. Joe was healthy, could read better than most adults in the family and possessed enough patience to count days on a tree for years simply because he disliked not knowing the date. To Mike, those things seemed connected.

One evening, Joe was helping Simon with a passage copied from the Hall when Mike looked over from where he and Joseph were repairing a basket.

"I think he'll do well." Joseph looked up.

"Simon?"

"Joe." Joseph glanced toward Joe.

"Oh." Mike waited. Joseph returned to the basket. After several moments, Mike continued anyway.

"He's always been different." Lily, working nearby, snorted softly.

"Different isn't always better." Mike smiled.

"You know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean. He's seven and already looks at us like we're answering his questions incorrectly." Joe looked up. Lily caught him.

"See?"

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't need to." Pam chuckled. Lily glanced toward her mother-in-law and wisely said nothing. Mike seemed entirely unconcerned.

"If the stone takes him, I think he'll go far." Simon stopped writing. Only for a moment. Then his charcoal began moving again. Joe noticed. Simon had spent three years as the household's great martial hope. For most of his childhood, adults had arranged food, work and expectations around his training. He had earned that attention. He had passed when most children failed, spent years working inside the Hall and become good enough that younger students occasionally learned from him.

Now Mike was looking at Joe and imagining another future. Joe understood why that might sting. Simon finished the character he was writing. Then he pushed the board toward Joe.

"This one?" Joe looked at it.

"The bottom stroke is too short." Simon frowned.

"No, it isn't." Joe waited. Simon stared at the character. Then lengthened the stroke. Nobody commented. Several minutes later, Simon said, "If you pass, don't expect me to carry you through training." Joe looked toward him.

"I wasn't planning to."

"The first foundation hurts more than it looks."

"I know."

"No, you don't." Joe stopped. Simon was serious now.

"You know what I've told you. That's different." That was fair. Simon continued.

"You're going to think you understand it quickly because that's what you always do. Don't." Joe studied him. There was no boasting in the warning.

"Did you?" Simon frowned.

"Did I what?"

"Think you understood it before you did." Simon looked back toward his board. For once, the answer took time.

"Maybe." Simon pointed the charcoal at him.

"That's not the important part."

"What is?"

"When Hall corrects you, listen. Even if you think you know why you're doing something." Joe nodded.

"I will."

"And don't try to show off the first week."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good." A pause.

"Second week is fine?" Simon stared at him. Joe smiled. Simon realized a moment later that he was being mocked.

"You know what? Fail." Pam laughed loudly from the hearth. Lily turned.

"Simon."

"I'm joking."

"You'd better be." Simon muttered something and returned to his writing. A few minutes passed. Then, without looking up, he added, "You'll probably pass anyway." Joe heard him. So did everyone else. Nobody said anything. That was probably why Simon had said it so quietly. Spring moved toward summer. The fields deepened from green toward the first hints of gold. The river ran lower.

Children stayed outside later because the daylight lasted longer, and the smell of growing grain hung over the valley whenever wind crossed the fields. Starlight remained months away. Joe stopped counting those months aloud. He had prepared what could be prepared. The rest would be decided in a room inside the Talent Hall by a black stone he did not understand. That lack of control bothered him less than it had during Deepwinter. Not because he had solved anything. Because there was nothing left to solve.

If the stone did not react, he would need another road. If it did, he would enter the Hall. Simple. One evening, Simon found him sitting beneath the old tree behind the house. The damaged trunk still carried several years of Joe's marks. Simon leaned against it.

"Grandfather still angry about this?"

"I don't think he remembers."

"Probably not." Joe looked up at him. Simon followed his gaze toward the marks.

"You really counted every day?"

"Most days."

"Why?"

"I wanted to know." Simon shook his head.

"You're strange."

"So I've been told." For once, Simon had nothing to add. The two brothers sat beneath the tree while the evening light faded across Green Hollow. Beyond the yard, Mike and Joseph were still working near the fields. Lily called for Mary to stop chasing a chicken. Pam shouted something from inside the house that nobody answered. It was ordinary. Joe had learned to value ordinary days. In a few months, one of them might divide his life into another before and after. Simon had crossed that line three years earlier.

Soon, Joe would find out whether he could follow.