Tourmaline

by James Brogden

  ‘Why build a Hospice so far away?’ she asked. ‘Surely it would make more sense to be located in a large population centre.’

  ‘The Hospice is centuries old,’ he explained. ‘It was originally constructed as a Romish villa, close to a pool fed by underground springs where it was said that the Blessed Gabril once appeared to heal a blind woodcutter’s boy.’

  ‘And so the most severely afflicted of your people must crawl for miles into the hills because of a fairy tale? Forgive me, I speak only as an arrogant imperialist,’ she added wryly.

  ‘Many of our sick and infirm find their way to the Hospice of Bles Gabril for healing. Most will donate coin, however little. Some from the wealthier merchant or noble families will donate a great deal for the upkeep of this road, amongst other things. The rest – the beggars and the destitute who have no choice but to travel on foot and might not have even those – are looked after by the prentice healers. Look more closely.’

  She did and saw that those whom she had taken to be the companions of the afflicted all wore about their necks the same sky blue chasuble embroidered with a white hand cupping a red heart. They patrolled the Hospice Road in pairs, helping the least mobile to the nearest shelter and moving on again. It appeared to be a simple but effective system.

  ‘Whether you believe or not,’ Cheyne continued, ‘the springs themselves have medicinal qualities. There is some pragmatism buried in our hopelessly superstitious hearts.’

  They watered their mounts at the next shelter, where wide troughs were fed from a well, and rested in the welcome shade, eating nuts and dried fruit.

  ‘I once worked in a place similar to your Hospice,’ Berylin told Cheyne. ‘The biggest asylum in Oraille: La Belle Dame de Merci. We call it Beldam for short. My father was a doctor and lucky enough in his early career to have studied under Savant Falaise himself, though the great man was quite old by then. But father was ambitious, and subornation was not a subject fit for polite dinner table conversation, so he never pursued it. I, on the other hand, having eavesdropped on the conversations he had with his colleagues about dreams spilling out into reality, couldn’t think of anything more exciting, so as soon as I was old enough, I took my nursing certificate and obtained a position at Beldam.’ She stopped. ‘What? You are laughing at me!’

  Cheyne shook his head. ‘By no means. It is just that I find it a little difficult to imagine you as a nurse.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ grunted Runce.

  She humphed. ‘As it happens, so did I, but since there was absolutely no question of me pursuing a man’s profession, nursing was the best I could do. And it was good, noble work, please don’t mistake me. I was able to help people overcome the trauma of their subornation, many of whom were able to go back into the world and resume something like their old lives. Doubtless I would still be there today.’

  ‘Except that something happened, clearly,’ prompted Cheyne.

  ‘An Event occurred inside the asylum itself. It was not particularly extreme as such things go, but it had a devastating effect on the patients – even the ones who were not directly caught up in it. The asylum should have been the one place in the world where they were safe, but it wasn’t. Four of my patients committed suicide as a result. Shortly afterwards, I applied for a position in the Department for Counter Subornation, never mind what my father or anybody else said, because I realised that there were far worse things in the world than the petty prejudices of men.’

  ‘Or women,’ he added.

  ‘Indeed. So I hope you will forgive my bluntness, Mr Cheyne. I am no diplomat. I care nothing for nation or sex or religion in the face of this scourge. I care only that it is gone.’

  As they packed up to move on once again, Runce took her to one side, a frown of puzzlement on his face.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, ma’am, I was packing up just now and I noticed something odd on the PV.’

  ‘Odd how?’

  ‘Chronometer’s reading a lag of point oh-nine-seven seconds.’

  ‘Everything else? Temperature? Gravity?’

  ‘All as should be. It might be a calibration glitch, but I thought to mention it just the same. Because if it ain’t…’

  ‘…then time is moving about a tenth of a second more slowly for us here.’

  ‘We couldn’t’ve passed through an Event boundary without realising it, could we?’

  ‘If we have, it’s incredibly weak. Keep an eye on it, and if anything spikes, let me know.’

