The Healer (3 page)

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of the mine and camp headquarters, a solid-looking wooden building with painted siding and an overhanging A-frame roof. A black dog lounging in the shadows jumped up and barked as he approached. The door to the building swung open, and a man in overalls came out. He halted when he saw Payne, looked him up and down, spat in the dirt, then motioned with his thumb for him to go in, he was expected.

The door to the building was ajar, but Payne took no liberties; despite what he'd been told, he knocked. A rig nearby was kicking up a racket, and he could barely hear the sound of his own knuckles. He knocked louder, to no response, and after waiting for what seemed a polite amount of time, he entered.

The site boss, a lanky man with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, was looking out a window on the far side of the room, his face averted, his back to the door. There were several beat-up chairs on the uneven wooden floor, small casement windows in all the walls, a desk, and an ancient potbellied stove in one corner. Payne couldn't tell if the man knew he was there and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

The boss didn't turn. “Have a seat.”

Payne did as he was told.

“Nice trip?”

He nodded, then realized he would have to speak. “Yes. Very interesting.”

“Too damn long if you ask me.” His attention was fixed on something in the distance. “What the hell?” He leaned forward as if to get a better look, swore, then wheeled around and with a scowl rushed out
of the room. Ten minutes later he was back. “Morons. You'd think they see a line go all goofy like that they'd know to cut the switch.”

He looked to be about sixty. Gray eyes, lined and weathered face, stubbled chin, with a prominent, beak-shaped gouge in one temple that might have come from a bird of prey but more likely was from a rock.

“Bunch of clowns. I'm too old for this. Tell me you're not a clown.”

“No, sir.”

“So what's your story?”

“My story?”

The boss grumbled something, evidently still displeased, and continued glaring out the window. At length the tension eased off his face and, satisfied, it seemed, that things were finally under control, or at least as much under control as he could hope for, he took a seat behind his desk and turned his attention to Payne.

“So you're the new healer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You look too young to be a healer.”

Payne did not reply.

“You ever worked before?”

He shook his head.

The boss shook his. “That's great. And I don't suppose you've ever been in a mine before.”

“No, sir. But I've read what I could. I've studied them.”

“You've studied them.”

“Yes, sir.”

His face sagged, as if punctured. “What's your name, son?”

“Payne.”

“Well, Payne, let me tell you something.
I've
studied mines, forty years' worth, the last twenty here at Pannus. Inside out, top to bottom, hardrock mining. What you've done, I wouldn't know what to call it, except I wouldn't call it studying. You go down in the hole, that's studying. You set timber and work the face, that's studying. You get
trapped behind a wall of rock and wonder if they'll get to you in time, that's some real close studying.” He paused, as if remembering something. “Lucky for you, mucking rock's not why you're here. That's the last thing I want you doing. Your job's to keep my men fit to work. You do that, everybody's happy. You don't, we're not.”

“I will,” said Payne.

“That's good. Then we understand each other.”

He lifted a paper from his desk and started reading it. Half a minute later he looked up. “Is there something else?”

Payne was so thirsty for conversation that he wanted there to be, but he couldn't think of anything.

The boss regarded him, not unsympathetically. “Get settled in. I'll send someone to show you around. You start work tomorrow.”

Payne nodded, stood, and was halfway out the door when the man's voice stopped him. “They really have books about what we do?”

“A few.”

“Any good?”

At this stage Payne had little to compare them to. “Sure. I guess. Kind of dry. But interesting.”

“They should talk to me. I've seen things you wouldn't believe.”

He made a little noise then shook his head at the wonder of it all, marveling, it seemed, at the breadth and richness of his own experience. In his callused hands and lined, scarred face lay the accumulation of a lifetime's work, the triumphs and the tragedies, the friendships gained and lost, the daily grind along with the crazy, the unheard-of, the unexpected, and the unexplained.

“You say it's dry, but there's nothing dry about it. Mining's wet and dangerous and dirty work. Brings out the worst in some, the best in others. One thing I can tell you though: it's a helluva way to make a living.”

Payne found his quarters, which were contiguous to the healing center, a fifteen-minute walk away. Together, they occupied a
building near the adit, the main entrance to the mine. The quarters were small, which, given the paucity of his belongings, was not a privation. The healing center was considerably larger. It housed two chairs, a standard examining table, one free-standing metal cabinet, and several shelves of instruments and supplies. At the back of the center behind a narrow door was the disposal chamber, and between it and the main room, separated by a curtain, the healing bed.

It was an old and lumpy bed that had seen a lot of use. The ticking was shiny with wear, and a good part of the stuffing was missing. Most patients, and probably quite a few healers, would have turned their noses up at such a bed. But to Payne it was a thing of beauty. He got a shiver down his spine at the sight of it. A healer healed in many different ways, but never more than when he got to use the bed.

He touched it, tentatively at first, almost tenderly, running his hand along its surface, feeling the worn-out fabric and the dips and crests beneath it, wondering what healer had lain on it before him and whether he would measure up. He sat on it, then gave in and lay completely down. It felt strange. The bed was molded to another body. He shifted around, trying to get comfortable, then closed his eyes. Healing depended on being focused and relaxed, but he felt just the opposite. No matter: for now his mind could race and his heart beat wildly. His imagination could soar a million miles above the ground. There would be plenty of time later to reel it in and do what he was trained to do. The bed was shaped to someone else, but soon it would be shaped to him.

There was a connecting door from the center to his quarters, and he returned, waiting for someone to come and escort him around. An hour passed, then another, and assuming he'd been forgotten, he decided to have a look for himself. The nearest building to his was large and quonset-shaped and sat just outside the adit. It seemed vacant, and quietly, he let himself in.

