musical phrases as well.
He took a deep breath. He could do this.
First, the poisonous air, the layers and lakes of toxic chemicals-they had to go.
But not merely moved somewhere else. That would just poison another place. Eliot had to destroy the stuff. .
There was only one thing that would do: “The Symphony of Existence.” There was a bit toward the end about the death of the universe-where matter compressed and heated, atoms disassociated into mist and void.
It was powerful music to start with, perhaps too powerful.
Eliot banished that thought. There would be no room for doubt.
He played notes so low, they trembled on the subsonic threshold, notes so terrible and bloodcurdling, the earth cracked in a spiderweb pattern about him. Clouds covered the sky and cycloned about Eliot. Lightning flashed.
Eliot felt poison drawn from the air, water, and the earth. Rivers of the stuff flowed into the freshly created fissures, steaming and hissing and dissolving soil as it went.
He pushed the notes deeper and darker, pulled the material down-past surface layers and bedrock-he bowed faster, and the heat and subterranean pressure rose-burning and decomposing what it could, oxidizing the remaining toxic metals.
The music wanted Eliot to keep playing. . to the very end. . like a swimmer caught in a river rushing toward a waterfall.
He resisted, though, and deftly transitioned to a major key.
Lady Dawn heated under his fingers. He felt tiny crackles along her length.
The notes sweetened as he wove in strands of “Julie’s Song.”
The land had to be cleaned, but it also needed more. It had to be nurtured. “Julie’s Song” was the only thing he knew that so sounded full of love and light and hope.
He’d composed that song, however, when he was a different person. A boy in love.
He tried to be that again and gave his heart to the land, felt its suffering, and soothed its wounds.
It started to rain, pelting dust and sand, washing away debris, and extinguished distant jungle fires.
Eliot’s thoughts drifted from the land. . to Julie. . and then to what she had become. . Jezebel.
The music shifted, a subtle dissent into a minor key, something that spoke of wild growth and decay, jungle loam and running creepers and opening blossoms-a cycle of life
Eliot smelled fresh vegetation, rich turned earth, and honeysuckle.
He pulled the song back. . sensing something
He was angry. Eliot didn’t want to depend on trivial musical phrases, silly love songs, and music others had written. He wanted his
He played with fury-the notes nothing he’d ever dreamed of before.
He put his soul into his music.
And the lands that had once been beautiful called back to him: the phantom songs of a hundred birds and a million insect chirps and whines, the breeze and every rustling leaf that had once lived beckoned, wanting to be once more.
Eliot mourned it all, and he knew then that he
Somehow. No matter what it took.
He felt a part of himself slip into the land. . and made a connection.
He lost himself, played until he turned everything he was inside out-cast it forth-gave it all.
And then he slowed. . and plunked out the last notes. . and stopped.
Eliot fell to his knees.
Sweat dripped from him, tears streamed from his eyes. . and all mingled with the blood that ran freely from his fingers.
Eliot barely felt Henry’s hand on his shoulder.
The earth was black, and mangrove trees sprouted and grew as he watched, vines wrapped around trunk and branch. There was a rich scent of cut grass. Orchids bloomed. Beetles buzzed. With a rainbow of fluttering feathers, flocks of birds alighted in the treetops, twittering with excitement. Shadow and sunlight angled under the rising jungle.
The factory had changed as well. Rust and corruption had become gleaming stainless steel and green plastic.
Workers ran out and looked with fascination, many making the sign of the cross.
“That. . should. . do,” Eliot breathed, barely able to get out the words, he was so exhausted.
He fell and Henry caught him.
“Do?” Henry’s voice was full of wonder. “Indeed that shall.”
Eliot tried to laugh, but ended up coughing.
He had done something the entire League had been unable-or more likely, unwilling-to do. They were all too selfish to act beyond their personal interests.
And Eliot, at that very moment, realized he would never be one of them.
SECTION IV. FRESHMAN MIDTERMS
Fiona walked alone down the street. She loved the blinking Christmas lights. In the early morning fog, they glowed like the ghosts of fireflies. There were no such lights on
RULE 52: No Christmas, Easter, St. Valentine’s Day, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or any other religious or mass-market orchestrated celebrations that include the rituals of unnecessary gift-giving and/or decorations.
That’s what she and Eliot called the “no holiday” rule. They’d never had a Christmas tree or been on an Easter egg hunt, and they were forbidden to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.
Her mother didn’t even like those holidays mentioned. What history was there between the League and the world’s religions to make Audrey dislike them so?
Fiona could pretty much guess what the Catholic Church would think of her father. .
Fiona frowned and focused her thoughts on a problem within her control-like why being popular was not what she had expected.
She was glad to be walking to school by herself this morning. As soon as she got to Paxington, all the students would want to small talk their way around what they really wanted to know: What was it like to be in the League? Did she know this god or that goddess?
Fiona had quickly learned she could use the League’s rules of secrecy to hide behind. She really didn’t know anything about the League. Nor did she know who most of its members were, with their ever-shifting aliases. She hadn’t even known her who mother truly was until a few months ago.
Still, it was nice that everyone wanted to get to know her.
Fiona had always dreamed of that kind of attention. Did it matter that it was
She knew the answer and shuffled her feet on the sidewalk.
Those people didn’t want to get to know her, share her problems or her feelings; they just wanted to be
