Paul

While the others fought and struggled and bled, Paul ran for cover. He watched the battle peeking over a rock. His fists pounded stone as his heart burned with humiliation. Paul couldn’t do anything, and everyone knew it. There was an ability gap no amount of effort could overcome. Was he going to charge in throwing candles? The best thing was for him to stay away.

But his friends were losing.

Paul berated himself for not using his Pathfinding. He could’ve told them whether the beast or mages were easier to escape. Which was easier to fight, instead of facing one after another.

Hindsight was 20/20 every time. That was Paul’s whole life. Not using his powers was the dumbest decision he’d ever made. He’d lied to his friends, making it impossible for Daniel to accurately weigh decisions. It was all his fault. Again.

He needed to do something. Anything. Yet nothing came to mind. Why couldn’t he think straight in these situations? Why couldn’t he advance his abilities to something useful? Why didn’t he understand what was wrong with him?

“Paul, you’re young,” Dr. Adelaide had told him. “You shouldn’t expect everything to make sense right away. You’ll spend your whole life learning these things.”

“But if I don’t understand, I can’t help my friends!”

She’d smiled at him, not out of pity or despite annoyance, but with kind patience. “You don’t need to understand everything to help your friends, Paul, just make an effort.”

Isn’t that what he’d done? Tried everything; done all he could. He’d even called on his Progenitor—who hadn’t answered. He’d intended to distract. Although, in his heart, Paul wished it’d worked. Maybe The Way could’ve told him what to do.

Well, he’d called one of his Progenitors, his great, great, great… great grandfather, an Adam. He hadn’t tried his Eve. That was worth a shot. Right?

The beast charged Daniel too fast to evade. Rana appeared out of nowhere and kicked Daniel away, getting scratched and thrown aside for her trouble. They were losing badly. Daniel couldn’t have much power left and, even together, Cassie, Kenta, and Lea were stalling. Paul didn’t have much time.

He closed his eyes, a meaningless gesture, and clasped his hands together. Paul searched for the words despite knowing his ancestor would hear his heart. :Oh, One Who Knows The Rocks Beneath The Waves, oh, Watcher In The Night, oh, Great Pharos, hear the cry of your lost son. I don’t know what to do. Please, if you can hear me, help.:

Paul counted to three, but neither heard nor felt a thing. He felt disappointed until he remembered why he’d never asked for a Progenitor’s help previously. Throughout the universe, known even to mages, calling upon one’s Progenitor was never taken lightly.

It wasn’t done in jest or in circumstances less than most dire. Even when attempted, it seldom worked. Whether the Progenitor was uninterested, busy, or the supplicant didn’t have the heart for it—the summoning could fail for any number of reasons. Why, then, didn’t people ask all the time? This seeming contradiction can be explained with a simple question:

‘What if they did answer?’

He felt a tug on the place where a belly button would be on a human—like someone hooked a chain there to a revving truck—and thought to himself, It seemed like a good idea at the time…

Paul’s mind popped out of his body like a champaign cork, yanked by his navel tether into the stratosphere. The battle scene shrank to moving dots, soon obscured by clouds as he accelerated. He felt no nausea though fear and remorse lodged deep in his gut. To see where he was going, he flipped and immediately regretted it.

Stars zipped by as he left the solar system for the galaxy at large, unable to feel the cold of space but chilled by its vastness. Paul didn’t know how fast he went or if he was physically traveling. It seemed more vision than reality as he passed celestial bodies reminiscent of satellite photos—nebulae of all colors exploding in slow motion, gaseous planets with multiple rings, and billions of stars in all directions.

Finally, Paul reached a field of broken planets, their white fragments scattered in the void like cracked eggshells on velvet. How long had it been? He had no clocks, no reference. Yet, there, in the direction he approached at incomprehensible speeds, something moved.

A beam of light thinner than a strand of Kenta’s hair extended from the center of the planetary graveyard until it became fine as the faintest starlight. The beam swept the area and asteroids of inestimable size split in its passing. The melted edges of the sliced pieces radiated bright red with heat. Paul drew towards the source of that light, and as he neared, he recognized it for what it was.

A lighthouse perched atop one of the shattered planetoids as if on an island in the sea. Paul couldn’t measure the structure’s dimensions, only how long he spent crossing the cemetery before reaching the foundation, how the base seemed a wall whose width ran to the vanishing point, and how climbing the tower defied perception like an infinite plane in all directions.

