Goddess Boot Camp
Page 63
Then I land.
Both feet touch down in perfect alignment. Sand squishes beneath my sneakers.
A beach.
I feel invincible.
Without pausing to gloat or gawk, I continue down the course until I sense the image of another cliff face. Apparently this isn’t a beach, it’s a gorge. And now I have to get back up the other side.
Before I can call up another wind, I hear Xander say, Complete the puzzle.
Puzzle? What puzzle?
There is a stack of wooden planks, each about two feet long, and a pair of long pieces of lumber with funny-shaped holes cut into them at regular intervals. I pick up one of the planks, feeling for any clues, and find that the ends of that plank are the same shape as one of the holes in either long piece. Laying the two long pieces out two feet apart, I fit the ends of the plank into the corresponding hole. When I pick up the next plank, it has a different shape at the ends, which matches up to another pair of holes in the long pieces. I click that plank into place and realize I must be building a ladder. I quickly grab the rest of the planks, locking them into their corresponding holes. When I’m done, there is only one set of holes left in the two long pieces, the uprights. I double-check that there isn’t another plank lying around. Nope, I’ve used them all.
I lift the ladder to set it against the cliff, and it falls apart.
“Aaargh!” All my work just evaporated.
Clearly, I missed something. I quickly repeat my procedure. When I get to the point where there is just one set of holes left, I stop to think. Maybe the ladder fell apart because this set of holes was left empty. So I need to fill them, even though there aren’t any more planks.
I smack myself on the forehead. How could I be so dumb? If there aren’t any more planks, then I need to neofacture one!
Seconds later, I’m plugging the plank I created into the ladder, setting it against the cliff, and climbing to the edge above.
I totally rock.
I feel the heat one rung before I reach the top. It’s scalding, like someone just opened the oven door. Ignoring the urge to climb back down, I try to get a clear picture of what I’m facing.
Flames.
I see a huge wall of flames, blocking me from climbing up onto the level surface above. Fire. That has to do with—I cling to the ladder with one hand while I wipe at my sweaty brow with the other—photomorphosis. Controlling light and fire.
The heat is getting worse, closer. I take a deep breath to clear my head, but my lungs fill with smoke. Fighting my instinct to shimmy back down to the gorge—or to rely on Stella’s protection—I concentrate on controlling the fire.
I picture the flames shrinking, receding, backing away from the cliff’s edge. Slowly, the heat fades. When I can no longer see fire in my mind, I haul myself up the ladder and dive onto the safety of solid ground.
As much as I want to lie on my back, sucking in deep, smoke-free breaths, I want to finish this course more. Climbing to my feet, I push forward.
When I reach a broad, open field, I stop. Something isn’t right. Too easy. It looks like a big grassy spot, but something tickles at my brain.
I center myself, focusing all my energy on the field and what I’m not seeing in my mind. As I focus, my image changes, and I see a series of open pits, holes in the otherwise level earth.
Aha! Visiocryption. Someone must have cloaked the opening of the pits with an image of grass. Now that I can see the holes, I avoid them as I navigate through the field. The path ducks back into the woods and winds around until it reaches a shallow canyon with a decent-size river running through. An old, rickety rope bridge spans the canyon. It looks like an overweight butterfly could send it crashing into the current below. There’s no way it will support me—even at my training weight.
There could be another way across, upriver or farther down. Even though I can’t see through the sash, I turn my head as I try to see if there is a more reliable-looking bridge over the canyon. From the corner of my mental vision, I see the image of the bridge flicker. The rickety-looking version fades and a far more substantial wooden bridge appears in its place.
When I turn back, I see the rickety bridge again. Someone must have cloaked it, too. I reach forward, expecting to feel the solid bridge under my fingers. Instead, I feel fraying rope.
The sturdy bridge must have been altered, not cloaked. Visiomutated .
It only takes a second to reverse the visiomutation, and then I’m scurrying across the bridge.
I’m starting to think nothing can surprise me. Until I turn a corner and sense Stella, Adara, and Xander blocking my path.
“What?” I ask. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t use the protection.”
Why else would they be here?
When they don’t answer, I say. “Okay, guys. If I haven’t screwed up, then get out of my way so I can finish.”
They just stand there, immobile and silent. Maybe this is some kind of mental mirage. But when I reach forward, half expecting my hand to go right through Stella, my palm hits her shoulder.
“What?” I ask, louder this time. As if maybe they didn’t hear me.
Nothing. Absolute silence.
But there is something about the looks I’m sensing on their faces, like they’re concentrating really hard, that makes me think I’m missing something. I can practically feel Stella’s gray eyes burn into mine, and not in her favorite I’d-smote-you-if-I-could way. It’s like she’s trying to tell me something.
