Faerie Tale

by Raymond Feist

  Phil could see the doctors speaking but couldn’t hear what they said. He looked at the back of Michael Bergman, who insisted everyone call him Mickey. Bergman was a dashing man in his fifties, wearing an expensively tailored Italian silk suit under his hospital coat. His hair was styled, a dapper steel-grey, and he sported a small mustache. He moved around the machine to examine a dozen sensors attached to a large metal ring that encircled the examination table and Patrick’s head. He traced the lines back to the machine and made sure everything was plugged in properly. Before he moved away, he couldn’t resist gently running his hand over the child’s cheek, a grandfatherly impulse. He snatched it away, barely in time, as Patrick tried to bite it.

  At last he came to the front of the console and studied the graphs. After a few moments he motioned the other doctors outside, while an pair of burly orderlies began to unhook Patrick from the restraints.

  Bergman and Wingate, followed by Murphy and Latham, left the room. Phil said, “Well?” expectantly.

  Wingate said, “Come along, Phil. We need to talk.”

  “I’ve got to check on some other patients,” said Murphy to Phil. “We’ve had an unexpectedly hectic time in E.R. the last two nights. I’ve been playing hooky so I could watch the interesting stuff.”

  As he began to leave, Phil said, “Dr. Murphy? I.… Just thanks. And you didn’t flunk bedside manner.”

  The tired resident managed a wan smile. “One can only try, Mr. Hastings.” He looked past Phil to where the usually voluble Dr. Wingate stood patiently waiting with Drs. Bergman and Latham and gave Phil a reassuring squeeze on the arm. “Believe me, Bergman’s the best there is. If anything can be done, he’ll do it.” Phil nodded in agreement as Murphy left.

  Phil accompanied the doctors to Wingate’s office. Teddy Wingate heaved himself into the chair behind the desk, and Phil and Bergman also sat. Dr. Latham stood near the door.

  Bergman sighed. “Phil. I have had many hundreds of cases in the last twenty years. Now you’ve handed me the strangest case I’ve ever seen.” He waved at the printouts. “These make anything else I’ve seen look downright normal.”

  “What is it?” Phil asked, reluctant to assume anything, lest he find hope again crushed.

  “According to my brain response imager … your son doesn’t have a brain.”

  Phil couldn’t bring himself to speak. Bergman said, “I just ran a bunch of tests to make sure nothing got busted in transit, and the machine’s fine. But according to my readings, nothing remotely normal is happening inside Patrick’s skull.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Phil at last.

  The doctors exchanged glances. “I don’t even know my name today, Phil,” said Wingate. “The EEG shows all the same garbage we’ve gotten all along. But Mickey’s machine shows no electrochemical brain response to stimulation.” He tapped his glasses upon the desk top. “Either one of the two machines is lying, or we’ve something here that begs all rational explanation.”

  Phil looked confused. “I … don’t understand.”

  Wingate said, “Mickey?”

  “My imager shows you what’s happening in the brain, electrochemically. The field of nuclear medicine has been making strides in a lot of areas, and recently we’ve been working hard on magnetic resonance imaging. Most magnetic imagers are great for showing soft tissue, quite a bit better than X rays, in fact, with none of the risks. My particular machine is a variation that maps chemical shifts in those soft tissues. It’s an analog computer image, a re-creation based on energy state changes being tracked through the brain. If you were to watch the screen while I clapped my hands loudly next to someone’s ear, you’d see a color shift indicating the brain’s response to the stimulus. We’re presently mapping dozens of volunteers at Johns Hopkins, trying to develop a catalog of ‘normal’ responses. Someday we’ll use this machine and others like it to identify trouble spots in the brain before they become life-threatening.”

  Teddy Wingate chimed in, “And to diagnose other things, like epilepsy, learning disorders, maybe even psychosis-inducing brain dysfunctions and autism.”

  “Maybe. But now we’re just beginning,” finished Bergman. He leaned back. “What we have so far is a general diagnostic tool. We can look at someone’s brain responses and say, ‘This guy falls into the range of normal responses,’ or ‘outside of the normal range.’ We can’t yet say, ‘This fellow’s developing Alzheimer’s,’ or ‘This child’s dyslexic.’ At least, not for a long time.

