The Healer (28 page)

He was about to tuck it back inside his shirt when he had a sudden notion, a wild and crazy idea.

“It's an ortine,” he said.

Her eyes widened, and she leaned in close while he held it up for her to see.

“They're very rare,” she said, amazed at how small and delicate it looked. “Where did you get it?”

“A friend gave it to me.” He paused. “Before he died.”

“A human friend?”

“No. A tesque. Another healer.”

It had to be unusual, she thought, for a healer to possess such a precious treasure. “My mother had an ortine once. Before I was born. She gave it away. She used to say she traded it for me.”

“What did she mean?”

“She wanted a child. She would have traded anything for one. It was a gift to the healer who helped her conceive.”

“What's your mother's name?”

“Matai.”

“Does she like to dance?”

She gave him a look. “She used to. Why do you ask?”

He was astonished but not surprised at this, and he felt a wave of gratitude toward Brand for putting the ortine into his hands, for making this moment possible. He had not danced since Brand had died, had not wanted to, but now, suddenly, he did. It would be a fitting tribute, he thought, to dance again, not alone but with the daughter of the woman who had taught the man who had taught him.

He unhooked the necklace, then pinched the ortine between his thumb and forefinger. “I asked because that's what it's made for. Have you ever heard an ortine?”

She shook her head.

“It's hard to resist.” He held it up to her mouth. “Very softly. All it takes is the tiniest breath. Purse your lips.”

She did, and oh, how he would have liked to steal a kiss. “Gently now,” he whispered. “Blow.”

It was almost imperceptible to her, the breath, but the drum
received it like a mighty wind. Its head bowed inward, snapped back, and then began to oscillate, setting up a wave of low-pitched sound. It was inaudible to her at first, although a fly that had been buzzing lazy circles in the room stopped midflight, then spiraled downward. Seconds later she heard the drumbeat faintly, as though it were coming from outside. It was dull, like someone thumping on the sand. Slowly it grew louder and took on overtones.

She glanced at Payne and saw the way his eyes were glued to her. She knew and feared that look, but the sound and rhythm of the drum swept away her misgivings. She began to sway from side to side. It felt good to move, it felt right, and she closed her eyes. Her feet took up the rhythm, and then her knees and hips. Soon she was rolling her shoulders, and the wave of this motion rippled down her arms into her wrists and hands. She felt a loosening inside and couldn't keep from smiling.

Payne watched, enraptured. He had never seen a sight so beautiful as Meera dancing. If there were such a thing as goddesses, surely she was one. Her face, her hair, the color of her cheeks, her perfect ears, the smoothness of her chin and throat. And the sound that filled the room—lilting, warm, inviting: her sound—that was perfect too.

Before he knew it, he was swaying with her. He felt clumsy at first, an ox beside a willow, but then he closed his eyes and let the rhythm take him. The fly, recovered from its fall but now in danger of being flattened, took refuge on a windowpane.

The drumbeat rose and fell; the air trembled with its music. Payne and Meera danced, swept up in the sound and the rhythm. Once, they brushed against each other, prompting Meera to open her eyes. She was surprised to see whose touch it was and heard an inner voice of caution. But it was a small voice, easily ignored and quickly swallowed by the drum.

The air in the room grew thick. Their bodies radiated heat and were drenched with sweat. Their breathing was rapid. Meera finally stopped and fell into a chair, heart pounding. Her cheeks were flushed;
her toes and fingertips tingled. Her mind for once was free of worries, free of cares. She felt inordinately happy.

She turned to Payne, who had also stopped, prepared to thank him for this gift, this wonder, but when she saw his face, her heart sank. She had hoped to spare his feelings, but what was one to do with idolatry and blind adoration? She shouldn't have danced. It was a thoughtless thing to do. She had only managed to encourage him.

Gathering herself and choosing her words with care, she did her best not to encourage him further. “There's something I have to tell you. It will probably come as a shock.”

Payne nodded dreamily. There was something he had to tell her, too.

