Stewards of the Flame

by Sylvia Engdahl

  Peter went on talking, instructing the listeners to acknowledge and face their fear. “Don’t try to hide it,” he said. “It’s normal, and it’s good! The whole point of walking on fire is to discover that fear needn’t hold you back from anything you want to do. If we weren’t consciously afraid, we’d never learn that. . . .”

  Which was, of course, the same advice he’d been hearing all along, Jesse realized. What was the matter with him, that he apparently still had fears he couldn’t identify, much less face? Was he suppressing them even now? It was true that he had no reason to fear burns. He knew pain wouldn’t bother him—yet minute by minute his dread of them was growing, not fading. It was mortifying. These others, the guests, would suffer agony if they failed; how could he be more frightened than they were?

  Carla took his hand, tightened her fingers on his. It was the first physical touch she had allowed for weeks, and his heart began to pound. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re supposed to be scared your first time, Jesse! Admit it!”

  He couldn’t admit it, not to her. He focused on what Peter was saying. “You must be willing to be burned . . . paradoxically, the only way to control your mind is to let go, and let whatever comes, come. . . .” As Peter continued, elaborating on the principles of volitional control, it all came together for Jesse. There was no difference in method between dealing with pain, or controlling his blood pressure, or even preventing his skin from burning. He had managed to do it during the test. Could he possibly, in this new crisis . . . ?

  “It’s up to you to choose whether to walk or not,” Peter said, “and if you don’t feel ready for it, you mustn’t try. I will judge you individually, but that’s not a substitute for feeling that you’ll succeed. People who don’t feel they’re protected can get severely burned—it happens sometimes, though it has never happened here. People who aren’t focusing their attention can also get burned. I have walked on coals many times, but even I would be burned if I let my mind wander.”

  The sky was dark now, and the coals glowed red on the beach behind them. Peter took off his shoes and rolled up his pant legs, telling the others to do the same. As he came down from the porch, everyone rose and turned to face the fire. Up-tempo music emerged from speakers that had been moved outside; Peter used a wireless mike to be heard over it.

  “I’ll go first,” he said, “and then the people who’ve had experience. After that we’ll come around and check each one of you. When you enter the bed of coals, move quickly—but don’t run. Keep walking, and whatever you do, don’t stop before you’re across. Once you have taken the first step, you’ll find it’s easy to go on. You’ll notice heat, but not on the soles of your feet. The coals may even feel cool. . . .”

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, Jesse thought, moving into the single-file line now snaking toward the fire. The people ahead of him he recognized as Group members; Carla held back so that he was directly behind her, the first of the novices. The volume of the music swelled. So too did the excitement and confidence of the participants. He had gained enough sensitivity during his weeks at the Lodge to be aware that this was indeed enhanced by unconscious telepathy. It occurred to him that under its influence he might finally make contact with Carla—but no, he must focus now on what he was about to attempt.

  The line circled the fire rather than heading directly to it, so that Peter was visible to everyone as he stepped onto the red-hot coals. He was calm, smiling; firelight reflected onto a face already illumined by an inner glory. This was beyond mere fun, Jesse saw. And in that moment he wanted more than ever before to become like Peter, to experience whatever it was that made him—made all the Group members—what they were. He had thought he’d achieved it, that first day, the day he’d freed himself from pain . . . why had he never felt that freedom again? Why was he terrified at the thought that the fire might give it to him?

  One by one, the experienced firewalkers followed Peter, sharing Peter’s exultation. Almost before he knew it, Carla stood at the edge of the coals. She did not hesitate. Her arms held out for balance, she moved forward, and in four steps, she was across. Jesse knew he must not hesitate either. What the hell, what would it matter what became of him if he could not match Carla’s courage?

  Peter had come around to judge the waiting novices; he smiled at Jesse and nodded. “Go for it,” he said.

