“Strange,” said Okoya, “that the Goddess of Purity can’t feel clean.”
Tory had a good laugh at that one. Goddess of Purity? Well sure, why not! The Neptune Pool seemed a place lofty enough for such a fantasy. She didn’t mind entertaining it for a moment or two.
The wind shifted slightly, and Tory caught the scent of Okoya’s cologne. She breathed it in, feeling it deeply in her lungs and spirit, like a pungent aromatherapy.
“I know in time, you’ll be able to feel . . . purged,” Okoya said. “But then again, perhaps it’s the world that needs purging—perhaps that’s what you’re feeling; the need to burn away the chaff, like a smelting furnace, leaving behind only that which is pure. After all, the world could do with some human purification.”
Tory pushed herself up on her elbows, and turned toward Okoya, but the sun made her squint, and Okoya’s face was painted in dark silhouette. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I mean that you’ve spent so much time turning your gift of purification inward—but there’s nothing left inside you to cleanse. . . . Still you keep searching—sensing impurity that’s no longer there; subjecting yourself to boxcars and ragged clothes, as if you had to.”
Tory knew there was truth in Okoya’s words, but also knew that it was a dangerous truth.
“If you want to ease your compulsion,” Okoya advised, “then set your cleansing power free. Use it, the way it was meant to be used.”
“I am using it.”
Okoya waved her hand in disgust. “Dillon is squandering your talent. Using your insights and taking the credit. Didn’t you tell me that you were the one who made that leap of understanding, and figured out the truth about yourselves? That you were the Shards of the Scorpion Star?” Okoya stood and stretched, her stint at sun worship over. “You have a purity of insight,” she told Tory. “Protect it. Don’t let the others taint it.”
And then Okoya left. It was only after she was gone, that Tory noticed the vial of cologne had been left behind on the lounge chair.
When Tory turned, she saw the servant girl standing there once again, but this time Tory didn’t send her away with a self-conscious dismissal. Okoya was right. There was no need to be a Cinderella, dressed in rags, cowering in shame. The ball had begun, and it was high time she began dancing. Tory reached out and grabbed the vial of perfume, making it her own.
“I’m tired of swimming in a cold pool,” she told the girl. “I’d like it heated.”
“But . . . the Neptune Pool hasn’t been heated for fifty years,” the girl explained. “We’d have to build a whole new heating system.”
“Then do it,” ordered Tory, as she dabbed the nape of her neck with the stopper. “You have until noon.”
And when Tory swam again later that day, the water temperature of the pool was already rising.
In the first days at the castle, Michael found himself avoiding Lourdes and her smothering affection. He felt like a hapless puppy caught in the grip of an overeager child, and would do anything to squirm away. And then there was Drew, who did not fawn the way Lourdes did, but still, Michael caught those secret glances that were an ever-present reminder of Drew’s attraction lingering just beneath the surface.
There is something you can do about it, Michael kept telling himself—for there was more than one way to mend Drew’s broken heart, and end that attraction forever. But it gave Michael a shiver just thinking about it.
It was Okoya who helped Michael gain a bead on the situation.
During those first few days at the castle, Okoya shared with Michael ancient Hualapai tales, and Michael shared with Okoya his music. He had even lent Okoya his Walkman, and it seemed Okoya had taken to the powerful rock tunes and jazz fusion with a passion. In a way, it made Michael jealous—as if his music had suddenly abandoned him for another. But for Michael it seemed a fair exchange—for, since the moment Michael arrived, Okoya had been there with a sensitive ear, always willing to listen; always ready to advise.
Today, they sat together in the Assembly Room, Michael sprawled out on one of the many sofas, while Okoya sat at the piano, playing uninspired scales up and down the keyboard.
“You feel things very deeply,” Okoya told Michael; “so deeply that the world around you becomes an echo of what you feel.” Okoya changed keys. “With feelings that powerful, why should it matter that you don’t feel love?”
“Because what I feel more deeply than anything else is the hole where it ought to be.”
“There’re other ways to fill yourself,” said Okoya.
Michael closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, trying to wrestle down all those unresolved emotions. And then, in a few moments, he realized that Okoya’s music had changed. The monotonous scales had mutated into a grand rhapsody spilling forth from the piano. The music seemed charged with red-hot emotion. It wasn’t classical, it wasn’t Jazz or rock, but a synthesis of all three, and more. The music entered Michael, resonating within him to fill the gaping hollow.
“Why worry about love?” he heard Okoya say, but his voice sounded faint behind the swell of the music. “Why worry about something so unimportant, when you have the power to level mountains and subdue the spirit of millions? A power like yours could bring everyone in the world into line. That’s what Dillon wants, isn’t it? The world in order? Everything in control? You’re the one to do it. Not Dillon.”
The second Michael opened his eyes, the music stopped—and he was startled to find that Okoya was not at the piano. Michael could feel his heartbeat in the rims of his ears, as if the music had warmed them, and he had the strange, uncanny feeling that Okoya was standing right behind him, cupping his hands around Michael’s ears, as if his hands were a pair of headphones, feeding him that wonderful music.
Michael turned, to see that Okoya was behind him—but was peering out of the window.
“The weather’s changed for the better,” Okoya said. “Music must truly have charms to soothe the savage beast.”
Michael wouldn’t confirm that it was Okoya’s music that had shifted his mood, because he felt strange saying it aloud—as if the music was something he had to keep secret.
But with the music gone, his old frustrations and worries spilled in to fill the vacuum. Okoya seemed to know. “Your troubles will go away, you just need to take some action.”
“What do you think I should do?”
Okoya seemed to know the answer without thinking. “The thing you’ve been afraid to do,” he said.
The thing he was afraid to do . . . Michael knew what that was, but was he willful enough to take such a bold and brash action? “If I’m afraid to do it, then maybe I have a good reason.”
“Close your eyes,” Okoya said gently. “Think about the music I just played for you.” Michael closed his eyes, trying to recall the tune. He couldn’t remember the notes, but he did remember their effect on him.
“How did the music make you feel?”
“Powerful,” answered Michael. “Invincible.”
“But you already are those things. The music can’t make you feel what’s not already there. It can only remind you of what you already know.” Then Okoya leaned close to Michael’s ear. So close that Michael could feel the moistness of his breath on the fine hairs deep in his ear canal. It was sensual, but in a very different way—as if Okoya was calling to something in Michael that was levels above eroticism. It touched not his libido, but his soul.