The Gift

Chapter 12

Wisty

Now that was maybe the strangest thing that has happened to us so far. Another mystery inside a mystery inside a mystery.

I remember almost nothing. At least, nothing after I told Whit to look up at the screen-and Celia. Now I'm flat on my face in the middle of the town plaza, and my head is pounding.

I turn to find Whit in a similar state, only he's holding his head with both hands and sobbing. There's not much that's worse than seeing your older brother cry. Except maybe seeing your parents that way.

I scramble over to him and hold him as he tells me what happened. It's a pretty incoherent jumble, but one thing is clear: Celia said we had to turn ourselves in. Nice one, Celes. I'll chew on that. First let's go over your connection to the New Order one more time. How did you get up on the propaganda board?

"We're not turning ourselves in," I tell him dismissively. "It's a video trick. The N.O. is getting desperate."

"It's BS!" he says indignantly, suddenly straightening. "I know it now. That wasn't Celia talking. It couldn't have been. We're going to destroy this regime, and we can't do it if we're prisoners. Or dead."

I pull myself up. "Wow," I say, brushing the dust off. "Got knocked back by charging testosterone, there."

Whit manages to laugh at my lame joke, then surprises me with a fake bull charge, shoulder to gut.

"Yeah! We're gonna take 'em down!" he yells.

"Yee-ha!" a bunch of little voices shout. What now?

We turn and see the most ragamuffiny band of ragamuffins poking their heads out of the doorway of a boarded-up video-game store.

"Who are you?" I ask, wide-eyed. They're clearly not so nervous that they don't want to be seen, but not so trusting that they want to be in arm's reach.

One little boy with an incredible burr-tangled mane of brown-blond hair steps forward.

"Are you guys regular people?" he asks. He can't be much past the third grade.

"If you mean we're not brainwashed by the New Order, yeah," I say. "We're not. Where are your parents?"

"They're gone. We don't know where. Taken."

"Taken?"

"The soldiers put them in trucks and stole 'em away," he says. Some of the smaller boys and girls start to rub tears from their eyes.

A flash of emotion crosses Whit's face. Sympathy, empathy-call it what you will. My brother's not exactly a softy, except when he ought to be. He takes off his knapsack and puts it on the ground in front of him, then rests his hands on it for a moment with his eyes closed.

And then-it's the most surreal thing-a puppy and two kittens poke their heads out of the bag.

The children's sorrow turns to wonder and laughter as the puppy and kittens scamper out of the bag. The kids who can't get in to pet the animals are looking back at Whit with awe. Frankly, so am I. "Whoa!" I say.

Now he's pulling back on his collar, and white doves are fluttering out of his shirt and up into the sky. And now-gross!-he sneezes and a cloud of yellow bees comes out of his nose and zooms up after the doves. The kids are laughing hysterically.

"Where'd you learn the parlor tricks?" I ask Whit. "Sweet. You're becoming a rather charming wizard."

He shrugs. "I thought I should do something nice for someone else for a change, instead of just worrying about us all of the time," he says, and turns back to the merrymaking kids. "You guys want to come with us?" he offers.

Wow. The things that can happen when you black out for a few minutes. Suddenly my brother's become Mr. Whitford Fountain-of-Charity Allgood, Esq.

"You gonna open a soup kitchen next?" I say with a big smile.

"Maybe," he says. "Why not?" And then my brother conjures up a big pot of hot tomato soup, with bowls and spoons, and just the right amount for everybody.