  Then to his own surprise, Jesse became suddenly, inwardly, sure that he was in some way protected—not by Peter’s reassurance, but by the state of his own mind. The nameless terror he felt was not of burning. He hardly knew when he took the first step. The coals were not very hot under his feet; they felt like beach pebbles warmed by the sun. More intense heat rose around him, enveloped him, and he strode quickly ahead to get away from it. Two steps . . . three . . . four . . . and the fire was behind him. Incredibly, his feet weren’t even blistered—the feeling in them was normal.

  Carla, then other friends, hugged him exuberantly. They were high, he realized. This was the kind of triumph that produced natural highs, that had done so even in him on several previous occasions. It hadn’t done so on this one. Her excitement fading, Carla stepped back, and he watched disappointment, even sadness, overtake her. “Oh, Jesse,” she murmured, “I’d hoped—”

  To share a high with him? He recalled the high he’d shared with Peter—he’d have given anything to experience that with Carla! And perhaps to share more; had she been hoping that tonight it would become possible? Peter’s words echoed in his mind: In the case of potential sex partners a shared high, especially following stress, often does lead to bed. . . .

  But Jesse was not high. He felt none of the inner joy that had transformed the others, including, by now, most of the guests. Knowing he could walk on coals unharmed was not a comfort to him. In fact, the sense of foreboding that had plagued him the past few weeks seemed stronger than ever.

  ~ 30 ~

  By mid-morning the guests, who’d camped in the woods, were gone, and the bed of ashes had been washed away by high tide. The memory of the firewalk seemed unreal to Jesse. He saw no concrete evidence that it had happened, certainly not on his feet, which were unmarked when he examined them. And though his mind assured him it had happened, what, after all, did that signify? He’d been told firewalking wasn’t limited to Group members and had even been common on Earth among ordinary people in the past. Incredible as not being burned might seem, it was not really a sign that he was progressing.

  The day was hot; after lunch he and Carla hiked along the shore, wearing only light shirts over their swimwear. Not having been particularly eager, he was soon ready to turn back. But Carla, as always, was full of life. He had been, too, his first week on the Island, Jesse recalled wistfully. He was vaguely aware that his loss of that vitality signaled conflict in his unconscious mind. It held him back from enjoyment and also, no doubt, from the immunity to aging he was supposed to acquire. Yet he couldn’t shake the worries that weighed him down.

  For Carla’s sake, he went through the motions of having fun. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll race you to the point.” She was off, leaping from rock to rock where the rising tide lapped between them. Jesse followed, pretending that he felt young and carefree.

  And then, with a shriek, Carla disappeared.

  “Carla!” Jesse shouted. His heart pounding, he rushed to the place from which he’d seen her fall. There wasn’t a big drop; she was lying on the pebbly shore not far below him. As he scrambled down to her, she turned onto her back. “I’m okay,” she said. “A rock gave way under my foot. I didn’t break anything—I just need to stay still a few minutes.” But she was not okay. There was blood on the stones beside her, and more blood gushing from a long gash on her leg.

  “Oh, God, Carla.” He tore off his shirt, wondering whether a bandage was going to be enough. A wound bleeding that profusely might need a tourniquet. She might go into shock. They were too far from the Lodge to call for help; he would have to carry her. . . .

&nb
sp; He knelt beside her, wiping her leg with a corner of his shirt to examine it. The laceration was longer than his hand, and deep; she’d evidently fallen onto a sharp rock. It must be incredibly painful, he thought in dismay—and then he remembered that Carla, like everyone in the Group, was immune to physical suffering. For the first time the full significance of Kira’s warning struck him, the warning that once he stopped minding pain, he’d need common sense to judge when an injury needed treatment. His common sense now told him that whatever Carla might think, she did need it.

  “I’m okay, really,” she insisted. “Look, the bleeding’s already stopping.”

  Incredibly, it seemed to be. Where he had wiped the blood away, little more appeared. But it wasn’t possible that it could stop! He had not even put pressure on it.