  ‘Oh don’t you worry about that, ma’am. I’ll be yellin’ fit to beat the band.’

  They rode on. The day lengthened toward evening while the road climbed higher into the foothills, and the tumbling stream on their left dwindled as they crossed the numerous small creeks and gullies which fed it. The bushland was now a thick forest of tall, mottle-barked eucalypts, whose crowns opened into green clouds. Up in this canopy, flocks of brightly-coloured birds flashed like tropical fish in the air and others called out in voices like high, tiny bells. Finally, a pair of great sandstone columns signified their arrival at a high, wide clearing with a commanding view of the island, and Berylin saw the Hospice of Bles Gabril.

  It retained much of its ancient Romish architecture: a steep terra-cotta roof and many high arched windows in its two storeys which glowed in the late afternoon sun, enclosed by a large, walled courtyard which was in turn surrounded by fields and orchards. There were some Church modifications from more recent times – a modest chapel and recessed statues of the Hegemonic saints dotted around the courtyard – but at least here in Drava they hadn’t razed it to the ground as had happened to so much of the beautiful ancient structures in Oraille. They rode through a small hamlet which spilled away from the outer wall; not much more than an inn, a smithy, and a cluster of shingle-roofed cottages which were homes to the Hospice’s labourers and servants – and then they were at the gates of the great courtyard itself, which stood wide open to accommodate the steady stream of travellers who passed in and out. Grooms took their mounts, and they found themselves in an immense herb garden planted out in an intricate knot pattern, busy with bees and robed figures collecting cuttings in wicker baskets.

  Runce nudged her. ‘Point four-seven-two,’ he whispered. If it was a subornation, then it was the most peculiar she had ever experienced. There were no outward signs of anything unnatural or even remotely protean. She knelt down by Buster and ruffled his floppy ears.

  ‘You don’t smell anything odd, do you boy?’ she murmured. Buster licked her hand and grinned his doggy grin. Apparently he didn’t.

  News of their arrival had undoubtedly preceded them, because within moments the Hospice’s chief psyrgeon appeared to meet them, he and Cheyne greeting each other with the warmth of old friends.

  ‘Miss Hooper, it is my very great honour to introduce you to Gevon Corlys, the Frada of this establishment as well as one of Drava’s pre-eminent medical minds.’

  Frada Corlys sported a neatly trimmed beard but was otherwise completely bald, the planes of his skull gleaming like the facets of a gemstone. He winced a little at Cheyne’s words. ‘The only talent I’ll lay claim to is knowing when this old rogue’s flowery tongue becomes a danger to himself and others,’ he remarked.

  ‘Pah!’ scoffed Cheyne. ‘This is what living in the middle of nowhere will do to you – it gives you a false sense of modesty. Well then, may I present to you Ms Berylin Hooper, of King Alexander’s Department for Counter Subornation. She has been kind enough to take an interest in how we cope with Visitations.’

  This seemed to surprise the Frada. ‘I’m sorry, I had not realised that this was your area of expertise.’ He raised questioning eyebrows at Cheyne, who shrugged.

  ‘The fault is mine,’ he admitted. ‘A simple oversight; in all the excitement, I neglected to send a messenger ahead. If any awkwardness…’<
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  ‘Oh do shut up, Matalo,’ Corlys interrupted, clapping Cheyne amicably on the shoulder and turning with mock-weariness to Berylin. ‘I don’t know. Politicians, eh? Always thinking three moves ahead of the game but not bothering to tell the little people anything about it. Never mind. If it’s the after-effects of a Visitation which you’ve come to see, we may be able to accommodate that tonight, with luck.’

  ‘With luck?’

  ‘Of course! How else would you describe being healed by a saint?’ In response to her look of blank confusion he added. ‘Dear me, the good councillor here really did tell you nothing, didn’t he?’

  ‘It would seem so.’ She regarded Cheyne coldly.

