Time passed as I stood there blindly, just holding her, my mind a raw and endless scream tearing into the night. After a while I became aware that someone was speaking to me, and that the area was illuminated by car headlights. It was Richards, speaking the conventional words.
'Cade, I'm terribly sorry.' He was, too. But there was more than just sorrow in his mind – there was something else. Numb as I was with too much emotion, I didn't realise at first what I was picking up, then it gradually dawned on me. It was guilt.
I turned and looked at him. 'Richards, did you know about this attack?'
'No,' he said quickly. That was right in a way, too, but there was again something more.
'You knew something, though, didn't you?' I focused on him and realised with growing horror what had happened. 'You told them where we were!'
'We had you covered!' He said desperately. 'It was the only way to find this new group, to make them come out into the open. They couldn't resist going for you as a target. I thought they would come by road and we had that covered – they should never have got near you!'
I carefully laid Sophie's body onto the road, then straightened up and looked at Richards. I couldn't think of anything to say. I suddenly, instinctively, reached out with my mind and touched him, and then I turned and raced away, back towards the sea wall, ignoring the shouts from the other men.
I sprinted past the burning wreckage of the chalet, jumped over the contorted bodies lying behind the wall, their teeth gleaming in a rictus of terror and pain, and ran down towards the beach. The tide was in, the water lapping gently nearby, the ripples reflecting the lightening eastern sky as dawn approached. I plunged into the sea, wading fast until it was deep enough to swim, then settled into a long, steady stroke, letting my mind drift away as my body worked to take me away from the land, away from everything.
BOOK 2 - SAURIANA
5
Time passed, unmeasured and unnoticed. I almost entirely shut down my mind and just swam. For the first couple of hours, I occasionally became aware of a mental intrusion as the searching helicopter throbbed too close, but I just took a breath, matched my colouring to the sea and continued under the surface.
As the day brightened I spent an increasing amount of time underwater, just surfacing occasionally for air. I found the rippling sunlight streaming through the water utterly beautiful and I spent hours absorbed in the shifting patterns as I swam. A school of porpoises came by, circling around me with lively curiosity before flashing off at many times the speed I could achieve.
Days and nights cycled slowly, and still I swam tirelessly. There were usually some merchant ships visible on the horizon, and once one headed straight for me so I sank to the bottom and looked up as it passed overhead; the great shadow throbbing with diesel power, the large single propeller turning slowly enough to count the blades. Another time my path crossed that of a trawler and I had to manoeuvre to avoid the towlines dragging the huge, sack-shaped net along the bottom.
From all of that time I can recall no conscious thought. But I was intensely aware of everything around me; the flow of the tides, the patterns of waves from the shipping, the residual swell from far distant winds, the life teeming in the water, the traces of pollutants from human activities. In contrast, my own self-awareness seemed to diminish, to become just a dot in the huge sea.
Drinking didn't seem to be a problem – my versatile body could apparently cope with seawater – and I ignored the growing pangs of hunger as pointless; there were no fruit or nuts in the sea.
The distance from Essex to the Continental coast is something like a hundred and fifty kilometres in a straight line, but the surging tides pushed me first one way, then the other, so my course was more of a zig-zag across the southern North Sea.
Eventually I became aware that the sea floor was slowly rising to meet the surface, and that a distant, rhythmical roar was becoming audible. The surface of the sea became more agitated, forming deep hollows reaching down to me, interspersed with peaks rising high above. The movement of the water picked me up and rushed me into the breakers until I was thrown onto harsh sand. I crawled up the beach until the sand became soft and dry and I felt the brush of vegetation against my skin. It was dark, and I curled up into a ball and slept for the first time in days.
I woke. The sun was high in the sky, and felt strong and hot. My skin had automatically shifted to a silvery colour on top to reflect the rays, and black underneath to radiate away the surplus heat. I sat up, my skin colour shifting to keep track, and looked around.
I was sitting in a hollow in some sand dunes, surrounded by the long tough leaves of the marram grass whose roots held the dunes together. I stood up to improve my field of view and the beach stretched away as far as I could see in either direction, punctuated by sand-trapping timber groynes marching into the placid waves. It was totally deserted apart from some distant figures, seemingly out walking, their dogs excitedly hurdling the groynes, faint barking breaking the silence.
I turned around and looked inland, seeing a flat landscape of pastureland dotted with black-and-white cows, not unlike the Essex coastlands I had left behind. A few farm buildings were visible in the middle distance. The sky was pale blue, dotted with cumulus clouds; a warm breeze was blowing.
Thinking started again, and memory returned.
I stood for a long time, absorbing and accepting the memories. My days in the sea had dulled the pain as if the seawater had washed through my mind, soothing and healing. I felt strangely different, rather detached, less emotional, perhaps even less human in consequence. The events of the past year seemed distant, like a half-remembered book I had once read. Only Sophie stood out clearly and I treasured the memory of her, but the agony had been replaced by a deep sadness, no longer dominating my thoughts. My mind shied away from the implications of the deaths of the men behind the sea wall, parked the incident for later consideration. As my thoughts settled I felt a new certainty about who and what I was, a calm determination. I also felt ravenously hungry!