  “Now, EEGs measure electrochemical impulses, using sensors on the head. My machine actually tries to track what the chemical changes are. With Patrick, the EEG shows us that something’s going on; at least, there’s enough energy being picked up by the sensors to screw up all the graphs. But my imager says there’s nothing chemical going on inside Patrick’s head. One says the brain is working, in a unique, messed-up sort of way, and the other says there’s nothing inside his skull. If my machine is right, either Patrick’s got a vacuum tube full of electricity between his ears or he’s dead.” Almost bitterly he added, “And for a corpse he’s certainly loud. I don’t know if I can explain it any better.”

  Wingate said, “You’ve heard the expression, ‘The light’s on but nobody’s home’?” Phil nodded. “Well, this is as close as I’ve seen to that being the case.”

  Bergman said, “Phil, it is impossible for Patrick to be breathing and have no brain chemistry. Even if his higher functions were totally burned out by the illness, leaving only the brain stem functioning—a Karen Anne Quinlan kind of thing—we’d still track a lot of brain chemistry. So we have to assume my machine is busted—despite all my diagnostics saying it’s fine—and that Patrick has suffered some sort of gross brain damage, which explains all these unexplainable EEGs.” He looked at some of the printouts left on Wingate’s desk and said, “Though what the hell these mean is beyond me.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Phil.

  “Right,” said Wingate. “It doesn’t make sense. We’ve a patient who’s given us nothing like normal reactions to what he’s been through.”

  Phil said, “What can you do?”

  “Watch him,” said Wingate. “I’d like to keep him here a few more days, then we can talk about moving him to a fully equipped, long-term psychiatric facility.”

  Bergman nodded. “I’m going to stay here awhile. Maybe when I’ve watched him for a few days longer, we can begin to make sense of all this.”

  Wingate sighed, obviously fighting off a feeling of defeat. Phil said, “What are his chances of improving?”

  Bergman was the one who spoke. “I can’t even begin to hold out the prospect of any improvement, Phil.” He looked thoughtfully down at the papers. “We don’t even know what’s wrong physiologically. And it’s been a while since I’ve studied abnormal behavior pathologies.”

  Wingate nodded in agreement. “There are some things he’s doing which would suggest autistic behavior. The constant masturbation is classic self-stimulating behavior, as is the rocking back and forth.”

  Phil shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I was wondering about the sex thing.”

  Bergman said, “We don’t know it’s sex like you’d normally think of it. Though the way he grabs at the nurses makes me think it may be, despite his youth—that’s why we turned his care over to the male nurses and the orderlies. Still, clutching the penis is a common enough behavior in male babies. But the hooting and the laughing and the rest, it’s.…” Bergman’s eyes got a distant look.

  “What?” asked Phil.

  “For a moment, when Patrick tried to bite my hand … I could have sworn I saw intelligence in his eyes. Like the whole thing was some sort of big game.” He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “I’m sorry, Phil. I shouldn’t put my own fatigue delusions on you. You’ll think Patrick was possessed by a dybbuk if I keep this up.”

  Phil shook his head in frustration. “I’d be thankful if he threw up pea soup and his head twisted around. I�
��d call an exorcist and we’d be done.”

  Latham said, “Phil, we can only imagine the torment this is for you and Gloria. Go home, and we’ll keep an eye on him for a few more days. I’ll arrange for a transfer to Tonawanda State Hospital, or a private institution if you like, but let’s hold off until after”—he glanced at a calendar on the wall—“let’s make it Monday the second of November, all right?”

  Bergman rose. “I agree. We must fall back on the old and slow but tried and true—observation, different medications, therapy—and see what happens. It’s either that or magic.” Latham and Wingate also made as if to leave the office.

  Phil rose and followed the three doctors out of the room. Gabbie and Jack were waiting just outside. Gabbie kissed her father on the cheek as he said, “Is … there really hope?”

