"Who is the greater fool: the seeker of the sage, or the reluctant master?"
— Brother Erem Ott
Finally, the last room, with no further doors to open, or relaxing men or women to rudely interrupt. End of the line: literally, as this far West corner marked a private niche resplendent with azure and emerald tapestries unlike the common pedestrian hues of crimson or gold. The ceiling was, impossibly, the night sky of Earth in the silent choke of full winter; Orion dominating the blackness so that it seethed with throbbing power.
Somewhere in the center, a wide circular table punctuated the room, arranged under a multi-tiered candelabra lit by sputtering candles already worn low by long, unattended hours. Gloomy shadows lept along the floor, fueled by the erratic flames above.
Sal closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, relaxing in the implied solitude. Were Kyle not in attendance, she'd have passed the time reading until she slipped into oblivion. Alas!
She motioned Kyle to sit at the only chair straddling the massive table. Shards of sundered pottery were scattered across its surface, a decoration and a challenge.
Kyle struggled to heave the dense chair backward, giving up when there was barely enough room to allow his lithe form, practically pinning himself between the chair and the thick, dull edge of the makeshift altar. Altar, because the broken vase betrayed—either by trick of light or prominence of the rubble—a sense of unassailable presence.
"Do you know why you're here?" asked Sal.
Kyle shook his head, no. He didn't. Of course he didn't! In truth, doubt crept and questioned all this intrigue. Get on with it, lady!
"Normally, I'd take this slow: give you months to digest everything; scenarios to test. But our time, even here, is short. I don't know exactly what is going on in Tammond Dale, only that you're the key. It's about time you were shown which tumblers you affect." She sighed. "I'm sorry about all this, Kyle. It's a lot to absorb, but you're a danger to yourself and everyone you've ever met without these lessons."
Silence. He could only stare at the pottery, wondering at its purpose, as well as his own.
"I suppose the first lesson... I want you to fix this." She waved her left hand toward the center of the table, indicating the pieces. "Once upon a time, a man broke into a woman's apartment while she relaxed with a drink, listening innocently to the radio." Her eyes were closed, recounting the story as if picturing it within her mind's eye. "He intended to rape her, and in the struggle, she slapped this vase from an end-table, where her prized hardwood floors cracked and obliterated its graceful curves, just as her own virtue was sundered."
At the word "rape," Kyle's eyes bulged in abject shock. He opened his mouth to protest, but Sal interrupted him, as if anticipating his disgust.
"Yes, Kyle. He raped, and then killed her, and she broke this vase while fighting for her life. She and this vase are dead now, devoid of life. It's cruel, it's terrible, and I want you to remember this until your dying day: you're no god. You can fix the vase, but that woman, no matter how heartbreaking her story, is beyond your abilities. It's best you understand this now.
"But that's not the lesson here—or not the only one. Fix the pottery, Kyle. Bring a little order back into our chaotic lives and restore beauty to a situation most foul. Maybe you can't save the woman, but a token of her will remain."
Kyle fought valiantly to control his body, which ached to shudder; to wrangle his last meal, which longed to paint the floor an ocher splatter of indignation. His vision swam with effort, but he leaned forward and pawed weakly at the largest fragment, eyeing others which might complete a sweeping curve here, or a jagged rift there.
"No!" Sal shouted. "No hands, Kyle. I told you the story for a reason. I'm sorry, but you must envision everything as I've said. Imagine the vase falling, slowly and surely toward the floor. Think about its shape, consider its color and the flicker of light. See the reflections of the attacker and his victim.
"When you have everything, and no further sliver of detail is possible—concentrate."
Kyle sighed, gave one longing glance at the scattered remnants, and closed his eyes.
There he saw the man, red-haired with an angry scar running down his right cheek but otherwise shaven and well presentable. The woman was a dancer by night, and had just finished a rehearsal of The Nutcracker Suite and she was so excited at being awarded the lead! The man was the producer, and he was drunk, staggering into her apartment after following her home; entranced by her form and intoxicated by more than liquor.
He could barely understand what happened after that, and when he saw his reflection in the tumbling vase, he almost reconsidered. But her head struck the floor and she stopped struggling, and to his addled mind, that was as good as consent. How did he know her neck was tilted a ridiculous angle, that he violated her cooling corpse while whispering apologies and butchered sonnets in some twisted attempt at absolution?
It was horrifying, it shook Kyle to his very core, and it was... done.
Kyle opened his eyes and found himself staring at his own reflection, distorted and distended by the fully intact vase, arranged directly in the center of the table. He understood then that Sal hadn't upset the original configuration of the pieces; they were exactly as she'd found them.
"Why?" was all he could say, looking up at her with watery eyes, face lined with exhaustion.
"Because," she whispered, holding his head to her chest and rubbing his shoulder—mothering his hurt. "It never gets easier. Our power is a lonely one, Kyle." We're thieves, Kyle. Thieves and scoundrels, and worse. "For every thing you heal, something else is broken. Always remember that."
A solitary tear traced a shallow line down his cheek, and he blinked away another that threatened to break. He'd never been so emotionally exhausted, and he knew worse things lay ahead.