The Healer (18 page)

Payne did not return to the Aksa side of the city. The closest he came was halfway across the Bridge. The gorge was like a void, and he felt suspended in it, poised between two worlds, the secular and the spiritual, the crass and the crasser, caught between the light above and the dark below. Staring down into the canyon's depths, he could lose himself. Others stared too, and some sad few, called or driven, chose to leap to their deaths from the Bridge. Payne was drawn to the Abyss—he had no choice; it seemed he had to look—but he would never allow himself to become one with it. He was depressed, angry, and hurt, but he wasn't suicidal.

He was on the Bridge one evening after work when he became aware that he was being watched. There was a figure on the other side and down from him a little. Fall had come to Aksagetta, and along with lower temperatures there were fogs that often hung above the gorge. There was one now: earlier in the day it had been wispy, but
with the loss of the sun's heat it had condensed. The nearby Getta gaming halls suffused it with a garish purple light. Visibility was almost nonexistent, save for every few minutes when a gust of wind from below would swirl the fog and briefly lift it. It was during one of these gusts that Payne recognized the figure as a woman. She stood on tiptoe, hands braced against the wall, peering over the side, where there was nothing to see. He watched her from the corner of an eye, wondering if she was thinking of jumping and what he should do. She looked familiar, and when she turned her head and glanced at him, he recognized the face. It was Nome, the girl who had come to him for help. He'd seen her a number of times since that day, but they hadn't spoken. She would avert her eyes when she saw him coming and either speak to someone else or pretend to be preoccupied. He might smile as a courtesy, but more likely would do as she did. But every so often he'd catch her staring at him from a distance. Or from his front room window he'd see her pause at the entrance to her building and glance up in his direction, chewing on her recessed lower lip as if trying to decide if what she wanted was worth facing him again. He wondered if she had followed him to the Bridge. It occurred to him that he could ask. But then the fog settled back down, hiding her and everything else, and he decided he preferred to be alone.

When it lifted again, she was gone, which suited him, but only until he remembered what he'd been thinking about her harming herself. Then he rushed across the Bridge to where she'd been standing and peered over the side, which was useless. Frantically, he searched the wall and walkway for a note or some other evidence she might have left. He found nothing and feared the worst. Recalling that she'd asked his help, he blamed himself. Would it have hurt him so much to listen to her? Would a kind word have been so hard?

He left the Bridge in a state of shock. He needed to talk to someone, someone like the Reverend, and he almost turned around. Back in his apartment he found no peace, pacing it as though it were
a cage. He didn't know who to tell or what to do and kept glancing out the window, as if by sheer repetition he could bring the girl back to life. At one point he saw someone who looked like her. She was walking briskly down the street, head bowed as if to keep from being seen. Near his building she slowed and stole a glance upward, toward him. It was dark outside, but not too dark to recognize the face. It was her, Nome, and he let out a cry, then rushed downstairs, flooded with relief. But when he arrived, she was nowhere in sight, which was a disappointment and a loss, though not, as before, a mortal one. He felt giddy, and before he knew it, he was laughing. The laughter bubbled out of him, as though he himself had been snatched from the brink of death. Passersby narrowed their eyes, shook their heads and gave him a wide berth. For once, their scorn didn't matter.

Without the Church For Giveness work became the center of his life. Healing was one of the few areas, perhaps the only one, where he retained his dignity and self-respect. Remarkably, he continued to find things about humans that he liked, although it took more effort than it had before. His mind tended to drift, and sometimes he imagined getting away from them, completely away. Was that even possible? he wondered. Was there any place where humans didn't live and breathe and dominate? If there was, it was somewhere far away and undiscovered. Though not necessarily uninhabited. No, it could be a land of tesques, and why stop there? It could be an entire country of tesques, where he was not just one, but one of many, one among his own, and welcome.

Not that tesques were faultless. Or didn't have their prejudices. Or do wicked things. Still, the idea of a place like that: city after city of tesques, with not a human in sight. It was strange to think of it. A little spooky too. And wonderful.

What he missed, he came to realize, was not the religion or the humans so much, or the human friendship, as the friendship in general,
the sense of shared purpose and understanding, of community. This more than anything was what he'd lost, what hurt, and even now—now more than ever—what he longed to have again.