  Dr. Bergman said, “I’m tempted to spout the old saw ‘Where there’s life …’ but … I’m afraid all I can say is we don’t have the faintest idea. We just don’t know.”

  “What now?” said Gabbie to her father.

  “We go home, tell Gloria what’s going on.” He paused, looking at his daughter and future son-in-law.

  “And we make some plans.” Jack nodded, knowing that he was talking about long-term care for Patrick. Phil forced himself to smile. “Come on. I think I could use a day off from here.” Without further words they walked toward the outside door.

  Latham turned to Wingate and said, “Teddy?”

  The usually talkative Wingate had been unusually quiet since returning from the psych ward. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Phil, but have either of you noticed one other odd thing about our little patient?”

  “Just what I said,” answered Bergman. “I thought I saw something in his eyes.”

  “That’s it,” said Latham. “Sometimes he’s looking at things like he knows what’s going on. Is that what you mean?”

  Wingate shook his head as he began to walk off. “No, not that, though I get that feeling, too. It’s just that being around the kid more than a few minutes gives me a most unprofessional case of the creeps.”

  Latham and Bergman exchanged glances, but neither commented on Teddy’s remark.

  18

  Patrick stood in the center of the circle, his eyes unfocused and glazed. Around him moved figures of dark aspect, things that defied the eye’s attempts at definition. Sounds were muffled by a dark fog, and, above, faint lights pierced the gloom. Then a presence manifested itself, something so terrible it could not be endured. Patrick turned slowly to look at the approaching horror, and his eyes remained blank. Then the terror was upon him, sweeping him up and carrying away.

  “No!” shrieked Gloria, sitting up in bed. Her heart pounded and she swallowed a sob. She glanced around and saw Phil’s side of the bed empty. She knew she’d find him asleep on the couch in his study, the television going as he slept through some cable news show or another.

  Then the sound of Sean’s voice intruded. “Mommy!”

  Gloria ran to her son’s room. He was sleeping in Patrick’s bed, as he had since returning home. Gloria sat on the bed next to Sean, gathering him to her. He cried, a pitiful, aching sound. “I had a bad dream,” he sobbed into her shoulder. “About Patrick.”

  With her tears mingling with his, she said, “I know, baby. I know.”

  Gloria held her child as Gabbie appeared in the door. “Is he okay?” she asked sleepily.

  “Yes,” said Gloria, her voice strained. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

  Gabbie hesitated an instant, then trundled back to her room. “Can I sleep with you?” asked Sean.

  Gloria barely spoke agreement as she led Sean back to her bedroom. The boy climbed up into the bed shared by his mom and dad and snuggled into Phil’s pillow. Gloria got back in, missing Phil terribly, but knowing that, once wakened, he’d be all night getting back to sleep.

  Gloria watched Sean as his breathing turned deep and regular. They shared an understanding of something dark and beyond Phil’s understanding, something felt, not known. They knew that all the science and doctors in the world wouldn’t get Patrick back. Fighting off a despair so terrible it could hardly be borne, Gloria tried to return to sleep, letting the sound of Sean’s breathing lull her. Sleep took a long time to arrive. And images of dark places and lost little boys took a long time to depart.

  19

  Gabbie peeked out the window at the sound of the car in the driveway. “It’s Gary!” she shouted to the others. Jack and Phil were in Phil’s study, quietly discussing long-term care for Patrick. Aggie was in the kitchen, helping Gloria with tea, while Sean watched television in the parlor.

  They all met Gary at the door, and Gabbie gave him a hug. “You look bushed.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Gloria.

  “How about I bum a drink off of you, instead?” asked Gary.

  “No sweat,” answered Phil.

  They entered the living room, where Aggie Grant deposited a tea service on the table before the couch. Gary removed his topcoat and glanced around the room. He saw the tension and said, “Is something wrong?”

  Gloria’s eyes began to tear and she inclined her head at her husband. Phil explained about Patrick’s illness. Sitting down, Gary said, “That’s terrible, Phil. I’m really sorry. Maybe I should—”

  “No,” interrupted Phil. “You sit tight. It won’t help anything if you take off.”