  ‘Every few nights or so, our humble community is visited by the Blessed Gabril himself. He appears in a grove by the waterfall at the head of this valley for a precious few minutes, and in that time we present as many of our patients for healing as we are able. They then, of course, return to their homes. So you see, even though we currently have no patients who have experienced a Visitation, all of them hope to, and if you are fortunate you are of course perfectly welcome to ask them whatever questions you like, if it would assist your investigations.’

  ‘In your terms,’ added Cheyne, ‘you might say that it is someone having a recurring dream of being Bles Gabril, rather than the saint himself, but the end result is the same.’

  Berylin could scarcely credit what she was hearing, but she tried not to let her alarm show. ‘Do you mean to say that you deliberately put sick and injured people within the range of an active subornation Event?’

  ‘If you choose to put it that way.’

  ‘Do you not think it slightly dangerous?’

  ‘Be assured, Miss Hooper,’ said the Frada earnestly, ‘no harm has ever come to one of our patients, not in all the time that we have enjoyed Bles Gabril’s presence. Not once.’

  Runce grunted sceptically. ‘A wild dog that eats from your hand today is no less likely to bite you tomorrow.’

  The other men reddened, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole courtyard had stopped to listen to their conversation, even the bees.

  ‘Runce,’ she murmured, laying a hand on his arm, ‘Please would you go and see to our rooms? Then you may conduct some further readings around the hospice.’ Once he had disappeared with their baggage, she turned to the Frada. ‘I must apologise for him. He is a soldier, and this is an unusual situation for us, to say the least.’

  Frada Corlys bowed. ‘Think nothing of it. I hope that by tomorrow morning we will have been able to allay all your fears and provide you with one or two useful insights. Or at the very least a decent cup of tea. Come, you must be parched.’

  2

  She was shown to quarters which were small and plainly furnished, but they were clean and had a magnificent view of the mountains, where she was able to change out of her travel-stained clothes with the delicate sound of bell-birds chiming outside. Elsewhere she could hear the murmurous activity of the hospice’s inhabitants going about their business and an occasional air of music drifting by. There were none of the shrieks and cries she had come to expect from her time at Beldam; the distant noises of distress which no number of stone walls or iron doors could ever properly muffle. It was unexpectedly peaceful here.

  She didn’t trust it one bit.

  When Berylin had rested, Frada Corlys returned to give her a tour of the infirmary, and she found that the same peace and calm was evident everywhere. To be sure, there was sickness and injury, and even though many of the healing methods she saw being employed would have been dismissed by Oraillean doctors as laughably antiquated, the Dravanese plainly knew the virtues of hygiene and quarantine. But still, it was all purely physical. She found nobody who seemed to be suffering from the mental derangements typical of exposure to subornation. If it weren’t for the pv-detector’s ambiguous readings indicating that something somewhere was amiss, she would have assumed that she had been brought to a perfectly ordinary Church infirmary by mistake.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said to the Frada. ‘I am appreciative of the time you have taken to show me your admirable work, and I do not wish to be churlish, but this is not quite what I was expecting. Are these people really all hoping to be suborned? Do they know what they might be letting themselves in for?’

  He smiled. ‘Miss Hooper, we understand your concern. It is perfectly reasonable, given your profession. And I will not deny that my hope in bringing you here is to show you that in Drava we have, in some cases, learned to live with the effects of subornation – not all of which are destructive.’

  A sudden realisation hit her: this wasn’t about sick people at all. It was about the Flats. They knew exactly what the Oraillean view of subornation was and probably that given half a chance she would destroy whatever was out there in the middle of the ocean, and they were trying to convince her that they had it under control. That they – dear Reason – that they’d harnessed it. The reckless arrogance of it took her breath away.

  ‘Please ask yourself,’ Frada Corlys was saying, ‘would the sickest, frailest people you can imagine flock to this place in their thousands if so much as a hint of violence had been visited upon them? We have no secrets here. You are free to come and go as you please and talk to any of our patients. Ask them anything. Ask them why they have come and what they have heard, and if you remain sceptical, then I hope you will accompany us tonight and see for yourself, should Bles Gabril choose to appear.’