What on earth is she trying to say? I stare right back at her. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough I can read her—
Both feet touch down in perfect alignment. Sand squishes beneath my sneakers.
A beach.
I feel invincible.
Without pausing to gloat or gawk, I continue down the course until I sense the image of another cliff face. Apparently this isn’t a beach, it’s a gorge. And now I have to get back up the other side.
Before I can call up another wind, I hear Xander say, Complete the puzzle.
Puzzle? What puzzle?
There is a stack of wooden planks, each about two feet long, and a pair of long pieces of lumber with funny-shaped holes cut into them at regular intervals. I pick up one of the planks, feeling for any clues, and find that the ends of that plank are the same shape as one of the holes in either long piece. Laying the two long pieces out two feet apart, I fit the ends of the plank into the corresponding hole. When I pick up the next plank, it has a different shape at the ends, which matches up to another pair of holes in the long pieces. I click that plank into place and realize I must be building a ladder. I quickly grab the rest of the planks, locking them into their corresponding holes. When I’m done, there is only one set of holes left in the two long pieces, the uprights. I double-check that there isn’t another plank lying around. Nope, I’ve used them all.
I lift the ladder to set it against the cliff, and it falls apart.
“Aaargh!” All my work just evaporated.
Clearly, I missed something. I quickly repeat my procedure. When I get to the point where there is just one set of holes left, I stop to think. Maybe the ladder fell apart because this set of holes was left empty. So I need to fill them, even though there aren’t any more planks.
I smack myself on the forehead. How could I be so dumb? If there aren’t any more planks, then I need to neofacture one!
Seconds later, I’m plugging the plank I created into the ladder, setting it against the cliff, and climbing to the edge above.
I totally rock.
I feel the heat one rung before I reach the top. It’s scalding, like someone just opened the oven door. Ignoring the urge to climb back down, I try to get a clear picture of what I’m facing.
Flames.
I see a huge wall of flames, blocking me from climbing up onto the level surface above. Fire. That has to do with—I cling to the ladder with one hand while I wipe at my sweaty brow with the other—photomorphosis. Controlling light and fire.
The heat is getting worse, closer. I take a deep breath to clear my head, but my lungs fill with smoke. Fighting my instinct to shimmy back down to the gorge—or to rely on Stella’s protection—I concentrate on controlling the fire.
I picture the flames shrinking, receding, backing away from the cliff’s edge. Slowly, the heat fades. When I can no longer see fire in my mind, I haul myself up the ladder and dive onto the safety of solid ground.
As much as I want to lie on my back, sucking in deep, smoke-free breaths, I want to finish this course more. Climbing to my feet, I push forward.
When I reach a broad, open field, I stop. Something isn’t right. Too easy. It looks like a big grassy spot, but something tickles at my brain.
I center myself, focusing all my energy on the field and what I’m not seeing in my mind. As I focus, my image changes, and I see a series of open pits, holes in the otherwise level earth.
Aha! Visiocryption. Someone must have cloaked the opening of the pits with an image of grass. Now that I can see the holes, I avoid them as I navigate through the field. The path ducks back into the woods and winds around until it reaches a shallow canyon with a decent-size river running through. An old, rickety rope bridge spans the canyon. It looks like an overweight butterfly could send it crashing into the current below. There’s no way it will support me—even at my training weight.
There could be another way across, upriver or farther down. Even though I can’t see through the sash, I turn my head as I try to see if there is a more reliable-looking bridge over the canyon. From the corner of my mental vision, I see the image of the bridge flicker. The rickety-looking version fades and a far more substantial wooden bridge appears in its place.
When I turn back, I see the rickety bridge again. Someone must have cloaked it, too. I reach forward, expecting to feel the solid bridge under my fingers. Instead, I feel fraying rope.
The sturdy bridge must have been altered, not cloaked. Visiomutated .
It only takes a second to reverse the visiomutation, and then I’m scurrying across the bridge.
I’m starting to think nothing can surprise me. Until I turn a corner and sense Stella, Adara, and Xander blocking my path.
“What?” I ask. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t use the protection.”
Why else would they be here?
When they don’t answer, I say. “Okay, guys. If I haven’t screwed up, then get out of my way so I can finish.”
They just stand there, immobile and silent. Maybe this is some kind of mental mirage. But when I reach forward, half expecting my hand to go right through Stella, my palm hits her shoulder.
“What?” I ask, louder this time. As if maybe they didn’t hear me.
Nothing. Absolute silence.
But there is something about the looks I’m sensing on their faces, like they’re concentrating really hard, that makes me think I’m missing something. I can practically feel Stella’s gray eyes burn into mine, and not in her favorite I’d-smote-you-if-I-could way. It’s like she’s trying to tell me something.
What on earth is she trying to say? I stare right back at her. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough I can read her—
