by A Van Wyck
“I’ll make you a deal. You tell everyone you gave me this black eye, and I’ll say I hit you!”
“Deal! What did we fight about?”
“We’re priests, Collip... we’ll say it was a religious dispute.”
“Alright,” his friend thought it over. “Who won?”
“I did, of course.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“You want another black eye?”
Their bickering faded as they moved off.
There were a myriad split lips, blackening eyes and bleeding noses, as well as a fair amount of scratches and bruises but no one seemed to be seriously injured.
The burly masha’na from before was helping the exhausted Cyrus to a chair.
“You alright, Cyrus?”
“I’ll be fine,” the old man wheezed. “That little display of mine… on top of the two flights of stairs getting here… has me a little out of breath, is all. You?”
“Not bad,” he laid a hand on his tender stomach, “considering.” He cast another glance around at the shambles of the infirmary, eyes lingering on the unconscious form of the boy.
“Speaking of that ‘little display,’ what did you do?” He was no slouch with healing – not anymore – but what Cyrus had just done was totally unprecedented. “It looks like you knocked him out cold.”
“Don’t look so impressed,” Cyrus smiled weakly, “it’s a simple variation of the Calming Wreathe,” the healer explained. “And I wasn’t even its inventor, only its first, ah… victim.”
“Victim?”
“My second year of study,” Cyrus related. “Under Frogund. Scary woman – legs like logs. She was demonstrating the Calming Wreathe. On me. Can’t quite remember what I did to earn the woman’s displeasure, though I do remember an incident involving... but no, that’s another story.”
He realized his friend was shaken and rambling.
“A spider rappelled right onto me. She had the primed crystal in her hand…” Cyrus shrugged one shoulder in honor of the inevitable. “I’ve never been hit so hard in my life. I was semi-comatose for days.”
“Days?!”
“Don’t fret! I’ve refined the spell since then.”
He looked again at the boy. “How long will he be out?”
Cyrus seesawed his hand uncertainly. “A day perhaps. At the very least until tomorrow evening.”
“We’ve got some time then,” he mused. He needed to find out what had happened here. He turned to the burly monk.
“Apologies, brother. I fear I don’t know your name.”
“That’s alright, father. Dorriq, fourth quarter, seventh barrack,” the masha’na introduced himself in a slow, deep voice. They gripped hands.
“Can you tell me what went on here?”
“I didn’t see it all. Most everyone’d gone to sleep. ‘Cept me o’course. I’m use’ to walkin’ the parapets this time o’night. So, I was lyin’ here, starin’ at the ceilin’ and the healers were doin’ their thing, when the lad over there starts stirrin’. Healers seemed pretty excited about that. So they all cluster ‘round the bed.”
The man shook his head.
“Only, when the lad opens his eyes, he takes one look at the smilin’ lot o’ them, all hovering over ‘im, an’ he starts screamin’ like he’d been dragged to the dark places!”
A faint smile pulled at a corner of the warrior’s mouth.
“He went up and out o’ that bed in one move. A greased eel couldn’t have done better! Before anyone knew what was happenin’ he was halfway to the door. So that levelheaded girl over there,” the masha’na continued, indicating the initiate who’d come to fetch Justin, “slams the door in his face. But he don’t even slow down. He starts zoomin’ under and over beds, dodgin’ the healers like they was tax collectors. Lad’s fast, I’ll give ‘im that. One old codger– Sorry, father,” the warrior ducked his head in apology, “one priest went and managed to catch him by the ankle but the lad nearly took his arm off at the elbow. By then pretty much everyone was making a grab for ‘im. No one actually came close but luckily the lad’s foot come down on that chamber pot over there – that’s what that smell is – and he went down. That’s about where you came in.”
He listened to the recounting with a frown on his face.
“Thank you, brother,” he told the masha’na, feeling deeply disturbed. The big man nodded and moved off to see if there was anyone else in need of a hand.
Why would the boy have such a strong adverse reaction to the healers?
He spotted a young healer initiate, attempting to sit still while a priestess applied a poultice to the cut on his forehead. He remembered Ismus from a Focus Development class he’d taught. The young man was no more than a middling empath. The talent was rare and weak unto uselessness nine times out of ten and Ismus was not even strong enough to be required to take the Oaths.
Still…
“Ismus,” he greeted, drifting over.
“Father Justin,” the young man returned, wincing at the priestess’s ministrations. “Sad business this, isn’t it?”
“So it would appear. Tell me, were you here when the boy woke?”
“I was. We were all pretty relieved when he came to. Most of us hadn’t held out much hope for him.”
Justin nodded his understanding.
“And did you get any kind of Reading off him?”
The young man tried to duck his head in embarrassment but the priestess grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to keep still while she finished up.
“You know I’m no Reader, father,” he mumbled past her hand.
“You don’t need perfect hearing to hear someone shouting in your ear, Ismus.”
Most latent empaths were naturally sensitive to, say, the prevalent emotion in a room. Only with the kind of training offered by the Temple could one hope to hone that gift to sift out the emotions of the individuals in that room. But even an untrained empath might remark upon a sudden, strong emotion.