After some thought I realised that the pattern of my life was likely to remain much the same, at least for the immediate future. I still wanted to use my power to heal the sick, and I required food. Opportunities to satisfy both needs were conveniently concentrated in hospitals.
I scanned the area, my mind sweeping like a searchlight, its sensitivity seemingly greater than before. I held in my thoughts the emotional pattern of a hospital – a large focus of weakness and helplessness, pain and hope, with a flavour unlike any other – and soon picked up the echo of a return. It was about ten kilometres away, on the other side of a small town. I began to walk, then found it more comfortable to fall into a smooth, flowing run.
The landscape unrolled beneath my feet as I headed in a straight line across the pastures, hurdling fences and wading or swimming across the ditches too wide to leap. The cows looked on in dull bovine wonder.
I ran steadily through the outskirts of the town and down its main street. It was a pretty town, cobbled streets and low brick buildings with red-tiled roofs, flats with balconies above the rows of shops and cafes. Bicycles were everywhere. People stopped and stared, briefly incredulous, their excited shouts trailing behind me like ripples after a boat. I realised that I must seem even more alien than usual – I was wearing only the swimming trunks I had pulled on in the chalet, the thick, padded scales on the soles of my bare feet making shoes as unnecessary to me as clothing.
The phones had evidently been buzzing, because as I left the town centre and approached the hospital some of the staff were already spilling out of the entrance, chattering in excitement. I slowed to a walk just as a tall and slender middle-aged woman moved through the crowd, her confident bearing reflecting a natural authority which left no doubt as to her position. I stopped in front of her and remembered how to smile.
'Good afternoon,' I said politely.
I felt her shift mental gears and realised that she had switched her thinking to Engli
sh.
'Good afternoon,' she replied, then smiled wryly. 'Your arrival is rather unexpected.'
'But not, I hope, unwelcome.'
Her eyes sparkled. 'Indeed not! If you have come to help, we certainly have some patients you must see.'
'Of course. However, if I am to be of any use to you, I first need something to eat!'
After working my way through half a fruit basket and a pile of assorted nuts I felt a little more human. I learned from the hospital manger that I had landed in the Netherlands, in the province of Groningen. Then I went to earn my food.
It was a small local hospital with only a few cases which I could cure, but I found I could do this more quickly and easily than before. It was as if my skill had become refined, more accurate and precise. I no longer needed to make physical contact with the patients, but could work easily from the end of their beds. I was also able to help various others by reducing their symptoms and pain. A young woman in the maternity ward took one shocked look at me and immediately started to give birth, so I stayed to ensure that she had an intensely enjoyable experience.
By the time I had finished, the first reporters had arrived and I was told that a TV crew was on the way. I had no interest in answering the obvious questions, so I left by a back entrance and once more started running easily across the fields. I had no specific destination in mind but decided to travel west, always staying close to the shore.
My days settled into a steady but bizarre rhythm. I usually ran in the daytime, preferably across fields to avoid the chasing packs of youths and puffing reporters who tried to catch up with me. When I reached rivers I ignored bridges and swam. In the evenings, or when the crowds grew too irritating, I turned back towards the coast and continued by sea. At night I came ashore and found a quiet place to sleep outdoors for a couple of hours or so – I needed no more. When I saw that I had to pass through a large urban or industrial centre, I waited until the middle of the night.
Every day or two I located a new hospital, ate, and helped those I could. Predicting my course had evidently become a popular obsession and the large crowds gathering near likely hospitals deterred me, so I stopped for long enough to tell a delighted reporter that if people wanted me to visit a hospital they should stay away. Low-flying press helicopters were also a nuisance so another lucky reporter was deputed to tell them to keep away, or I wouldn't stop anywhere.
From the Netherlands I passed through Belgium (with a pang of regret for their wonderful beers) and into France. I must have been covering between 150 and 200 kilometres a day, but felt that I could keep up my steady pace forever. My body became leaner and harder, tuned for endurance. I revelled in the physical pleasure of running almost as much as in the more sensual delight of swimming.
I found that my journey was becoming an end in itself, a way of existence. My planning horizon stretched no further than the next twenty-four hours and I thought only of the ground to cover.
I had only a general knowledge of the geography of the Continental coast so was never quite sure what was going to come next. My travels took me past ports and industries, rows of seaside housing, raucous resorts with amusement arcades and rides, and beaches and cliffs punctuated by vast concrete bunkers left over from the Second World War, still glowering defiantly seawards.
My mind flowed slowly, detached from the physical task of running. I found that the improvements to my memory included the ability to replay jazz music faultlessly – if I had heard it once, I could recall it. At times I returned to the mystery of my transformation following the accident, how such changes could possibly have happened. It was an exercise in frustration; each time, my thoughts went round in a circle, caught in the logical bind between the lack of any possible mechanism I could imagine for such a transformation and the manifest fact that it had happened.
