The Blind Eye

by Georgia Blain

  Ignoring him, she bent down and turned Rudi carefully. When Silas tried to help her, she only motioned him away, the irritation in her face enough to finally silence him.

  It’s all right, she whispered to her father, her voice soft and cool as she washed him gently, the precious rainwater trickling over his forehead, his neck, his chest, it’s all right.

  As he watched, Silas felt useless, and he backed away, the smell and the heat of the room only making him ill. Leaning against the window frame, he watched her lift the faded blue singlet Rudi always wore, revealing the skin on his chest, pale and puckered, completely hairless. She continued bathing him, her hands steady and sure as she moved the washer down to where the tumour was, a great lump, purple and angry.

  We really should get him to the hospital. Silas heard the alarm in his own voice. He needs medical help.

  She had a pipette in her hand and she asked her father to open his mouth, just slightly. Silas could see Rudi staring at her, his faded blue eyes focused on her alone as she administered the drops, his dry cracked lips barely open, the struggle to swallow evident.

  I can get a four-wheel drive out here, or call the flying doctor. I would go with you. He knew she was not listening. Let me do something.

  She gave him the saucepan and pointed to the rainwater tank and he took it from her without another word.

  He carted water for her. Back and forth, throughout the length of the day. Breathing in the sweetness of the garden before he had to return to the stench of that room, Silas would sit on the steps for a moment and look across the thick tangle of colour, an abundance of life that seemed even more lurid after the darkness of the shack, and out towards those ranges, huge and still, in the distance.

  Rudi would die. Unless she let him go to a hospital, he would die; no matter how cool she kept him, no matter how soothing her words, no matter what drops she was administering. But there was no way Silas could convince her of the need to get outside help.

  She told me he had been ill for some time. She said he drank to ease the pain, and Silas looked across at me as he remembered, as he tried to explain.

  She had known about the tumour, but the few attempts she had made to broach the subject with her father had been of no use. He was as fit as a bull, he would protest. Look, and he would flex his arm to show her muscles he believed still existed. She could neither talk to him about it nor offer any assistance in prescribing treatment.

  He could not see himself. She had whispered those words, not wanting Rudi to hear her doubt in his judgement. He did not choose the right remedies, and there was nothing I could do.

  By the end of the day, she was clearly exhausted. Dark rings bruised the pale skin under her eyes, and her hands were unsteady as she held the drops to her father’s mouth. Silas offered to take over while she slept.

  I want to help, he urged.

  She looked doubtful.

  Please.

  One last dose in an hour and then just keep him cool, she instructed.

  She cleared the books from where they had been piled on top of the sagging divan and lay down, her black hair silky still like the sea at night, her violet eyes finally closed, her breathing deep and even. Silas just watched her. Barely aware of Rudi, he wanted only to drink in this moment of being able to observe her, unobserved, of being able to let himself sink, deep, into the sight of her stretched out, this close to him.

  He realised he must have dozed off after he had given Rudi his drops, parting his lips with the tip of his fingers so that he could insert the pipette, his skin dry like sand, because when he woke, Rudi’s eyes were open and he was staring at Silas.

  I have failed, and he reached for Silas, trying to draw him closer to the rancid smell that came from his mouth.

  Silas shook his head, wanting to calm him as Constance had done, but he was unable to find the words.

  Look what I am leaving her, and Rudi waved his hand aimlessly before it crashed back down to his side.

  Silas could see Constance stirring. She was there in the darkness, only feet away. He could lift her hair, its weight falling heavy against his finger and kiss her, her cheek cool beneath his lips. He did not want her to wake and take over, dismissing him as she had done so often before.

  Rudi’s hand grasped his wrist. His words were a hiss in the quiet. She does not know the world.

  Silas told him to hush. This is where she has wanted to be, his whispered attempt at reassurance falling unheard.

  Rudi needed a drink but when Silas offered him water, he only shook his head. A drink, he repeated, and although Silas, too, would have liked some of the whisky that he knew Rudi kept next to the stove, he ignored his request.

  I didn’t want to be alone. When they all went, I didn’t want to be alone, and Rudi’s words were filled with such self-pity that Silas flinched, the flannel now dripping water onto the floor, trickling between his fingers, as he stared at Rudi in dismay. When they wanted to take her, I stopped them, and he turned his head to where Constance was lying, asleep. All my notes, they are not what I have found, they are her words, they are what she knows. When she was young, I could teach her, I did teach her, and there were others, people who understood our work. Not from there, and he groaned as he attempted to wave his hand in the direction of the town. People from the outside world. Now there is no one. She has no one.

  Silas looked over to the divan but he could only just discern her shape, the smooth curve of her, one long arm trailing down to the ground, the velvet of her skin, just her hand, milky white in the light of the moon. When he turned back to Rudi again, his eyes were closed and his forehead felt slightly cooler.

  Silas was exhausted. As he stood up slowly, she stirred. Her face was turned in his direction and he could see her eyes glistening in the dark; she was not quite awake and not quite asleep, uncertain in that moment as to who he was and what he was doing there.