“He was really scared,” Ismus complied.
Justin glanced around at the disassembled infirmary. “That much seems obvious.”
“No, you don’t understand,” the young man resisted shaking his head at a sharp glance from the priestess. “I was right there at the bedside. His terror started before his eyes even opened. Like it woke up before he did. It wasn’t anything in here that scared him – though we probably didn’t help, chasing him like that. It’s more like… he’s been scared for so long, he can hardly feel… hardly think anything else.”
“Monstrous…” muttered the priestess, flicking a finger at the hand Ismus raised to probe at the gash on his forehead.
Justin’s eyes narrowed on the young man.
“There’s more,” he prompted.
The priestess finished dressing Ismus’s wound and moved off. The young man bit his lip uncertainly.
“Spit it out,” Justin commanded.
“I can’t be sure, father,” the young man warned. “It’s just an impression I got. I can’t even be sure I got it from the boy over there. You know I’ve no talent for this.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Ismus cast around awkwardly. “It’s a… ah… concept,” he began, “of people...” the young man grimaced, obviously struggling for the right words, “but… not… people. Not really. It was more like how you think of a forest fire: something large and mindless and dangerous you need to get away from.”
Shaken, Justin rocked back on his heels, turning to regard the bustle of activity that hid the boy from sight.
He was feeling no better a bell later when he and Cyrus were alone in his cell. The healer had sniffed out his kettle under a stack of books and made tea and now watched from the desk as he paced up and down, holding his cold cup.
“Stop that,” the old healer growled. “You’re going to strain my eyes.”
“Damn it, Cyrus! What are we going to do?”
The healer sighed, thinking.
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“You’re sure there’s no way to find out from him what happened?”
“No. The moment he’s conscious, he’s going to go berserk again. No time or opportunity to probe or ask questions. His fear is mindless, Cyrus. Even if we tied him to the bed, he’d probably just scream and struggle until he either exhausted himself back into unconsciousness – or death, seeing as he’s in such rough shape.”
“He is mad then?” The old healer’s mouth pulled in distaste. Justin could feel his aversion and guessed he found the idea of one so young losing their mind to terror as repugnant as he himself did.
“You found nothing physically amiss in his mind?” he asked again.
Cyrus shook his grizzled head.
Justin gave up his pacing to collapse into a hopeless heap on the bed. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
“Then… I think so,” he whispered, “Goddess forgive me, Cyrus, but I think so.”
“Alright,” the healer rallied after a moment, “let’s weigh our options. We can’t leave him tied to a bed forever, since you seem to think that would wind up killing him. Finding his family is probably an impossible task and we don’t know he wasn’t running from them to begin with. We can’t put him with a foster family, no matter how caring. He’d be a danger to them as well as to himself.” The healer’s frown intensified and his voice dropped to a mutter. “An institution is out of the question. Those places are little better than prisons. A child wouldn’t last a month. And we can’t have a violent psychotic running around the Temple either…”
The old man lapsed into silence, frowning furiously.
“What else?” Justin prompted.
“I’m thinking.”
“Damn it, Cyrus! Give me another option!”
“I’m thinking!”
Justin slumped back against the wall, his momentary anger fading.
Cyrus rubbed at tired eyes with a leathery hand.
“This rankles,” the healer huffed hopelessly. “I’ve lost patients before of course but never for lack of trying! And here I am, at a loss…”
The old priest trailed off again, shaking his head and Justin realized how hard this must be for the old man. Hip deep in severed limbs and incurable diseases, Cyrus was in his element. But this ailment of the mind had caught him out of his depth.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he offered.
“Forget about it.” Cyrus covered his face with his hand, leaning on the desk for support. “I don’t know, Justin,” he said, sounding exhausted. “I hate to say it, because it feels like giving up, but I think it might be a mercy if we were to… send the boy on his way. There are ways. He wouldn’t feel a thing, you have my word on that. It’s unlikely we can save his life. Mayhap we can still save his soul.”
When the expected explosion did not occur, Cyrus peeked from beneath his palm hesitantly.
But Justin didn’t look like he’d heard. Still as a statue, wide eyes fixed on a random point on the ceiling, he looked completely absorbed.
“Justin? Are you alright? Look, I just meant that maybe–”
“What did you just say?” Justin interrupted dreamily, still staring at the ceiling.
“It would be a mercy, Justin, really–”
“No, before that,” he interrupted irritably. “I said I was sorry I yelled at you and you said…” Justin paused expectantly, his manner intense.
“Forget about it…?” Cyrus remembered warily.
“That’s it!” Justin said excitedly, finally dropping his gaze to look at the healer. “Cyrus, that’s it!”
“Eh?” Cyrus said, nonplussed. “You mean forget about all of it? Now see here, Justin, we made this our problem. We can’t just go handing it off to someone else–”
“No, Cyrus, not us! Him!”
Cyrus sat back, baffled. “Is this stuff catching? Have you gone mad?”
“Don’t you see, Cyrus? We don’t have to forget, he has to!”
Cyrus sat stunned for a moment.
