I Am Titanium (Pax Black Book 1) Read Free Page B

thick-woven rice mats, dressed in simple, layered silk robes. He clenched his fists briefly. It always unsettled him when he first manifested in a more physical form. He made the form as accurate as could be done, and having a heart was disconcerting, let alone feeling it racing. He took several deep breaths.
    Most astral beings avoided physical manifestation altogether. Terkun’shuks’pai found it a useful state of being: both limiting and freeing.
    Limiting because his senses were reduced to that of the physical, his body to that of the mortal. Freeing because those senses were so much richer . When he was in a physical form, the peace of his pacha seemed more than an abstraction: like a honeyed fluid, thick and delicious. His thoughts seemed more focused, more authoritative. His hopes were more solid, his visions almost guaranteed.
    The solidity of the physical was an illusion, but one he sometimes craved beyond all reason.
    Birds sang; the wind blew through the trees. The boy—whose name, Pax , meant peace—slowly solidified in front of Terkun’shuks’pai. He waited. The robes under his loosely held fists felt soft to the touch but were roughly woven from blue and white threads. On a small charcoal brazier set into a hole in the floor, water was heating, hissing in the heavy iron pot.
    In front of him were the tools he needed to make the tea: the whisks, the bowls, the cracked clay container filled with white powder. Another idea he had borrowed from the Japanese: kintsukuroi , the art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer sprinkled with powdered gold, making the broken bowl or cup more beautiful than it had been when first made. He remembered the day he had deliberately broken his tea holder and then forced himself to repair it by hand, shard by shard.
    In the physical plane of Earth, the boy’s heart had stopped, and his physical body was now surrounded by other humans attempting to bring him “back to life”—as they ignorantly called their mortal state.
    “Hello, Terry,” the now-present Pax said, using the shortened version of Terkun’shuks’pai’s name. Terkun’shuks’pai let it pass. It was irritating but didn’t matter in the larger scheme of things. Pax was sitting cross-legged on the rice mats, dressed in informal mortal clothes.
    Terkun’shuks’pai had chosen to appear as a broad-shouldered, mixed-race, bald man dressed in Japanese robes. His outfit matched the rest of the pacha , its colors those of the forest and pools and rock gardens and teahouse.
    Terkun’shuks’pai cleared his throat. “In this place, you remove your shoes.”
    Pax raised his eyebrows but untied the shoes—an affectation, Terkun’shuks’pai knew. In the physical plane the boy was bedridden and never wore anything on his feet.
    Pax put the shoes to the side. “You… you said you had an idea. About how to save me.”
    “I do.”
    Pax waited, and when nothing more was forthcoming, demanded, “What is it?”
    “I am afraid there isn’t much time,” Terkun’shuks’pai admitted. “Your body is quite fragile.”
    “Yeah,” Pax said. “It’s having a heart attack right now. Glad I’m not in it, to tell the truth.”
    Terkun’shuks’pai smiled politely. “Indeed. I understand it is quite painful.”
    The boy stared at his hands. Here, in the astral plane, his hands were large and rough, covered with scars and scraped knuckles. The nails were chewed, and the skin on his palms was callused. They were the hands of a boy who worked, played, had experiences, wounds. The rest of his created body was similarly detailed. The boy longed for an active life rather than one so limited to the mind.
    “I’m dying now, Terry,” Pax said. “So if you have an idea, tell me!”
    Terkun’shuks’pai bowed his head. “As you wish. But first, I need to serve you some tea.”
    “Tea?” The boy’s forehead wrinkled. “Now? I don’t have time for tea. I don’t even like tea!”
    “I think you will feel