High, high above, unable to see the lighthouse’s base, Paul found mechanical arms bearing glass lenses of various shapes. These appendages grew like trees with smaller branches splitting from their trunks as twigs and leaves. Beyond their relative proportions, he couldn’t measure them either. They flew by like the asteroids he’d passed, none of them discernably close.

As he reached the top, the instruments’ complexity increased. Glass and precious metals took strange shapes as he neared the lantern room emanating the grand beam.

With a shock, he saw that very asteroid-cutting laser turn on him. The glass chambers of the lantern room bloomed with beautiful light that became blindingly radiant, and Paul feared he’d melt. To his relief, a large—how many whales laying end to end would span it?—concave lens softened the light. A dozen other devices of varying designs and progressively smaller sizes aligned themselves with the beam. The last of these was a metal disk ten feet wide with a flat slit in the middle.

It shot a barcode laser to scan his body. Not mere light—the laser was alive, conscious, sensing as it touched him. His first response was embarrassment. Paul felt naked before this strange intelligence, exposed to power far beyond his comprehension. He was a butterfly with its wings pinned under the scrutiny of a magnifying glass. Nothing of his mind or body could hide from this being who might literally see through him if its patience wore thin.

The disk with the slit departed to reveal a camera’s focusing aperture. In this case, however, it was Pharos’s eye.

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The aperture widened, then narrowed on him. So, you are one of my other half’s brood. Pharos seemed disappointed but not angry. My apologies for the rough treatment. I’d nearly forgotten how gently I need to handle his soft Children. I hope you weren’t melted en route. The sentiment was at least half sarcastic.

He met the shining eye with his own, then, blinking with discomfort, turned his head aside. Paul said nothing, too afraid of making Pharos angry enough to casually wipe him from existence.

The aperture contracted on him with a dangerous glow. Well, boy? Speak your mind! You called, and I answered. This is a rare opportunity—do not waste it. Pharos didn’t thunder so much as quake with irritation, finally frightening Paul into speech.

Even so, the act felt like the bravest of his life. “P-p-please, I need your help.”

The aperture rolled with resignation, and Paul saw a lens and an unmarked metal disk rise into view. Redirected light from upstream hit the lens, then Paul, and then projected onto the disk. He saw a familiar scene—the battlefield from his perspective—frozen in time.

Pharos looked through Paul’s eyes and seemed to smile. Boy, you’ve done well bringing this to my attention. So many young Wildlings in one place… So much talent, so fragile. It’s best to eliminate one’s enemies before they become a nuisance.

The aperture contracted to a laser point radiating deadly energy.

Then a beam of incredible energy shot through the disk, through Paul, onto the battlefield. Not Kenta’s hair, Lea’s caramboles, Cassie’s Clairaudience, Wendi’s regeneration, or Daniel’s dust shield could stop the laser from bisecting each of their bodies through their hearts in a swift and painless death.

Paul returned to himself with a shock, disoriented, and knew what he’d seen hadn’t yet happened. A vision?

The aperture contracted to a laser point radiating deadly energy.

Horrified, Paul shouted, “No! Don’t hurt them!”

What, boy? The aperture widened, and the power dissipated as Pharos examined Paul again, peering closer at his inner workings. Ah, you would suffer if they were to die. The aperture swung back to the scene. If they are yours, that is a different matter.

He heaved a sigh of relief.

This beast must be the concern. The aperture smirked, So tiny, not even a minnow. This shouldn’t take a moment, and glowed.

Again, the beam shot through him and onto the battlefield—decapitating the beast. Paul returned to himself and understood what he’d seen wasn’t a vision at all but Pharos’s intentions for the immediate future.

“Wait,” Paul said.

Pharos jolted to a stop, irate. What is it now?

Mustering all his courage, Paul asked, “If I called you again in a week, would you answer?”

The aperture twitched. No, boy. That a child of my other half could reach my ear and that I have a moment to spare such a one at the time is a matter of infinitesimal chance. I doubt it will happen again this century—perhaps longer.

Paul supposed he’d won the lottery. “Then isn’t that a waste? If we survive this battle and get into a worse situation tomorrow, you won’t be there to fix everything. So, really, your ‘help’ doesn’t help me at all.”

As the blazing aperture bore down on him, Paul feared he’d gone too far and faced obliteration.

Pharos examined him for a third, more thorough, time. Hmm, perhaps you are more interesting than I first concluded. What is your name?

“P-Paul.”

