“‘Children,’ I said, ‘I have hurt you. Tell me the poison, the action, or the mood that has brought you this pain.’
“I can’t explain how they looked. It wasn’t sadness, nor was it condemnation. It was a death’s joke and I was horrified. Again the wind of their minds moved restlessly in my ears.
“‘Pain you prophesied,’ it said.
“‘It was a prophecy of pain for myself,’ I told them. ‘I didn’t mean to condemn you.’
“This time,” said Martin, “there was no answer; no audible answer. But for the first time the children moved, dropping gently on their knees. They lowered their eyelids, accentuating the pallor of their faces.
“I cried out to them. I begged their forgiveness. I cursed myself, tore open my shirt and looked for a weapon, reasoning that my death would bring life to the children.”
As Martin said this, he caught his breath and projected a swift pain into the woman. Deane held him gladly—drawing in his venom—half fainting.
But Martin, pressing deeper into his mind, continued furiously.
“At each of my gestures—at each syllable, the children sank closer to the grass. Their eyes closed with precision until only the fringe of lash showed where the eyes had been. Watching this slow death of thousands, I stopped speaking and stood rigid, my jaws locked. I glared at them. I saw each movement become fainter until each tortured flower-face lay on the ground, their chins propped up to me. Their cheeks were like wilted petals, their white, reedy arms were extended above them, and each child-finger was pointed toward me.”
Martin stopped speaking. Deane lay quiet within his arms. She felt his face against her throat, felt her own arms pinioned and her agony intensified. Compassionately she kissed the thick perspiration from his forehead.