“Alright,” the old healer recovered, “that’s it lad, off to bed with you. A cup of tea and a good night’s rest will see you–”
He swatted the concern away.
“His is a disease of the mind, Cyrus. It is the mind we must cure. It’s like an infection in him, spreading throughout his consciousness.” He paused. “What do you do with an infection?” he posed.
“You draw it out.”
“No, magically!”
“You burn it out.”
“Exactly!”
“Oh, come now, Justin–”
“It’s the perfect solution, Cyrus!”
“But how, lad? Hit him on the head and hope for amnesia? I hardly think–”
“You have spells that can make people forget! I’ve seen healers use them.”
“Justin,” Cyrus said gently, drawing a deep breath before explaining, “those spells are used on people suffering from shock: survivors of near fatal accidents, witnesses to traumatic events, rape victims! Those spells serve to temporarily block recent, selective memories, giving the body time to readjust without the injured mind dragging it down. It wears off in a matter of a few bells.”
Justin shot off the wall, walking animatedly over to the healer. He put his hands on the old man’s shoulders, fixing him with a shrewd gaze. “So does the Calming Wreath,” he said triumphantly.
Cyrus, at last seeing where Justin was going, objected immediately.
“Justin, they are totally different techniques–”
“Pagh!” Justin spun away disgustedly but Cyrus only raised his voice to be heard.
“–there’s no assurance that it would work. And even if it did, at best it would be a temporary solution. At worst we might do irreparable damage. I’ve no idea whether the principle of amplification even translates. The patient might end up forgetting how to breathe for Helia’s sake!”
“You proposed killing him just a few moments ago,” Justin returned angrily.
A beat of dead silence hung between them.
“I’d thought you hadn’t heard that,” the old priest muttered guiltily.
“This is a better option, Cyrus. At least he’ll have a chance!”
The healer shook his head. “What you’re talking about is a general memory block. The spell doesn’t exist. I’d have to cobble it together from the ground up. That kind of research is a lifetime’s work. It’s unheard of. It’s impossible! And it may very well be beyond my abilities.”
Justin spun back, choosing to ignore Cyrus assertion that the impossible might be beyond him. “Are you opposed to trying?” he demanded.
“You know me better than that,” the healer chided gently. “But no one man possesses the energy to do so large a spell and I’d never convince any of my colleagues to go along with this hair brained scheme. They swore an oath to do no harm, Justin. They would be justified in refusing me. As I should refuse you.”
Justin was unperturbed.
“I’ll take care of that. I’ll get some of my students together and we’ll assist you.”
“Are they even healers?”
“No.”
“Lad, that’s highly unorthodox.”
“But not forbidden,” Justin defended.
Cyrus was not yet convinced.
“And if it works, what then? The spell will wear off eventually. We’ll have a boy walking around with a lot of bottled madness riding along inside. It took the entire infirmary staff to contain him tonight. He’s only going to get bigger and stronger. Do you propose letting that out on the streets? Into some well-meaning family’s home?”
“We’ll keep him here,” Justin mused, falling back into pacing, “where we can keep an eye on him.”
“For the rest of his life?!” Cyrus scoffed incredulously.
“If needs be.”
“That’s cruel.”
“We don’t complain.”
“We’re priests!”
“He can be one too.”
“You can’t make that decision for him! He’s only, what, five? Six?”
He stopped pacing.
“How old were you when your parents gave you to the Temple, Cyrus?”
The healer blinked, taken aback.
“That has no bearing on–”
“How old, Cyrus?” Justin interrupted, not to be deterred.
The healer could see his friend wasn’t about to be dissuaded.
“Fine. I see your point.”
Justin threw up his hands, inviting Cyrus to furnish good reason why they should not proceed.
Cyrus paused, thinking it over.
“I’m not at all comfortable with this.”
“Then give me a better option.”
The old healer grimaced, turning away.
“I can’t, damn you.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
The older man seemed to chew his lip for a while, regarding Justin with weighing eyes.
Finally, he nodded.
It was well past noon the following day before all was in place. They were all in Justin’s cell, the multitude of books and scrolls shoved into the corners to make way for the bed in the middle. Just looking at the boy’s face, peaceful in sleep, you’d never guess the madness inside him had single-handedly disassembled the infirmary less than a day ago.
Cyrus sat behind Justin’s desk, occasionally referencing the thick-spined book at his elbow while he made some last notations, refining the ritual he’d cobbled together. Two initiates stood conversing quietly in the corner.
Nicol and Lisbet were the only students in his Advanced Acuity class, a class he’d created especially for them. Of all his students, they were the only ones able to emulate the techniques he’d developed for joining empathic and streaming disciplines. The bond between the three of them was strong. They were the same two he’d had with him during the Festival parade. And he trusted them. He could tell they also felt a connection to the boy. The child was a secret the three of them shared.
He glanced at Cyrus, who was feverishly reviewing notes. The old man looked wan. He didn’t doubt Cyrus had been up all night researching this new ritual.
“Are we all ready?” the old man asked, rising slowly.
They converged silently on the bed.
