Нил Шустерман: Thief Of Souls

“One problem, though,” Winston added. “You made a promise back at the castle, that we’d never be hurt as long as we followed you. Tory and Michael were part of that promise.”

Winston was right. Dillon had made a promise, and it left him in an irreconcilable dilemma. For as much as he wanted to live by his conviction that he would never abuse the power of resurrection again, he also knew that he would break his own rule for Tory and Michael, if he got the chance.

He wished Winston could offer him some pearls of wisdom, but he had none.

Dillon closed his eyes. It was hard enough to seek out the living, but finding the dead? He wasn’t even sure if they died in the rubble of the dam, or some­where else. “We’ll look for them,” Dillon said. “And if we ever find their bodies, we’ll decide what to do then.”

From here on in, Dillon knew, his decisions would only get harder. In the days since Okoya’s departure, tens of thousands had flown in from around the world to bathe in the healing waters of the Colorado and Co­lumbia Rivers, and to witness Dillon’s miracle of the Backwash. People whispered his name, from the hum­blest to the most elite of circles, as their alliances re­aligned toward him. Okoya was right about one thing: It was too late to stop it. How long until everyone in the world knew his name? Twenty-four days and count­ing, whether he liked it or not.

“Come on, we’d better get out of here,” said Win­ston. “This isn’t a good place to stand for too long, if you know what I mean.”

Dillon looked around, and knew exactly what Win­ston meant. Thanks to Dillon, all the dead flowers grac­ing the neighboring stones had become fresh again—and thanks to Winston, they were all growing new buds. Even more worrisome was Dillon’s sense that the rows of the dead were ever so slowly being coaxed back toward life by his own healing presence. It was everywhere around them—growth and rejuvenation, old life and new. It was a wonderful thing, and yet terrible all at once, for this world was not ready for their brand of talents, and they were not ready to wield them.

“Come on, Dillon. Can’t let grass grow beneath our feet,” said Winston with a wry smile, because in fact it was.

Dillon had to smile as well. He couldn’t read all the patterns ahead; there were too many variables now, too many gaping unknowns. But then he could never pre­dict the future, could he? He could only see the direc­tions that chance and design were supposed to take, as they moved toward an unseen future. But things change; and no pattern can ever be cast in stone. It frightened him to know that even with his remarkable vision, so much in the world was out of his control and unknowable. It was that fear of the unknown that bound him to what he was; never a god, and always human. There was comfort in that, and as they left the dead behind, Dillon took strength in the knowledge that so many things were still unknown.