  “Jesse,” she said, smiling. “I know you haven’t been taught yet. From your face, I guess nobody has even told you. We control bleeding just as we do other physical responses. If I were in the City, where outsiders could see, I wouldn’t dare do it this fast; I’d have to let them treat me. Here, I’m free to heal myself.”

  “You—you’re stopping it with your mind?”

  “Of course. The way you can control your pulse rate and your blood pressure, when you remember to do it.”

  Startled, he brought the frantic racing of his heart under control. But to halt bleeding was hardly the same—it was a higher order of capability altogether, surely. And in any case, a wound that wasn’t bleeding was still an open wound. He had to get her to the infirmary downstairs in the Lodge.

  “No,” Carla told him. “I don’t need the infirmary for a flesh wound. If I’d broken a bone, it would have to be set. But I can heal this easily. Just let me rest here a little while.”

  “I’m taking you back,” Jesse declared grimly.

  “No! I need to be still.” She sat up, bending over and gripping her leg with both hands so that the edges of the wound were pressed together. “If you want to help, hold it for me, so I don’t have to stay in this awkward position.”

  Mutely he grasped her leg between his hands, and she lay back on the sun-warmed pebbles. What good this would do, he could not imagine. A wound as deep as hers would take days to heal even if it didn’t get infected. She was apparently shocked past reason; he could only trust that before much more time passed she would come to her senses and let him carry her.

  There was no sound but the small waves lapping against the shore. Carla’s eyes were closed and soon she was half-asleep, yet her color was normal and she was breathing evenly. Despite his fear for her, Jesse could see no grounds for believing she was in immediate danger, certainly none strong enough to justify forcing her to move against her will. Kira could clean and stitch the wound later.

  Time seemed to crawl, but looking at his watch, he saw that less than half an hour had passed when Carla sat up. “You can take your hands away now,” she said.

  He did so—and stared in amazement at the dark red line of a newly-healed scar.

  “Oh, Carla,” he whispered, unable to express—or even form—a coherent response. He should feel nothing but joy . . . nothing but his relief that she was all right. He cared more for Carla’s well-being than for anything in the strange new life into which he had been plunged—more by far than for the hope he’d had of a union between them. Yet all the confusion, all the doubts of the past weeks crystallized in this, and he knew it for the end of that hope. He would never be Carla’s equal, never the equal of any of them, whatever they might try to teach him. Despite Peter’s denial, they were not human, but superhuman. They could not turn him into one of them. Perhaps they’d never really believed they could; had they not admitted they were experimenting with an offworlder?

  No wonder he couldn’t learn to sense her thoughts. Carla knew he could not; that was why she would not let him get close, although with the part of her that was merely human, she too had hoped. It was, he reflected, like the ancient myths of men who fell in love with goddesses—even when attraction was mutual, there was a gulf that could never be bridged.

  He could not stay with the Group, he thought in despair. It would be torment for her, as well as for him, if he tried to. There was nothing else for him on Undine. Peter, somewhat mysteriously, had insisted that he leave his funds offworld; so though no liners came here, he might be able to bribe a freighter captain to grant him passage. Had Peter known it might come to that? Known that he would have too much pride to remain as a misfit if he failed to become truly one of them?

  They walked slowly back to the Lodge, saying little. Carla, too, seemed subdued, troubled; Jesse wondered if she had read his mind. What he’d been thinking must have hurt her, yet how he felt wasn’t subject to choice. Guiltily, he realized he was relieved by the possibility that he might not have to put it into words.

  All through dinner they sat apart, talking with others, going through the familiar routine of camaraderie at meals and around the evening fire. Now that Carla was fully dressed her leg was hidden, but the glimpse he’d had of it on their return had showed him that the scar was already fading. Its impact on his emotions, he knew, would never fade.

  At the fireside Peter spoke quietly to him. “It’s still bothering you,” he observed. Carla had evidently—perhaps telepathically?—made him aware of what had happened.

