Bastille shook her head. “You can’t study yourself into being something you aren’t. I won’t ever be an Oculator. I’ll have to settle for being what my mother always told me I should be. The thing I’m apparently ‘gifted’ in.”
“And that is?” I asked.
“Being a warrior,” she said with a sigh. “But I guess I’m not too good at that either.”
Now, you’re probably expecting poor Bastille to “learn something” by the end of this book. You probably expect to see her overcome her bitterness, to realize that she never should have given up on her dreams.
You think this because you’ve read too many silly stories about people who achieve things they previously thought impossible – deep and poignant books about trains that climb hills or little girls who succeed through sheer determination.
Let me make one thing very clear. Bastille will never become an Oculator. It’s a genetic ability, which means you can only become an Oculator if your ancestors were Oculators. Bastille’s weren’t.
People can do great things. However, there are some things they just can’t do. I, for instance, have not been able to transform myself into a Popsicle, despite years of effort. I could, however, make myself insane, if I wished. (Though if I achieved the second, I might be able to make myself think I’d achieved the first….)
Anyway, if there’s a lesson to be learned, it’s this: Great success often depends upon being able to distinguish between the impossible and the improbable. Or, in easier terms, distinguishing between Popsicles and insanity.
Any questions?
I wanted to say something to help Bastille. After all, I’d just undergone a life-changing revelation, and I figured that there should be enough to go around. Unfortunately, Bastille wasn’t exactly in a “life-changing revelation” sort of mood.
“I don’t need your pity, Smedry,” she snapped, swatting my arm away. “I’m just fine as I am. There really isn’t anything you could do to help anyway.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but at that moment, I heard a door open. I turned as Ms. Fletcher strolled into the hallway outside our cell.
“Hello, Smedry,” she said.
“Ms. Fletcher,” I said flatly. “Or ‘Shasta,’ or whatever your real name is.”
“Fletcher will do,” she said, obviously trying to sound friendly. She couldn’t quite pull it off. “I’ve come to chat.”
I shook my head. “I have little to say to you.”
“Come now, Alcatraz. I’ve always looked out for you, despite how difficult you made my life. Surely you can see that I have your best interests at heart.”
“Somehow I doubt that, Ms. Fletcher.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you have to say? I expected something a little more… scathing, Smedry.”
“Actually, I’ve changed,” I said. “You see, I just had a life-changing revelation and don’t plan to make snide comments anymore.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is,” I said firmly.
Ms. Fletcher cocked her head, a strange look on her face.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “You just… reminded me of someone I used to know. Anyway, I don’t care what game you are playing today. The time has come for us to deal.”
“Deal?”
Ms. Fletcher nodded, leaning in. “We want the old man. The crazy one who came and got you this morning.”
“You mean Grandpa Smedry?” I asked, glancing at Sing, who was watching quietly. Apparently, he was content to let me take the lead in the conversation.
“Yes,” Ms. Fletcher said. “Grandpa Smedry. Tell us where he is and we’ll let you go.”
“Let me go? Let me go where?”