“I want to take you somewhere,” she said. “There's someone you need to see.”

This was not what he expected. “Who?”

The sun had dipped below the edge of the roof and was pouring waves of heat into the room. Meera rose to pull the blinds, trapping the fly against the window.

“Your brother,” she said, turning.

“My brother's gone.”

“Yes. But not forgotten. I've seen him.”

“Wyn? You've seen Wyn?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her, scarcely believing this. The fly was buzzing wildly, thwarted in its effort to get free.

“He's here?”

“Not far from here,” she said.

“Where?”

“He needs your help.”

“Where?” he demanded, his blood rising.

“The Snuff Box, Payne. The Pen. He's there.”

Left to their own devices, First-and Second-Degree Concretions lived a minute at most; Third and Fourths, an hour, maybe two. For convenience's sake, Fourths were electively exterminated before their natural expiration, conventionally through large-bore cautery, toxic insufflation, interstitial-clysis and the like. Fifth-Degree Concretions usually responded to these same treatments, but Sixth Degrees were unpredictable. Some actually grew more resistant to degradation when meddled with.

But all Concretions, from First to Sixth, responded to neglect.

Which is how the Pen, aka the Dying Ground, the Cemetery of Joyful Disappearance, the Snuff Box, came to be.

It lay an hour's drive northeast of Rampart on a hard and crusted pan of desert surrounded by a tall and sturdy fence, the posts of which were sunk four feet into the underlying rock and the woven links of which were made of hardened steel and covered by a translucent, small-pore mesh.
There was one and only one way in, through a reinforced and closely guarded gate. Standard issue for the guards included thick metallic-backed gloves, body suits and helmets. Once extruded, a Concretion could not reenter its host, but a Sixth Degree could and would attack a person physically. Hence the need for armor. Hence the fence and guarded gate.

It was late afternoon when they set out, but the temperature had yet to drop. The heat hit Payne as he exited the Tower, along with a gusty, desiccating wind out of the east. This was typical of summer, this afternoon blow as the plain out-heated the hills and sent drafts of hot air swirling upward. The convoy of trucks was already assembled, and the drivers were impatient to get under way. It was a long haul to the Pen, and no one cared to be there after dark.

Their driver's name was Bolt. He had the exaggerated occiput common among a certain class of tesques, along with the thick and narrow forehead, steeply shelved above the eyebrows. A pale vertical scar ran from one corner of his mouth, elevating it slightly. From the side this gave the impression, usually false, that he was amused.

He had just finished securing the rear compartment of his truck when Meera and Payne arrived. She introduced the two of them, then took Bolt aside. A week or two before, she had mentioned that someone might be joining them. Bolt was on her payroll in addition to his regular job as a driver, and she wanted to make sure he understood how important this someone was to her.

He did understand, then took her completely by surprise by refusing to take him.

“You have to,” she said.

He shook his head. “No room for passengers.”

“He's a healer,” she explained.

“I know what he is. Like I said, no room.”

The cab of the truck was broad and wide. There was ample room for three.

“Why not?” she asked.

“It's dangerous. My neck if something happens.”

“Nothing's going to happen.”

The trucks were rocking slightly in the wind, which was gusting. But even when it wasn't, when it momentarily stopped, many of them remained in motion. And there were noises from inside.

“I take full responsibility,” Meera said.

Bolt grunted. Like most Grotesques he was profoundly ambivalent toward healers. As for Meera, like the other drivers he thought that she was crazy the way she kept at this thing of hers, the way she wouldn't let it go. By the same token, he respected her grit and determination. And truth be told, he felt protective, too. She was an odd creation. Humans, being humans, could be that way; they had the leeway to be odd and even crazy, where tesques did not.

Abruptly, the lead truck pulled out, and one by one, like ducks, the others shifted into gear and followed. With no desire to be left behind, or worse, to arrive too late, Bolt relented and hurried around the cab to let them in.