  He’s all right, Silas whispered, wanting only to lie close to her and to feel her healing wholeness.

  She turned over.

  And not even thinking to ask, he just curled up into the small space next to her, unable to even look at her, as he breathed in the life that emanated from her limbs. With one arm around her, he drew her close, not daring to feel surprise at the lack of resistance in her body, and he buried his face in the darkness of her hair.

  Love me, he would have whispered; in fact his mouth was open, ready to form the words, love me, a desperate plea that came from such an aching emptiness, but then she turned.

  They were almost lilac, her eyes, paler in the moonlight, wide open and remote in their unseeing gaze.

  He will be better, and her breath was cold on Silas’s cheek as she spoke. I can heal him.

  How could he tell her that what she believed was impossible? He said nothing, and in that moment, lying there with her, Silas wanted to believe she was right. She could heal Rudi, she could heal him, she could do anything.

  6

  Silas took Belladonna for three days, morning, noon and night, the drops sweet underneath his tongue, his eyes closed as he swallowed, his faith uncertain as he waited.

  Each day as he walked to the library, the autumn mornings cool and fresh, the grass in the parklands damp beneath his feet, clear diamonds of light sparkling across the harbour, he was aware of a sense of agitation quickening. Because there was, he told me, a whisper of change, tangible, promising, but impossible to hold.

  The terrible burning in his heart had not ceased, but when it came, which was infrequently, he no longer doubled over in pain, unable to move. He would feel it drawing in, pulling tighter, and he would brace himself for an unendurable wringing, only to feel immense relief at the slow easing that followed, his breath remaining stable as he realised he would be all right, this time he would be all right, and he would place his hand on his chest, grateful for yet another reprieve, yet unable to see it as anything more than just that, a temporary reprieve.

  Silas told me how he had been fe
eling when we had our next consultation. He also told Greta a day later.

  I’ve been worried about you, he said when he turned up at her apartment early one Friday evening.

  It had been two weeks since she had sat opposite him, two weeks since she had told him her story, and she had not seen him since.

  I’ve been, he did not know what the word was, and he drummed his fingers on the door as he searched for it, anxious, I suppose.

  Her body was blocking the entrance as she told him how busy she had been, getting everything onto disk, and her tone was defensive despite the smile. I would have been in touch.

  She could see he felt awkward trying to conduct this conversation at her door, and as he said he had missed seeing her around, she knew he was hoping to find a welcome in her face that would ease him, but there was only resistance.

  I guess that’s the way it will be, now that I’ve almost finished, and she could not look at Silas, not for long.

  Later, when she told me how she had greeted him, she said that it was because she felt like such a fool. And so afraid of liking someone again.

  When Silas asked if he could come in, she stepped back, still without looking at him, telling him she only had a few moments, she had to go out.

  He went to sit and then, seeing her face, decided against it.

  Can I get you anything? she asked, making a show of gathering together her money, phone and a coat.

  Silas just shook his head and for a moment neither of them spoke.

  Then he told me, and Greta smiled at the shamelessness of Silas’s lie, that he had a message for me. She looked at me. He said you had asked after me, that you wanted to get in touch.

  She remembered how she had been angry with him. She had not understood. She had thought for a moment that he was just being cruel, that it was some kind of joke.

  Are you trying to be funny?

  No, and he stood up, the hurt on his face now so nakedly obvious that she felt ashamed of her behaviour.

  It wasn’t the way I had wanted it to be, she told me.

  In the silence that followed, she took one step towards him and then stopped. She could see he did not understand her reaction to his presence, and she did not know how to begin to explain.

  There was a slight breeze through her window and as the curtain lifted, she attempted to still it, the cloth falling beneath her hands. She heard him take a deep breath, the inhalation of someone trying to find calm, and when she faced him again, he was looking directly at her.

  Is it because we talked?

  She turned her gaze to the ground.

  It wasn’t so bad. What you did. Silas’s voice was gentle. Not in the scheme of things.

  She twisted the ring on her finger, still unable to face him, and then she let her hands fall to her side. Yes it was.

  In the early evening, with the trees swaying against the window, they finally moved towards each other.

  I’ve missed you, and their eyes met. His grin was sheepish as he felt her soften.

  With the curtain dancing around them, she could feel his hand on the soft curve of her breast as he unbuttoned her shirt. She was surprised to find she was helping him, her fingers knotted in his, her velvet skin warm against him, her breath sweet and smoky in his mouth, her eyes still on him as she slid her hand into his jeans, rolling them off as she told him that she, too, had missed him, both of them fearing that the other would pull away, that this hold would be broken at any moment.

  Later, when her room was dark and the night sky was black outside her window, she asked him if he was going to tell her his story.

  What do you mean? He was shivering, suddenly aware of how cold it had become.

  Your tale. What happened to you out there.

  Silas had moved away from her, despite the fact that she was the only warmth in the cool of that night. He was sitting up now and she realised he was going to go. She could see his clothes illuminated by the street light, lying in a heap on the floor, and he reached for them, the scars on his arm vivid in that one strip of yellow.