  “No, I—” Jesse broke off, knowing that he would not be allowed to get away with less than frankness. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “It’s awesome, too awesome to be true. I can’t quite believe that it’s entirely human. That someone I care about is more, physically, than flesh and blood. That we could ever be—normal together, when I’m not on her level. There’s too wide a gap . . . as if she were alien.”

  “All right,” Peter declared. “This has to be cleared up, here and now.” He turned to Anne, beside him, and spoke louder. “Do me a favor, Anne. Go down to the infirmary and bring back a sterile knife.”

  Carla, across the circle, burst out, “Please don’t, Peter! Not for my sake!”

  “We can’t let it ride,” Peter said. “The problem’s dragged on too long.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” she admitted through tears. “Maybe we have to accept that not everyone can adapt to our ways. Not even everyone’s who’s strong! We knew from the start that Jesse’s background is different, that he would never have sought us out of his own accord. I love him for what he is, not for being like us! I’d rather see him go than try to make him change.”

  “It’s not for your sake, Carla—it’s for his. We need Jesse, and he wouldn’t be happy now as an outsider. He’s seen too much.”

  Jesse nodded. “I have,” he agreed miserably. “It’s true that I won’t be happy. But I’d only hurt Carla by staying, Peter. Another demonstration won’t help. I don’t doubt that you can cut yourself and heal instantly. Probably a lot of you can; I know you heal other people. But that just makes it worse. I’m . . . out of my element here. I’m doing my best to learn what you’re teaching me, but I’m never going to have paranormal powers myself, in spite of what you’ve said—even in spite of having walked on hot coals. I can consciously control normal functions that used to be unconscious, and that’s as far as I’ll be able to go.”

  “Self-healing is a normal function,” Peter pointed out. “You had cuts and scrapes as a kid, didn’t you, and they healed?”

  “Sure, minor things. It didn’t happen overnight.”

  “So we simply speed up the process. The real miracle is that the human body has this capability—a capability people take so much for granted that they don’t notice how truly incredible it would seem if they had never heard of it before.”

  “Well, it’s not just speed, Peter. A really serious, deep wound—profuse bleeding, like what Carla had—wouldn’t heal naturally.”

  “No? What about surgery? How do you think people heal from that?”

  “They have medical care—” Jesse bit his lip. He could hardly fall back on the Meds without denying the Grou
p’s most fundamental convictions. What did medics actually do, to heal a surgical wound?

  “They stitch it up,” said Kira, “because in nature healing does take time and during that time, the edges of the wound must be held together. They stop the bleeding faster than would happen naturally, so that too much blood won’t be lost. They make sure the wound doesn’t get infected. None of these things in themselves bring about healing. Only the body can do so, under the control of unconscious processes.”

  “You’re saying these can be made conscious, like the others I’ve been learning? Surely there’s more to it than that.”

  “Nothing more,” Peter said. “Bleeding can be consciously controlled; that’s an ancient skill that will be taught to you in the lab, in due course. The knitting of flesh can also be controlled when there’s need. Even by you.”

  “I don’t believe so, Peter.”

  “No, because you’re thinking someone who heals rapidly is ‘more than flesh and blood,’ as you say. Fundamentally different from yourself.”

  Jesse didn’t reply, and for some time no one spoke. He sat listening to the music, the thrilling synthesized music that normally elated him, knowing he could no longer feel comfortable in the Group even if Peter urged him to stay. It had been so good. He had learned so much. He’d had friends he cared about, a woman he’d hoped to marry, everything he’d always wanted and more. And yet he could never really fit in. There would always be the knowledge that there was power in the others—in Carla—beyond anything a normal man could aspire to.

  Anne returned; she handed a surgical scalpel silently to Peter, who said, “You’ve got to get past that feeling, Jess. We can show you there’s nothing weird about healing.”

  “Watching again can’t change anything,” Jesse protested, and then wished he had kept quiet. Though he knew Peter wouldn’t suffer pain or be permanently harmed, the prospect of observing a deliberately-inflicted injury wasn’t appealing. But that was why he would be required to watch. In the Group, all the things you shrank from were to be faced unflinchingly.