Meera sat in the middle. Bolt, who'd ferried her to and from the Pen countless times but had always been careful not to touch her except to help her in or out of the cab, made sure he didn't touch her now. He sat as far away from her as possible to still be in a position to drive. But even that was too close for comfort. He grunted at Payne to give him more room.

Payne, who was engaged in his own debate on the closeness issue, did as he was told, moving closer to the door, then attempting to affect nonchalance as Meera, in turn, slid next to him. His act was successful in every way but one: for fear of breaking the spell of her proximity, he held his breath, and in half a minute, now in dire need of air, he cracked open the window.

Bolt barked at him to close it. “And stay put. Don't for a second think of getting out. Unless I tell you different.”

Again Payne did as he was told, cowed by the driver's vehemence and temper.

“You may get it into your mind to do otherwise. Don't.”

“He won't,” said Meera. “Stop worrying.”

From the rear compartment of the truck came a cry. A squeal of sorts, like failing brakes; shrill, metallic, grating.

Reflexively, Payne covered his ears.

Bolt glanced at Meera with a self-satisfied, told-you-so look, then reached into a compartment under the dashboard and pulled out a small box. He handed it to Payne.

“Open it.”

The box was full of earplugs. Payne picked a pair out, then offered the box to Meera.

“That's all right,” she said. “I'm used to it.”

“You go ahead,” said Bolt, but Payne was not about to be the only one to wear them. He dropped them back into the box, then closed the lid and said that he'd be fine.

A few minutes later their cargo made another noise, this time one that sounded less like metal and more like a cat in heat. A mutant cat, engineered to torment.

Payne grimaced but kept his hands in his lap. Even Meera made a face. Bolt alone seemed unaffected.

“Not all their calls are that bad,” he observed when it was over. He waited a beat, then glanced at Payne and added, “Some are worse.”

Satisfied that he'd staked out his territory, he gave an honest grin, and after that eased up on the healer a little. It helped his mood that they were under way.

“You get used to it after a while. Or think you do. And then they come at you with something new, something different. Puts your hair on end. Makes you do something you wish you hadn't.”

“Like run away,” said Payne half to himself, recalling his impulse on hearing Valid's banshee-mouthed Concretion.

But Bolt shook his head. “No. The opposite. You go to them. Or you want to.” He motioned at the box of earplugs. “That's what those are for. So you don't.”

The chances of his voluntarily approaching what he'd just heard, of his wanting anything at all to do with it, were, Payne assured him, remote. He wasn't tempted in the slightest.

“Not now,” said Bolt. “Maybe not today. But someday you'll hear a call you can't resist. You work with Conks long enough I guarantee it'll happen. Then you'll find out what it is to do something against your will, something stupid.”

Payne had done his share of stupid things in his life. More than his share. He was willing to rest on his laurels.

“Has there been a call like that for you?”

Bolt glanced at him. “There's one for everybody. At least one.”

Payne asked Meera the same question.

Several seconds passed, and then she nodded.

“What did you do?”

“Like Bolt said, something stupid.”

Bolt rubbed his scar. “You never heard a sound like that? You? A healer? You never heard a call?”

Payne never had. Since arriving in Rampart and working on Fifth-and Sixth-Degree Concretions, he'd experienced a number of nerve-rattling sounds, but not a call, not the way that they were talking about it. Frankly, most of the time he didn't hear much of anything. When he got done with extrusion, the Concretions were usually in a state of shock. They didn't make much noise. And then the guards took them away soon afterward.

“We'd do it sooner if we could,” said Bolt. “The less awake they are, the better. But awake or not, you stay prepared. You wear your gloves. You get your sleep. You keep your head, and you do it by the book. This ain't no job for those can't follow rules.”

Swaggering a little now, flexing his muscle, he threw a glance at Payne. “You ever seen a Six?”

“Oh, stop it, Bolt. He makes them.”

The driver reddened.

“But I don't have to handle them,” said Payne, who had no desire to see the man embarrassed, or worse, antagonized. “That takes a different kind of talent.”

