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Authors: T. A. Barron
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will earn your forgiveness. He will never use his powers again, if that is what it takes! Only help him. Please help him.”
“Never use my powers again?” I scoffed. “I would gladly give them up in exchange for sight! I never wanted them anyway.”
Bitterly, I tugged the bandage on my brow. “And what kind of life do you have now? Not much better than mine! It’s true. You may talk bravely. You may fool those nuns out there. But not me. I know you are miserable.”
“I am at peace.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I am at peace,” she repeated.
“At peace!” I shouted. “At peace! Then why are your hands so chafed from all your wringing? Why are your cheeks so stained with your—”
I never finished the sentence.
“Good God,” she whispered.
“I . . . don’t understand.” Hesitantly, I extended a hand toward her face, lightly brushing her cheek.
In that instant, we both realized that I could, somehow, sense her tear stains. Though I could not see them with my eyes, I nonetheless knew they were there.
“It is another gift.” Branwen’s voice was full of awe. She clasped my hand tightly. “You have the second sight .”
I didn’t know what to think. Was this the same ability that I once used to open a flower’s petals? No. It felt different. Less willful somehow. What about seeing the colors inside the flower before it opened? Perhaps. Yet this felt different from that, too. More like . . . an answer to Branwen’s prayer. A gift from God.
“Can it be?” I asked meekly. “Can it really be?”
“Thanks to God, it can.”
“Test me,” I demanded. “Hold up some fingers.”
She obliged.
I bit my lower lip, trying to perceive her fingers.
“Two?”
“No. Try again.”
“Three?”
“Try again.”
Focusing my thoughts, I instinctively closed my eyes, though of course that made no difference. After a long pause, I said, “Two hands, not one. Am I right?”
“Right! Now . . . how many fingers?”
Minutes passed. Perspiration formed on my scarred brow, stinging the sensitive skin. But I didn’t waver. At length, I asked a hesitant question.
“Could it be seven?”
Branwen sighed with relief. “Seven it is.”
We embraced. I knew, in that moment, that my life had changed completely. And I suspected that, for the rest of my days, I would continue to ascribe special importance to the number seven.
Most important of all, though, I knew that a promise had been made. It didn’t matter whether it had been made by me, by Branwen, or by us both. I would never again move objects with my mind. Not even a flower petal. Nor would I read the future, or try to master whatever other powers might once have been mine. But I could see again. I could live again.
Right away, I started eating. And hardly stopped—especially if I could get bread-in-milk, my favorite. Or blackberry jam on bread crusts. Or mustard mixed with raw goose eggs, which gave me the added fun of making any nearby nuns ill. One afternoon, Branwen went out to the market and found a single, succulent date—which was, for us, as splendid as a royal feast.
And my spirit revived along with my appetite. I began to explore the hallways, the cloisters, the courtyards of Saint Peter. The whole church was my domain. My castle! Once, when no nuns were about, I stole into the courtyard and took a bath in the shallow pool. The most difficult part was to resist singing at the top of my lungs.
Meanwhile, Branwen and I worked together every day for long hours, trying to sharpen my second sight. For my first practice sessions, we used spoons, pottery bowls, and other ordinary utensils that she found somewhere in the church. In time, I moved on to a small altar with subtle contours and grains in its wood. Eventually, I graduated to a two-handled chalice with intricate carvings on its surface. Although it took the better part of a week, I finally came to read the words inscribed on its rim: Ask, and ye shall receive.
As I practiced, I
“Never use my powers again?” I scoffed. “I would gladly give them up in exchange for sight! I never wanted them anyway.”
Bitterly, I tugged the bandage on my brow. “And what kind of life do you have now? Not much better than mine! It’s true. You may talk bravely. You may fool those nuns out there. But not me. I know you are miserable.”
“I am at peace.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I am at peace,” she repeated.
“At peace!” I shouted. “At peace! Then why are your hands so chafed from all your wringing? Why are your cheeks so stained with your—”
I never finished the sentence.
“Good God,” she whispered.
“I . . . don’t understand.” Hesitantly, I extended a hand toward her face, lightly brushing her cheek.
In that instant, we both realized that I could, somehow, sense her tear stains. Though I could not see them with my eyes, I nonetheless knew they were there.
“It is another gift.” Branwen’s voice was full of awe. She clasped my hand tightly. “You have the second sight .”
I didn’t know what to think. Was this the same ability that I once used to open a flower’s petals? No. It felt different. Less willful somehow. What about seeing the colors inside the flower before it opened? Perhaps. Yet this felt different from that, too. More like . . . an answer to Branwen’s prayer. A gift from God.
“Can it be?” I asked meekly. “Can it really be?”
“Thanks to God, it can.”
“Test me,” I demanded. “Hold up some fingers.”
She obliged.
I bit my lower lip, trying to perceive her fingers.
“Two?”
“No. Try again.”
“Three?”
“Try again.”
Focusing my thoughts, I instinctively closed my eyes, though of course that made no difference. After a long pause, I said, “Two hands, not one. Am I right?”
“Right! Now . . . how many fingers?”
Minutes passed. Perspiration formed on my scarred brow, stinging the sensitive skin. But I didn’t waver. At length, I asked a hesitant question.
“Could it be seven?”
Branwen sighed with relief. “Seven it is.”
We embraced. I knew, in that moment, that my life had changed completely. And I suspected that, for the rest of my days, I would continue to ascribe special importance to the number seven.
Most important of all, though, I knew that a promise had been made. It didn’t matter whether it had been made by me, by Branwen, or by us both. I would never again move objects with my mind. Not even a flower petal. Nor would I read the future, or try to master whatever other powers might once have been mine. But I could see again. I could live again.
Right away, I started eating. And hardly stopped—especially if I could get bread-in-milk, my favorite. Or blackberry jam on bread crusts. Or mustard mixed with raw goose eggs, which gave me the added fun of making any nearby nuns ill. One afternoon, Branwen went out to the market and found a single, succulent date—which was, for us, as splendid as a royal feast.
And my spirit revived along with my appetite. I began to explore the hallways, the cloisters, the courtyards of Saint Peter. The whole church was my domain. My castle! Once, when no nuns were about, I stole into the courtyard and took a bath in the shallow pool. The most difficult part was to resist singing at the top of my lungs.
Meanwhile, Branwen and I worked together every day for long hours, trying to sharpen my second sight. For my first practice sessions, we used spoons, pottery bowls, and other ordinary utensils that she found somewhere in the church. In time, I moved on to a small altar with subtle contours and grains in its wood. Eventually, I graduated to a two-handled chalice with intricate carvings on its surface. Although it took the better part of a week, I finally came to read the words inscribed on its rim: Ask, and ye shall receive.
As I practiced, I
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