  As Greta watched him put on his T-shirt, she tried to joke. What he had done couldn’t be that bad in the scheme of things. Honestly, and she attempted to laugh, suddenly nervous as she realised she did not know if she was, in fact, capable of hearing what she had asked to be told.

  Silas couldn’t look at her.

  With his hands clasped around his arms, he sat with his back turned towards her. It was the ridges in his spine that she stared at, each knot visible through his T-shirt, as he began to speak.

  He couldn’t face me, she told me later. Not until he had finished.

  And then he left. Standing by the front door, he made her promise him one thing. Call him.

  Who? she asked.

  Daniel.

  Greta said nothing.

  I know he would like to hear from you.

  She told him to go. She would see him again soon, and under the glare of the corridor lights, he tried to kiss her, but she moved away, closing her front door on him before he had even made it to the lift.

  the unknown world

  And further, while we were preparing the so-called old medicines we never forgot our position as explorers of the unknown world of results, of effects; never forgetting the ground work of our healing art, we prepared from time to time new medicines also; we made regular provings at least once a year, often twice and even three times a year. These provings were the high feasts in our church, and you cannot consider yourself true members of it without joining in these feasts.

  Proving is the most wonderful thing, the world has never known its like. We suffer, and we enjoy it; we sacrifice a little of our comfort, and gain years of strength by it; we go to school to learn, and we increase the certainty of the healing art.

  Constantine Hering (1800–1880)

  1

  I did not, as Greta had assumed, know the entire story. Silas never told me, and as I filled in the gaps from the little she revealed, I marvelled at the strength with which she had listened to him and chosen not to turn her back. In the end, she was his confessor. He needed someone to be able to hear him and carry the weight of what he believed he had done. He had seen her frailty and he had sensed her strength.

  Later, I wondered how I could have failed to realise what had happened. It was all there, every piece laid out in front of me, but I had somehow remained blind to that one essential kernel, unable to see the grain from which it had all grown, until Greta made it clear to me, the morning we met, shortly after I stopped seeing Silas as a patient.

  I am not a therapist, I had once told Silas. If you just want to confess all your crimes and misdemeanors, I may not be the person for you. And I smiled as I remembered my words.

  2

  Silas told me that when he woke the morning after he had nursed Rudi through the night, Constance was still asleep in his arms.

  He did not dare breathe, and as he turned slowly, he saw that Rudi was awake, only feet away, and he shifted again, quickly, wanting to go back to the night that had passed, the shimmering darkness of lying awake next to Constance while she slept, no longer even aware of his presence.

  But moments later, she, too, realised that Rudi was stirring, and she got up and took his hand, seemingly oblivious to Silas’s presence.

  It was not until she peeled back the sheet that had covered him that Silas knew she had worked wonders. The tumour was still there but it had receded, the growth definitely smaller than it had been the day before.

  Rudi looked at Constance for confirmation and she told him, despite not being able to see the plea in his eyes.

  It’s a little better, she whispered, and his fingers trembled as he felt for the lump.

  It was miraculous, Silas told me. I was in awe.

  She was standing back from Rudi now, and her eyes were focused. But it was not her father that she was looking at, it was the air around him (the light, I suppose, the charge, Silas told me), and Silas, too, tried to s
ee, but there was only that body, stretched out flat in front of him.

  I remember thinking that everything I had heard about her was true, that there were no more doubts. She just was, and he looked at the ceiling as he searched for the word, extraordinary.

  Silas crossed the saltbush flats that led back to town, each of his senses keen to the brilliant blue sky overhead, the soft mauve of the ranges to one side of him, and, on the other, the gulf sparkling beyond the mangrove swamps. He could hear it all, the scratch of the dry twigs against his skin, each footfall in the dirt, the flick of a lizard’s tail as it darted away, the quickness of his own breath as he hurried back to the Port, wanting to get the few things she needed so that he could return to her as soon as possible.

  It was not until he reached the place where the track turns into the dirt road at the edge of town that he stopped, aware of how rapidly his heart was beating. As the cool morning breeze floated across from the gulf, he remembered the brush of her hair against his cheek, the slight down on the back of her neck, the smooth curve of her hip, all as he had felt them the night before, his body cradled against hers in the darkness, and as he remembered, he shivered, aware, in that moment, of the gulf between night and day.

  It was too early for Pearl’s to be open, it was too early for anyone to be up, but for the first time since he had arrived, Silas did not find the emptiness of the town unsettling. There was a peace to it, everything was as it should be. Even his mother’s house, collapsing into a tangle of weeds and cactuses, no longer looked forlorn; its dilapidation seemed almost graceful.

  At Thai’s, Eli and Lucas were lying head to toe on the couch, Jade and Sass were curled up at the end of Thai’s bed. Silas tiptoed past, letting himself into his cottage, hastily packing the few belongings he would need. As he scribbled a note for Thai, he was not aware that Lucas was awake and watching him from the doorway.

  Where are you going? he asked, rubbing the sleep from the corner of his eyes.