“There is a skill to it,” said a grateful and now more circumspect Bolt. “They're crafty things. And some of them are strong. They don't like what you do to them. I'll tell you that. They don't like being forced out.”

Payne was well aware of this. Concretions clung to hosts like leeches to warm bodies, like frightened children to their parents, like failing breath to life. They fought his efforts to extract them in every way imaginable, despite the fact their days were numbered whether inside or outside their hosts. In the former state they would die a little later, in the latter a little sooner, but in both they were doomed to expire. Still, it never struck him strange that they preferred to stay where they were. Concretions, like the humans that were their source, resisted change.

“Sometimes I wonder that you don't leave them in,” said Bolt. “The trouble that they cause.”

“They cause a lot more in than out,” said Meera.

“Not to me they don't. And even if I did have the bad luck to carry something like that inside, I'd find a way to bear it. I'm not the kind to spread my troubles around.”

“You've never been sick?” asked Payne.

“Not so much that I was willing to put other people in danger by my getting well.”

“Humans aren't trying to endanger you,” said Meera. “You're the farthest thing from their minds. The ones who come here, they're only thinking of how to get rid of what they have. How to get well.”

“I've said this before,” he told her, “and no offense intended, but that's a narrow way of thinking.”

This was true, thought Payne, but that's what sickness did to people.
Although there were some, and maybe Bolt was one of these, for whom it did the opposite, expanding consciousness, opening avenues of compassion and goodwill that were never there before.

“What kind of danger are you in?” he asked. The Authorities, of course, insisted that there wasn't any danger, but like every healer, he'd heard rumors, and this was a chance to find out firsthand.

“He's exaggerating,” said Meera.

But Payne was asking Bolt. “Other than the calls. Once they're in the Pen, they can't hurt anybody. They're done with, right?”

“Supposed to be,” said Bolt.

“They're not?”

“Pen's a big place. We're running thirty trucks a day. Can't keep track of every single Conk.”

“Don't need to,” Meera said.

“Not until a human gets it,” muttered Bolt. He glanced at her. “Pardon me for saying so, but that's the truth.”

“No one's going to get it.”

Rampart was now many miles behind them, and they were beginning to leave the seabed flatness of the Godian Plain. Ahead of them were the mountains, hazy blue in the distance, their long-tongued ridges descending to the desert floor and puckering it like old and wrinkled skin. They were entering an area of gulches and gullies, and higher up, of canyons, carved by water, scoured by wind and sand, baked by the sun. It was a vast stretch of country, and to the untrained eye, austere. Many found it numbing.

They climbed a hump of land, then dropped into a sink. A blast of wind kicked up sand and threatened to push them sideways, but Bolt held the truck to the road. It was sweltering in the cab and, leaning forward, he wiped his neck with a rag, then settled back into the scooped-out headrest that was specially shaped to accommodate his head. The sky was losing light, but the sun had yet to set. Meera fanned herself and stared ahead.

Beside her, thigh to thigh, sat Payne. He could smell the sweet, clean scent of her, now mingled with the warm and penetrating odor of her sweat. Had they been alone, there's no telling what he might have done. He loved her and had been on the verge of telling her, but the news about his brother had struck him dumb. Wyn here? In the Pen? It was hard to imagine, much less absorb.

According to Meera, he had gotten caught in the final stage of a healing and now existed in some sort of limbo, half himself, half not, stuck with something he could not fully extrude, in suspension between two states. It sounded horrible and also strange that Wyn would fail in something that Payne could do with relative ease. In the history of their lives together, it had always been the reverse.

Up ahead something caught his eye, the glint of water, or possibly a bit of metal. He leaned forward.

“Is that it?”

“Is what?”

It disappeared behind an outcropping of rock. “The Pen.”

“You'll know it when you see it. No mistake.”

“I saw something.”

Bolt held the wheel against another gust of wind and squinted, scanning the landscape with alert and watchful eyes. The truck ahead of them shimmered in the heat, its linear geometry melting in the thick waves radiating off the road. A brambly ball of tumbleweed blew past.