Page 15 of The Elementalist
“It is.”
“This is Michael, you emailed me yesterday about my blog.”
“Actually, this morning. Early this morning.” I paused to compose myself. “I’m sure I sounded insane in my email. Hell, Ifeelinsane—”
“Just relax, Max. I don’t think you’re insane.”
Michael had a soft, comforting voice, one that calmed my nerves—nerves that had been on edge all day, made worse by that creep at my office door.
“Let’s just say the jury is still out,” I said. I mean, did I really see through that guy knocking at my door? Surely it had to be a trick with the camera, an error in the feed, a glitch in the compression.
He laughed softly. “Max, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would that be okay?”
“If it helps me understand what’s happening to me, then ask away.”
He chuckled again, then got to it. “Would you say you’ve hadan affinity for wind all your life?”
At least he started with an easy one. I nodded. “Definitely.”
“Would you also say you have a similar affinity for water? As in, do both elements calm you, yet also make you feel alive? Do both somehow resonate deeply within you?”
“Yes, but isn’t that the case for every—”
“How about fire, Max? Do you ever find yourself enchanted by fire? Nearly hypnotized?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, Max. Not everyone. Last question: do you enjoy walks in nature? Hiking, camping, backpacking? Do you have, say, a garden at home?”
I thought of the little herbal garden on my balcony—the same one that Ron mercilessly ridiculed. I thought of my many weekend hikes and once-a-month camping trips.
“Yes to everything,” I said.
“A resounding yes?”
“Yes. Now, what’s your point?”
“Max, would you be open to meeting me?”
“Sure.”
“And giving me a, umm, demonstration.”
“Like I said, if it helps me understand what’s happening to me, I’ll do anything.”
Chapter Nine
The Blogger
We met at a little coffee shop named ‘Latte Morning’ in downtown Shadow Pines early the next morning.
Turned out Michael lived just a few hours away and had been driving since a little after 5 a.m. He didn’t at all look like I expected. In fact, he reminded me of George Costanza. I had already given him a small demonstration of my wind-making talents—by blowing off a napkin at a nearby table—and he seemed suitably impressed. Floored, even. He asked if I could make fire, too, and I told him I hadn’t tried. Or even thought of it. I told him wrapping my brain around this wind business had been traumatizing enough. He smiled, reached inside his pocket, and pulled out a small matchbox. With a practiced flick, he slid the cover open, then removed a single match. Great, the guy’s a stage magician.
“Can you light this, Max?”
“Anyone can light a match.”
“I’m not asking you to light it in the usual manner. With your mind, Max. And be careful. Don’t burn this place to the ground.”