  “So how are you?” asked Jack.

  “Tired.” He sipped the drink Phil handed him. “Thanks. I’m tired and I’m worried.”

  “Why?” asked Phil.

  Gary said, “Mark’s vanished.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Gabbie.

  “Mark’s disappeared somewhere in Germany.” Gary paused, then said, “It’s tied in to that business about Fredrick Kessler being a member of some organization or another. I talked to Mark back when I was in Seattle and he was still in New York, and we compared notes. I sent him copies of the translations we got from the parchments. They’re no more bizarre than a lot of other ancient religious stuff looks to us modern types. But Mark came across something in New York that sent him to Germany. He didn’t say what. I know him well enough, however, to know he was truly disturbed. And,” he said with a sigh, “sometime since I last talked to him, he’s just vanished.

  “He called me in Seattle from his hotel in Munich and asked me to investigate a friend of Kessler’s who had settled in Canada. I went to Ottawa, then London, Ontario, then back to Ottawa. I called his hotel in Munich at the agreed-upon time, and he’d checked out. They gave me his destination, but he never got there. Now, Mark’s jumped off the track before, side excursions that last a week or two, but he always gets word to me where he can be reached. This time … nothing.”

  Gary sipped his drink while the others exchanged glances. Phil asked, “Should we try to contact someone in Germany?”

  Gary shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the American embassy. They might know who to contact.” He shook his head. “But I have a feeling that if Mark’s in trouble, we might not see him again.”

  Those words had a chilling effect on everyone in the room. Gloria spoke in almost a whisper. “Gary, you’re scaring me.” She remembered the premonition she had had the night she had last seen Mark.

  Gary said, “Sorry, folks. It’s just things in Canada were pretty weird.” He sipped his drink again. “What was the most … disturbing about Canada wasn’t what I found but what I couldn’t find.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gabbie.

  “In Canada I kept hitting walls. Kessler’s buddy who had come to Canada was named Hans von Leer. In London he changed it to Hans Van der Leer.”

  “That sounds Dutch,” said Jack.

  “Right. He was reported in the local papers as a Dutchman. He showed up about five years after Kessler came to Pittsville. Where he was before that is tough to figure. Mr. Van der Leer, or von Leer if you will, went to a great deal of trouble to hide
his origins. Everywhere I turned I found pages missing from documents, files misplaced, notations erased, a thousand things designed to make it impossible to get a hint as to who Van der Leer had been in Germany. I think that’s some of what Mark went to Germany to discover: Who was this Van der Leer, and how did he relate to Kessler and the others from southern Germany? How was it all tied in to that business at the turn of the century?

  “So I looked hard and came up dry. What’s got me jumpy is … it looks like Kessler’s organization still exists, is still active.”

  Gabbie said, “That’s scary.”

  Phil said, “Gary, Mark said something about this secret society business, but not much more. Do you have any idea of what this might all be about?”

  Gary said, “If what Mark thinks is true, there’s a someone, maybe a group, who can confuse your memory, even make you forget interactions with them.” Gary paused, then said, “No one else answer. Gabbie, what do you remember about the barn?”

  Gabbie looked at the others in the room, confused, then smiled. “The barn?” She laughed. “You mean like it needs painting, or the roof leaks?”

  “No, I mean like the fellow you met there who tried to rape you.”

  Gabbie’s expression was one of confusion. “Rape?” Then slowly her look of perplexity was changed to one of fright as her face drained of color. Softly, almost inaudibly, she said, “I’d forgotten.”

  Jack’s expression was one of disbelief. “You’d forgotten? How’s that possible?”

  Gary held up his hand when questions came thick and fast. “Slowly, folks. I just wanted to demonstrate something Mark discovered the night we chased the assailant into the woods. Gabbie’s forgotten because the fellow she met had … some ability to make her forget what happened that night. If I keep prodding, Gabbie will remember things, but as soon as I stop, she’ll begin to forget it all. I’m not certain, but it may be that if we don’t remind her for a long enough time, she’ll completely forget it ever happened. Maybe”—he looked around the room—“even deny it happened.”