Very well… Paul. Speak your mind, and I will listen.

Relieved of the threat of imminent doom, he allowed himself to hope. “What I need is a permanent solution. Something I can use to keep this from happening again.”

What is your intention?

“Can you help me get my second candelabra branch?”

The aperture had an air of nostalgia as Pharos replied, I do not now and have never understood The Way. When we first met, the mystery was romantic, but… after all these myriads, it’s become annoying. The aperture refocused on him. Come to think of it, why didn’t you call old candle-beard himself? You’re his responsibility, not mine.

“I tried, but he didn’t answer.”

Yet another of my counterpart’s duties foisted upon me. He disregards one of his Children in need and expects me to cover the neglect with my first free moment in two hundred years? I’d like to know what’s so important wax-lips can’t deal with this himself.

The light turned from Paul, and the beam erupted into the void. It swept through the asteroid belt heedless of any destruction it caused and fixated on a distant place.

A short time later, the light returned to the aperture, animating it with the regretful expression of one bearing bad news. Pharos’s tone softened, He said he doesn’t recognize you as his Child.

The other shoe finally dropped. Paul didn’t know what to say.

That’s bad. Really bad for you, Paul. What did you do to make him that angry?

To his surprise, he felt a tear in his eye. A wax tear. It floated into space. “I don’t know! I-I didn’t do anything… I didn’t,” Paul stopped. There was no use in denying the situation. If Pharos didn’t know, how would he ever find out?

What do you want to do, Paul?

He thought about it. “Can you teach me your magic?”

Pharos seemed to smile and chuckle. Do you know what you ask? Paul, how could you have called me without my magic? You must have something of mine…

“I can make olive oil,” he ventured.

A primitive fuel. And you haven’t made any lamps. The aperture squinted. You’re asking me to train you in the time we have remaining? Look, Pharos indicated the screen showing the battlefield. The action was not frozen, as he’d first thought, but slowed. Events are advancing on both sides. Not that a little training would help much, considering you’re Yang-dominant.

“What does that mean?”

Your teacher didn’t cover that, I see. Progenitors come in pairs, two sides of the same coin. Pharos the Yin and Girandole the Yang. When you were born, Yang dominated, and Yin receded—giving you this form. Paul looked at his candle wax body, pondering. You’re ‘right-handed’ asking me to teach you to write calligraphy with your left. If you’re not ambidextrous, it’s a challenging skill to master.

Unless you cut off your right hand.

Paul swallowed on a dry throat.

They say to see true, you must first go blind. To be reborn, you must first die. Are you beginning to understand your request?

Paul wouldn’t let himself renege. “Yes… but, if it’ll help me save my friends, if I stop being a burden to them, I don’t care what it costs me.”

The aperture widened. Am I hearing right? Did I hear you say… you want me to make you my Child?

“Yes, please d—”

—Hold on, there, Paul. Pharos grew excited, the aperture gleeful. Don’t sign yourself away. This is your opportunity. You have something I want—use it against me. Ensure I don’t disown you like The Way did. Leverage!

“Leverage?”

Yes! If the fact I answered your call, that I didn’t kill your allies when you asked, and that we’re still communing at all didn’t tip you off—I care. If little else on your scale of existence matters to me, I at least care about my Children. Even the ones who don’t take after me. I care about their happiness and well-being. The reason I am always busy is that I have so many Children asking for my help.

That’s why I’ll make you an offer: two concessions—take it or leave it.

Paul kept his mouth shut. The situation confused him. She had Paul dead to rights and was giving concessions?

First, a promise: I’ll never make you suffer needlessly.

“Sounds fair to me,” he said with one eye on her, the other on the screen where his friends fought in slow motion. He’d say anything to hurry this up.

Second, I’m giving you an ‘out.’ That got his attention.

As much as I want this, removing your Yang so your Yin can dominate doesn’t quite seem proper. My philosophy is that people start where they do for a reason. Things should stay how they are—until I move them. I’m a meddler by nature, always have been.

I don’t like that you’re being forced into this because of Girandole’s stubbornness. I hate being manipulated. On the word ‘hate,’ the aperture flared with fearsome light. So, if you ever discover what incense-breath was upset about, or if you’re not completely satisfied with what I have to offer, I’ll give you a refund.

That did seem eminently reasonable to Paul.

Do we have a deal? Pharos offered him a small metal pincer-grip arm, and, unable to conceive of any other option, Paul shook it with his right hand.