“It’s all about intent,” she said briskly. “You need to see where you want the knife to land in your mind’s eye. Imagine it happening. Feel it happening. If you can see it in your mind’s eye, the physical realm has no choice but to follow.”
“Good one, Rhonda Byrne,” I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.
“You read self-help books. Why am I not surprised?” she shot back. Then she exhaled a burst of oxygen, trying to calm herself. “When you’re first learning it’s easier to say what you want out loud, your brain computes the words to an image. So if I say dog you automatically picture a dog, because we’ve been programmed since childhood to assign certain things to certain words.” She was looking at me to see if I understood.
It wasn’t rocket science. But I asked anyway, “So if you want to hit the target you might say, knife hit the bullseye?”
“Exactly.”
She focused on the target, flicked her wrist forward, pointing her fingers like she’d just hurled a spear. With no more than a twist of movement, a knife lifted from the tree trunk, as if it was pulled by an invisible string, and shot like a silver bullet toward the target. It hit dead in the centre with a sharp snap.
I was in awe of her talent, but there was no way was I going to admit it. “Is this the part where I clap?”
“Just move the fucking knives,” she snapped, stepping off to the side.
“Fine.” I stepped up and did exactly as she told me to do. I focused on the knife. I imagined it sailing into the dead centre of the board. Then I willed the knife to move forward. I felt a surge of power like electricity buzzing through my veins, heating everything with a euphoric energy. I didn’t have time to utter thewords. The blade shimmered in the faint sunlight, split the air, and landed with a thud right beside hers.
Both our mouths fell open. We stood gawking at the target.
She looked at me, baffled. “How did you do that so quickly? You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“No”
She eyed me with suspicion. “It was probably a fluke. . . Do it again.”
I repeated the same steps. It knocked the first knife out. With lingering bafflement, she reached into the backpack and pulled out an arrow. It was shorter than average, green, and had a razor-sharp silver tip.
“That . . . anywhere on the board, go.”
I did.
It landed just shy of the centre. She grabbed the hammer out of the backpack and strode to the target. She dug the knives and arrow out, turfed them to the ground and used the hammer to jack out the nail. She caught the nail in one hand, held the target in the other, and nailed it back up to a tree about a hundred feet away. She collected the knives and arrow and jogged back.
“Again,” she said, standing close. I couldn’t tell if my abilities pleased or annoyed her. I willed a knife to move to the middle of the target.
“It took me months of practise to get this good.” She scratched the side of her head. “Are you certain you’ve never done this before?”
“I’m pretty certain I’d know if I’d done it before, Dahlia,” I drawled.
“Has someone taught you how to throw knives before then?”
I shook my head. “No, my Dad taught me to shoot, if that counts for anything?” I refused to hunt, but when I went camping, Dad would set up targets and he’d taught me how to shoot.
We spent the next hour or so practicing throwing knives, until my head ached, and I felt so drained my hands trembled. But it turned out the first strike nor the second were flukes, hurling knives came as easy as any other natural born talent.
“Let’s try something else. Hold your hands up like this.” She placed her palms up like she was about to give me a high five. I held mine up opposite hers, we were about three feet apart. I felt the pressure of her hands, a tingle of energy waver between us almost as if we were pushing against water. It was as strange feeling. It was the same move I had seen Caron do to create the invisible field I couldn’t break through.
“Can you feel that?”
I nodded.
“Good, now concentrate and push.”
I pushed forward with my hands.
“No. Keep your hands still. The power comes from your mind, your hands are just the vessel it shoots through.”
My dad had taught me similar; he’d said, ‘You hold the gun in your hand, but you shoot with your mind, Amy, it controls your breathing, your hands, and your aim. It’s your mind that is the difference between hitting and missing.’