It was a vast space, with a concrete floor and curving metal walls that seemed to amplify his footsteps. Bolted into the floor were rows
and rows of benches. Above the benches, suspended from the ceiling, were wire cages of clothes and equipment. By the door was a large pegboard partially covered with shiny, hanging metal discs, each one embossed with a number. A changing room, he guessed, empty now but probably not for long. The air had the pungent smell of human sweat, male bodies, old socks and underwear.

Payne was male, but here he felt like an intruder. An inner voice warned him to be careful. This place had the feel of hallowed ground.

Humans fascinated him, both men and women; he had no bias when it came to gender—no preference, no prejudice. He would have liked the opportunity to treat both sexes, would have liked the variety, but men alone would do. What worried him a little, and only a little, for he was certain that with time he would adjust, was these particular men, this group of men, these miners. He feared that they were different from other human males. Rougher, tougher, more aggressive. More concentratedly male, if there were such a thing: males distilled. Males, for want of a better word, more masculine. The way they lived and worked—in close, cramped quarters and dangerous conditions far removed from other human beings—had to attract a certain kind of person, independent and able-bodied but also slightly misanthropic, he guessed, short on niceties and long on having things their way. Such a person would not take kindly to authority. As a tesque he had no authority to begin with, but as a healer he could envision a situation where he might. He would have to be very careful how and when he used it.

He lingered in the room for a while, lost in thought, which was a mistake, for he was there when the day shift ended. The first miner who entered caught him by surprise, and in short order, the rest came straggling in. Immediately, he retreated to the door, apologizing for being where he shouldn't be. A few of the men glanced at him, but no one seemed particularly upset, or even very interested. They were too busy with other things, principally being done with work. Relief at that seemed foremost on their minds. They could have been surrounded
by a pack of wolves, they wouldn't have cared. They were hungry, they were tired and they were dirty, but more than anything, they were done.

Hard hats were the first things off, then the numbered lamps attached to the hats, then safety belts. Earplugs, safety glasses and gloves came next. Lastly came the steel-toed rubber boots, caked with mud and wet inside with sweat. They stowed the gear in the overhead wire baskets, all the while talking. Conversations were centered on the mine and in particular the shift that had just ended. Water was rising in one of the drifts. A loaded skip had jumped the tracks at Bustem's Curve again—they shook their heads at that, fed up with the company's refusal to correct the obvious problem, and cracked rueful jokes at such shortsightedness, stinginess and stupidity. And the ratty rock on Level 7, and the muck pile waiting down on 8—the swing crew was going to love having to deal with that. And the supe who had caught a bunch of them taking an early break…. The stories went on, as individually and in groups they left the building, pausing at the pegboard to brass out and have a word or two with the incoming crew, who to a man did not look happy. There were no illusions about the work. There was camaraderie, but at the start of a shift, going down into the hole, it was always subdued. Coming out eight hours later at shift's end, whether into day or night, sunny skies or storm, it was dependably more lively.

Payne slipped out with the last of the outgoing shift, returning to his quarters where, to his chagrin, he found a man waiting at the door: his escort, he assumed, a huge man, hugely muscled, broad at the shoulders, with a neck like a broadbeam stump. Payne apologized at having kept him waiting and in the same breath defended himself, explaining that he himself had waited for a long time before leaving. And he'd only gone a short distance and seen a little bit, one building to be precise. No harm done.

The man just looked at him, flat-faced and unresponsive, as though he either didn't understand or didn't care, until at length Payne fell
silent. In his haste to explain himself he'd failed to notice certain key details about the man. His face was streaked with dirt, which meant he'd probably just come off shift and was therefore unlikely to be the escort he'd been expecting. More to the point, his left pant leg was torn. It was also stained with something dark and shiny.

Payne sucked in his breath, feeling incredibly stupid as it dawned on him what this was.

“You're hurt,” he said.

The man would not admit it. Payne offered his shoulder as a crutch to get him into the healing center, but the man refused his help. Stoically, he limped inside under his own power. He had to duck to clear his head.

Payne guided him to the examining table, trying hard not to betray his nervousness and excitement. He'd already made a number of mistakes, and he doubted that the man would tolerate many more.

He began by asking what had happened.

The miner grunted.

“Did you fall?”

“Got slabbed.” He had that human way of talking to a tesque: curt, dismissive, as though it were an imposition or, worse, a sign of weakness to have to speak at all.

Gingerly, Payne rolled up his pant cuff to expose the wound. “How exactly? Were you working?”

“How ‘bout you just fix it,” the miner snapped.

But Payne was in no hurry. The cut had stopped bleeding, and there was no immediate danger. He wanted to savor the moment and, if possible, find out more about what had caused the injury. It was his first case, his very first, and he intended to milk it for everything he could.

Careless boy. How quickly he forgot his resolution of just an hour before to be careful with these men. And his lessons, rule number twelve, for example: be prompt in attention, and in healing, be swift. And rule number thirteen, its corollary: avoid unnecessary conversation.
Humans wanted treatment, not friendship. They wanted a quick fix, a shot, an ointment or a pill. If such a remedy existed, no words were necessary. And if it didn't, it was unlikely that words would help.

But Payne thought differently, Payne knew better, Payne the callow and the headstrong had ideas of his own. He liked to hear a human speak, had a weakness for the human voice the way that other people had a weakness for the sound of running water. And along with that, he had this notion—this strange, presumptuous notion—that the more he knew, the more he could help. Starry-eyed, idealistic child, he thought that, given the opportunity, humans—and especially humans in need—would want to talk to him.

“Have you ever hurt yourself before?” he asked.

The man, who'd been looking at his leg, slowly transferred his look to Payne.

Who obliviously pressed on. “You know. Scrapes. Injuries. Broken bones.”

The man's eyes narrowed. He could have crushed Payne if he had the notion. Fleetingly, it appeared he did.