“No, I don’t.”
“Of course you do, Ellis Rogers. I can feel what you feel. You do love me—you just don’t know what love is.”
Hands cupped his face, lifting it gently. “All your life, you never learned, because no one showed you. Not your mother, who didn’t know how to express affection. Not your wife, who blamed you for the death of your son. Certainly not Warren. Not even your son, who didn’t trust that you would come around. None of you understood what love really is. It’s not lust, or dependence, or infatuation, or familiarity. Love isn’t a fondness or butterflies in your stomach.”
“Then what is it?” Ellis managed to ask.
“Love is the degree to which you are willing to sacrifice your own interests for those of another. It doesn’t matter what sex you are. It doesn’t matter who you are, or were. It only matters that you care more for someone else than you do for yourself. It’s when you eat minlatta with tarragon oil even when you hate pasta because someone with you enjoys it. It’s when you value being alone more than anything but agree to move in with someone because they need you. And believe this, Ellis Rogers, for I am quite certain that love is most certainly when you push away the one person in all the world you want to be with because you think your thoughts would cause them pain.”
Ellis couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
“Give it some time. You’ve had a rough month.”
Ellis nodded. “I died right after you left, after I told you I was going to stay on the farm, did you know that?”
Pax nodded. “I sort of died then too. I hope you aren’t planning on killing me again.”
Ellis struggled to look at Pax—at that sympathetic face with those perfect eyes, stormy eyes, loving eyes. Ellis’s nose was running, and he wished he had a tissue—a good old-fashioned Kleenex or even a paper towel. Pax handed him the decorative handkerchief from a coat pocket. He blew, wiped.
“Does Alva still have that pattern for hot chocolate?”
Sixteen
Time Well Spent
“Welcome back!” Ellis heard Alva exclaim the moment he and Pax returned. “Will you be staying? Is the temperature in here too cold? Too hot? Can I brew you some tea, Pax? Some coffee, Ellis Rogers?”
“We’re fine, Alva,” Pax replied.
“Soup then?”
“We don’t need anything. Really.”
“Okay—I’ll make soup.”
They walked to the balcony. Ellis wished he still had a pair of the geomancer glasses. Someone was waving to him from across the park, and he couldn’t tell who it was. He consoled himself with the realization that even with the glasses, he wouldn’t know. He was back in Hollow World, and no one wore name tags.
And everyone knew him.
He’d already achieved pop-icon status before the story about the Cult of Ren had spread. When news circulated that Ellis had helped save the world, he finally had become the modern Charles Lindbergh as Pax had predicted, only with a good dash of Marilyn Monroe thrown in. Three different producers had asked him to consult on holo productions of the events. Five others asked to do his biography, in full interactive immersion, and another—a scholar with the University of Wegener—wanted him to consult on a series of historical holograms where users could explore twenty-first century America. They would build it; all he had to do was walk around and tell them what was inaccurate. Ellis was actually considering that last one.
“Is Vin here?” Ellis asked.
“No, Vin has moved back home. I don’t suspect I’ll need Vin watching over me anymore.”
Ellis felt depressed. He didn’t know why. The feeling wasn’t anything solid, nothing he could get a grasp on. He just didn’t understand it. Everything had concluded for the best, he supposed. But looking out at the beautiful view, standing beside Pax in that wonderful home, he had an overwhelming sense of…guilt. Survivor’s guilt perhaps. Everyone he had known was dead and gone—Warren too. Even though he hadn’t meant to, and even though Warren had to be stopped, he could not get past the fact that he had killed his best friend. And for that, he was being called a hero.
Pax took his hand and squeezed. “Give it time,” Pax assured him.
Ellis nodded.
Pax looked over the balcony. “They’re playing again.”
“Mezos versus the Meerkats,” Alva said.
“Who’s winning?”
“Mezos are up by one.”
“Ah.” Pax smiled. “That’s good. I hope they win this time.”
A wonderful, multicolored bird fluttered up and landed on the railing, where it sat, watching both of them with a cocked head. Fall was coming to Detroit, but on the balcony in Hollow World it looked like spring.
“Pax,” Alva said.
“Yes?”
“This might not be important to you right now, but you did insist that I tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Quad seven grass—it’s about to start.”
A smile grew across Pax’s lips. “Thanks, Alva.”
Pax released Ellis’s hand and took out the portal device.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re going to the grass, to my favorite place in the world—Quad seven.”
“What’s in Quad seven?”
With a single touch, Pax called up the portal, proving the location was preset.
“Pax? What’s in Quad seven?”
Pax continued to smile. “Follow me.”
The two walked through the portal into an open field of lush, knee-high grass and beautiful purple flowers. Soaring high above, and to either side, were dramatic cliffs—sheer faces of chiseled granite thrusting up out of a tranquil meadow. Slender white lines of waterfalls plummeted to a valley floor that was ringed in tall pines. The place was oddly familiar. He had looked at this scene nearly every day, but this was the first time he’d ever seen it in color.
Ansel Adams was a great photographer, but the photo that had hung in Ellis’s garage for years didn’t begin to do the scene justice. Standing in the meadow, he felt small and grand at the same time. To experience something of such majesty took his breath away more than the fibrosis ever had. But that wasn’t all. Overhead, the vast sky was a cauldron of clouds. Giant thunderheads rolled and billowed, dark and voluminous. The birch trees, whose trunks were stark white lines against the charcoal, green, and purple clouds, swayed in a strong gusting wind.
A flash of lightning arced, and Ellis realized there was something ancient about thunderstorms, some primordial connection to the human spirit. Awe-inspiring by sheer size and power, this had always been at least one face of God.
Thunder cracked, and Ellis felt the bass pass through him, felt it shudder the earth. The effect was amazing, and he couldn’t help being thrilled, couldn’t help smiling.
“A lot of people think trees are sentient,” Pax said, watching the birches sway. “I, on the other hand, know they are. And they’re incredible. I love being here with them at times like this. Watching them in the wind, feeling what they feel. It’s like they’re dancing. Showing us what to do—what we should be doing.”
“Dancing?”
“Try it.” Pax took hold of his hands and began to sway.
Ellis felt foolish. Pax clearly didn’t.
Arms outstretched, face raised to the sky, Pax began to twirl as the first raindrops hit them. “You see, Ellis Rogers, I don’t just hear thoughts of people. I feel everything—all of it. Every living cell out here. Every blade of grass, every leaf, every flower, ladybug, deer, rabbit, and mouse. I know the joy of every parched root rejoicing with nature’s gift.” Pax pulled off the bowler hat and shouted to the sky, “I just love rain days!”
Afterword