‘You go on with your training. Up to you.’
‘My training? I didn’t know I was being trained. What for?’
‘Depends on what you learn.’
‘Uh-huh, right. Well, one thing I’ve learned is not to expect a straight answer.’
‘I take teaching seriously, Daniel. I won’t tell you what I don’t know.’
‘Then tell me what you do know.’
‘There’s sort of three levels of association with AMO. The first is friends and kindred souls. That association is a loose system of mutual aid and moral support. They don’t pay dues. The second is allies, actual members of AMO who pay their yearly five percent, and who receive and provide direct benefits of the Alliance. And then there are adepts. They are people with particular gifts and understanding who sustain and expand the Alliance’s traditional arts and practices.’
‘Is that what you’re trying not to tell me, that I’m being trained as an adept?’
‘No one is trained as an adept. An adept is one who has mastered a particular art, who has achieved a certain understanding. You can’t teach mastery. You can only teach certain skills of awareness, which in turn lead to the recognition of possibilities and opportunities for further development – as well as the dangers involved. Beyond that, you’re on your own. But as Synesius noted as early as the fourth century, “There is always guidance available if you’re available.”’
Daniel considered this a moment, flexing his hands. ‘Do you think I have potential as an adept?’
‘I don’t give grades, Daniel. But yes, clearly, you have potential. Most everyone does. But you see, it’s like this: The brain processes information, and information can be an endless ride. With the addition of the heart, some information becomes knowledge. The spirit, or soul, transforms it into understanding. But that’s the problem with abstraction – it misleads by separation.’
‘What sort of potential do I have? I mean, what direction should I take? I’m not asking you to make the decision for me, understand – it’s just that I’d value your opinion.’
‘I don’t know. But I have a strong hunch that you’d make one helluva thief. Actually, what AMO calls a Raven, which goes way beyond stealing. “Agents of exchange and restitution” is what Volta calls them. Ravens are the only adepts that AMO allows to kill other human beings, and they can only use their imaginations as the weapon.’
‘You mean by imagining them dead? Or like shooting them from a hot-air balloon drifting by their window?’
‘I mean by writing them a note saying “I’m going to kill you tonight.” And the next day, one that reads “I was detained; it’s tonight,” and the next day, “Prepare yourself,” and do it day after day for a couple of weeks and then catch him asleep one night and fire a bullet just above his head and when he screams awake say, “Oops, shit, I missed – oh well, there’s always tomorrow.” And ten days later the guy runs his sports car into a concrete abutment.’
‘Jesus, what had he done?’
‘Daniel,’ Wild Bill scolded, ‘silence is golden.’
‘It’s still murder, though, in a way. Right?’
‘If you want to split moral hairs, talk to Volta. The use of violence has always been hotly debated in AMO, and over the centuries there’s been about a hundred different “official” policies – I’m relying on Volta’s scholarship here. The current policy is what Volta calls “compassionate condemnation.” That means you shouldn’t use lethal violence except in the most extreme circumstances – like self-defense – but that people, out of fear and ignorance and rage, make mistakes. And there is a meanness in the world that must be dealt with.’
‘How’s your eye?’ Daniel said.
Wild Bill chuckled. ‘It’ll heal if you don’t keep hitting it.’
‘That was dangerous what you did, setting off that explosion. You couldn’t know for sure how I’d react.’
‘Not for sure, no, but life’s full of hazards. Despite the boom, it was a piddley charge, plus it was fifty yards from us, buried, and I had the det-switch in my hand.’ Course I was tired from having to haul ass back down the hill to get up in the tree, and then you spotted the wire.’
‘So while I was out starving and having visions, you were setting me up.’
‘Nope. As a matter of fact, for about the first two weeks I was in sunny Florida visiting my sister, and then I hustled back here to be with you. Had to hump it in two nights ago during that storm. I tell you, crossing the Eel cinched me up – I was going hand-over-hand on that rope we rigged, and that water had me horizontal. Don’t think my feet touched bottom once. Only way I made it was telling myself that I didn’t care how much Volta sweet-talked me, if I got across I was a retired teacher, finished and gone, just watch those desert sunsets and yodel with the lizards.’
‘That’s something I have to ask you,’ Daniel said, ‘something I really need to know. Were you yodeling last night?’
‘I was. But given the acoustics of the basin, I doubt you could hear me. Besides, you heard what you heard. I was just trying to help you understand it, that’s all.’
‘Why didn’t you say so this morning?’
‘Because I wanted you thinking. That way I could take you by surprise.’
‘I had two other visions if you want to hear them.’
‘Always interested in visions. But let’s talk over lunch, because not only did I dare the raging river with explosives in my pack, but also four thick filet mignons from Tilly and Owen, plus lettuce, broccoli, sourdough bread, and a twenty-buck bottle of Cabernet. Not to mention a small personal gift for you that must wait for the proper moment.’
They feasted and talked till late in the afternoon. Daniel recounted his visions, listened to Wild Bill explain why they weren’t quite truly visions, and then listened as Wild Bill gave him some history of AMO – his version, he stressed, since certain AMO lore was only transmitted orally, which invited revision and invention, and thus kept the facts straight. Wild Bill was relaxed, direct, and far more articulate than Daniel had ever seen him, but whether it was the wine, the morning’s events, or his last day as a teacher that allowed the mask to slip, Daniel didn’t know nor particularly care.
As the sun dipped toward the basin rim, Bill, a bit wobbly, stood and announced, ‘All right, Daniel, it’s the proper moment. Follow me.’
They walked down to the lake’s edge and faced the setting sun. After a long silence, Wild Bill took something from his pocket and turned to Daniel. ‘I want to give you a gift. I give one to each of my students – not like a damn diploma or a token of passage, understand, but an expression of gratitude for all they made me learn in order to teach them anything.’ He gently placed a hand-worked, solid-gold turtle the size of a quarter in Daniel’s palm. The turtle’s eyes were tiny, brilliant diamonds.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Daniel murmured, enthralled by its weight, its luster, the crystalline eyes.
‘Most of my students think the turtle is a symbol of balance between earth wisdom and water wisdom, but what I have in mind is slow learners.’
Daniel closed his hand around the turtle and looked at Wild Bill. ‘You know what I don’t understand?’
‘No,’ Wild Bill smiled, ‘but there’s a lot to choose from.’
Daniel ignored the charm. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so afraid of your tenderness.’
‘That’s another reason it’s a turtle,’ Wild Bill said. ‘Why do you think they have shells?’
Daniel laughed. He curled his index finger around the gold turtle, cocked his sore wrist, and threw it as far as he could toward the center of the lake.
The turtle hit the water with a silent splash, concentric ripples languidly spreading from the point of impact.
Stunned by Daniel’s act, Wild Bill watched the ripples, tried to feel their calm, inevitable dissipation within himself. He turned to Daniel then, nodded, and said, ‘Good. Very good. In fact, Daniel, that was excellent.’