  ‘I will certainly do that. I can’t promise to be convinced, no matter what my eyes see, but thank you for your openness at least.’

  The Frada bowed.

  ‘Here,’ said Cheyne. ‘There is one patient at least who I think you should meet.’

  He led her to where an exhausted-looking mother was sitting by the bedside of her adult daughter. Each bore the fading bruises and abrasions of a violent attack, but while the older turned to watch them approach with pain-haunted eyes, the younger simply lay and stared glassily at the ceiling like a waxwork. It was a look Berylin had seen all too often: the outward face of a mind which had seen something so appalling that it had chosen to abandon awareness altogether.

  When the mother spoke, her voice was a dead, dry husk. ‘Will the saint come tonight? My Soolie – she grows weaker every day.’

  ‘We can only pray,’ said Cheyne, clasping her hands in his.

  Knowing that she was going to regret it but powerless to stop herself all the same, Berylin asked, ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘To us both,’ replied the woman. ‘Raiders from Elbaite. They attacked our island. We were only small, just one village. We had no garrison, no ships – they had no reason. What threat were we to them? When the men were dead – my poor, brave Bero dead, he was floating, just like he was looking for oysters, I remember that – when they were done, they turned to the women, and they… well, I’m old, so they didn’t… but Soolie, oh my precious, precious Soolie,’ and she collapsed into dry, heaving sobs while all Berylin could do was be a mute and helpless witness to her grief.

  3

  Later, when they were safely back in her chambers, she railed at Runce.

  ‘The arrogance of that man! It’s incredible! To wave that poor woman’s pain in my face as if to say “Don’t judge us, Southerner, you have no idea what we have been through.” Does he think that I don’t know? Does he think I haven’t seen that a dozen times over, and worse? Reason defend us! I wanted to shake him until his eyeballs rattled and tell him that I’d seen parents forced by subornation to do that to their own children and ask him what he thought of that! They ask for my expertise, and then they resort to the crudest forms of emotional blackmail – they’re not listening to a single thing I’ve been telling them!’

  ‘It’s obvious you’ve never been in the army,’ Runce observed calmly. He was cleaning the copper contact relays on the tez gun rig with a
small wire brush and cursing the road dust for getting into everything. ‘Though there is one ugly possibility which occurs.’

  ‘That being?’

  ‘What if they’re right? That many people don’t come this far for nothing. And not for something that’s as liable to kill as cure ’em.’

  ‘These are people of faith, Runce,’ she retorted in disgust. ‘Who knows what they’ll do to themselves?’

  He cleaned in silence for a while, letting her calm down. Presently he said, ‘In other news, I went for that walk you suggested. You’ll never guess what I found.’

  ‘The chrono-variance is getting stronger?’

  He nodded. ‘I went for a bit of a wander up the valley, following the stream. Apparently there’s a pool up there where their Blessed Gabril is supposed to have appeared and done his magical act. Well, I didn’t see no saints or angels or anything else like that – just a pretty spot with a waterfall and some flowers and whatnot – but there’s definitely something up there, because the closer you get, the stronger the variance. I was only gone for half an hour.’

  ‘But that was three hours ago!’

  ‘It’s exponential and centred on the site. They’re all off up there at dusk, you know.’

  ‘Yes, and so are we.’ She nodded at the gun. ‘That is an absolute last resort, though. I don’t want to bring violence to these people, no matter how misguided they are. Apart from anything else, I imagine that firing off several thousand volts of static electricity in a foreign hospital is the sort of thing frowned upon in diplomatic circles.’

  ‘Roger that, ma’am. No zappin’ the natives.’

  4

  An air of hushed expectation settled over the valley of Bles Gabril as the long twilight deepened and shadows crept up the foothills to enshroud the mountain peaks behind. The bellbirds fell silent with the coming night, and in the hospice itself people talked in whispers as they passed each other; even the din in the labourers’ tavern muted as the drinkers paused between mouthfuls to peer out of windows towards the head of the valley.