I thought of the past year, about all that had happened and what I might have done differently. Somehow, through a series of small steps each entirely logical and reasonable by itself, I had become drawn into becoming an agent of the security services – an idea I would have rejected out of hand at the start, and which had resulted in Sophie's death. I remembered the saying that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
Then I looked ahead, and tried to think about what I should do next. This was much more difficult; I was locked into a way of thinking. What I did best, the one unique service I could offer, was healing people; those with some specific ailments. It seemed that my whole life would be spent in visiting hospitals. I had no objection to the thought, or to the constant travel with which I recharged my mental batteries. I thought I might work my way around the world, running, swimming and healing forever.
The end of this strange interlude came in the early autumn, in a small hospital on the rural west coast of France. It was the only one in that area which was close to the sea, so it was a fairly safe bet that I would visit. After my usual meal (every hospital in the regions through which I passed must have had a supply of fruit and nuts on hand, just in case) I worked my way through assorted cases of paralysis and nervous disorder. I was about to leave when the English-speaking doctor who had been deputed to look after me (no doubt every hospital had one of those on standby, too) received a slip from a messenger and frowned.
'Another one's just arrived. An English paralysis case, come out here specially to see you.'
'OK, wheel him in.' He was duly wheeled in, in a wheelchair. I was still thinking about my last patient – an overworked housewife whose arms had been paralysed as a result of an hysterical reaction to her lot – concerned that I had cured the symptom and not the cause. I didn't try to scan the new arrival until I turned to face him. It was Richards.
We looked at each in silence for a few seconds.
'Hello Cade,' he said neutrally, 'you've lost weight.'
I remembered that I had only paralysed his limbs, leaving him free to speak.
'What are you running from?'
I looked at him and found that I was the one who was speechless; I could think of nothing sensible to say. Richards looked almost sympathetic.
'I've come because there's someone I want you to meet.'
'Another spy needing scanning?' My voice sounded harsh, even to me.
'No. He's nothing to do with me, but I've been asked to introduce you.'
'And you?'
He understood what I meant. 'I'm not complaining. I deserved what you did. It was criminal negligence to let them get at you both.' His tone and mood were both bitter with self-reproach.
I looked at him, and realised that I no longer felt angry. That had been washed away by the sea and my long journey, along with the other emotions which had been tearing me apart. I sighed and mentally touched him, releasing the paralysis lock. His breath hissed out slowly and I felt the pain, the intense pins-and-needles as the feeling poured back into his limbs. I shrugged and touched his mind again. He relaxed suddenly, with a long sigh of relief.
'Don't try standing up yet. You'll be shaky for a while.'
'Thank you.'
'Don't mention it.'
He turned to the man who had been pushing his chair. 'Would you ask Mr Yamamoto to join us please?'
The middle-aged man who entered the room was slim and immaculately dressed. His straight bearing and air of authority disguised his lack of height. He extended his hand and bowed. 'Good morning, Mr Cade, I am very pleased to meet with you at last.'
His English pronunciation was very good, difficult for a Japanese, which suggested that he had learned the language in childhood.
'Mr Yamamoto is the special representative of the Secretary-General of the United Nations.'
I looked at him with more interest. 'What can I do for you?'
'First I would like to bring greetings from the Secretary-General. He would have preferred to be here himself but was unable to get away.'
I inclined my head in acknowledgment, feeling distinctly sceptical. I could not imagine such a person travelling around t
he world to meet an itinerant freak.
'I have come to ask you, on his behalf, to join us.'
I was puzzled. 'Join who, exactly?
'The Secretary-General's team, as a special representative.'
I looked at him in astonishment. 'Whatever for?'
He regarded me with a slight smile. 'I don't suppose you've been keeping up with the international news? No, I thought not. You may be surprised to learn that you are famous. In fact, you have become something of a sensation. Television coverage of your travels and your healings is broadcast around the world, every day. There are special programmes on you and many websites, speculating about who you really are, why you are running, what you are going to be doing next. Hundreds of millions of people follow your progress.'
I stood astonished, as Mr Yamamoto continued. 'You have become something of a cult figure, especially among the young. There are frequent massed rallies of your followers in all parts of the globe.' He smiled wryly. 'I am told that the best-selling tee-shirt in the world has your three principles printed on it, and a substantial part of the world's youth seems to know them by heart. There are even signs of changes in people's behaviour as a result.'
I sat down, stunned out of my usual sense of detachment, trying to grapple with the incredible picture he was painting. He continued, gently. 'Mr Cade, you are a person of immense influence, already a great force for good. I understand why you want to keep healing people, but if you worked with us you could improve the lives of far more people than you could ever meet individually. This may sound very corny, but I do not apologise for it; I am asking you to help make the world a better place.'
I looked at him blankly, trying to gather my thoughts. I scanned him and found nothing but sincerity and, to my astonishment, awe. 'I'll have to think about it, Mr Yamamoto. This has come as rather a shock.'
'Of course. I will leave you now if I may? Mr Richards can convey any message to me.' He bowed again and left.
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