There was a community of healers, but it was loose-knit, and he'd never felt particularly a part of it or that he belonged. There was another group of healers, not loose-knit at all. It was small and clandestine, had a slogan and an agenda. And a name: A New Day. It had made the news with a series of pronouncements espousing healers' rights, a heretical idea. Beyond that, no one seemed to know much of anything about the group, which only fueled speculation. Who were its members? Where did they meet? Did they have anything further planned? As for their stated goals, opinions ranged from agreement to indifference to outright disdain.

Payne felt in no position to disdain anything. He was curious about this group, and he asked around until he found a healer who knew another healer who, it was rumored, had some concrete information. The name of this healer, as it happened, was Nome.

Payne found out where and when she worked, but the day before he planned to drop by he saw her from his window and rushed downstairs, intercepting her just as she was about to slide her card into the slot of her apartment building's door. She took a step backward and raised her hands in self-defense at the sudden onrush of a strange man, then relaxed a little when she saw who it was.

He was panting, and she asked if something was the matter. She glanced across the street, then up and down the block, then back at him.

“Are you being chased? Is someone after you?”

He shook his head and got his breath. “I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“A New Day.”

She gave him a blank look. “They're all new. Every one.”

“The group.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You don't?”

She shook her head, then paused, then seemed to change her mind. She admitted to having heard of them.

“Do you know where they meet?” he asked.

“I might.”

“Will you tell me?”

“It's a party,” she said.

That didn't sound right. “What kind of party?”

“A revolutionary one. And it's closed. Membership's by invitation only.”

“How do you get invited?”

She mulled this over for a moment. “Why do you want to be?”

He didn't know that he did, which wasn't much of an answer. He did know, though, that he wasn't prepared to open up to her. Not with his wounds still fresh.

“It's complicated,” he said.

She seemed to accept this, although not without amusement.

“What?” he asked.

She slid her card into the door and invited him inside. “Isn't everything?”

He followed her through a deserted lobby and up a flight of stairs, then down a long dim hall of many numbered doors that smelled of must and was eerily quiet. Near the end of it she stopped, flipped her entry card around and let him in the door marked 67.

“My place,” she said, turning on the light.

The room was much the same as his—same size, same square shape, same spartan furnishings—but more chaotic. There were clothes piled on the standard-issue couch and two allotted chairs, and dirty dishes stacked on a counter.

“Have a seat,” she said, rounding up the garments and tossing them into the bedroom. “Excuse the mess.”

He remained standing. “You said you'd tell me where they meet.”

“A New Day?” She frowned. “Did I? I don't think so. It's secret. They're very careful who they tell.”

“I have to be invited first.”

“That's right.”

“Will you invite me?”

“That wouldn't help much. I'm not a member.”

“But you know who is. Couldn't you arrange something?”

“I don't associate with them anymore.”

“Why's that?”

“We had a falling out.”

This piqued his interest, but she seemed just as guarded about her past as he was.

He tried a different tack. “That day you came to me. What was it you wanted?”

Months had passed, but she had no trouble remembering. “I told you what. Advice. Which you don't give. You made that very clear.”

“What kind of advice?”

“Professional,” she said.

“About what, specifically?”

She crossed her arms and gave him a look. “It doesn't really matter now, does it?”

Payne took a moment to think about what he might be getting into. Considering the shambles he had made of Vecque's life, professional advice was the last thing in the world he felt qualified to give. At the same time, his profession was the thing he knew best. Moreover, in a funny way he felt linked to this woman, as though he had, in fact, witnessed her death and now, days later, her rebirth. It wasn't true but it felt true; between his fear that she'd jumped and the fact that she hadn't lay some sort of obligation.

“I'll make a deal with you,” he said.

“What sort of deal?”

“I'll help you if you help me.” He paused, then added, “I promise to be careful.”

“What does that mean?”

It means, he thought, I won't do anything stupid. I won't fall prey to arrogance and put your life at risk.

“We'll talk,” he said. “If I have something useful to say, I'll say it. But only that, only words, nothing more.”

A moment passed, and then she nodded. “All right. I'll agree to that.”

But he wasn't done. “I want to be crystal clear about this. Any advice I give is purely advice. It's your decision, completely yours, whether or not to take it.”

And so a deal was struck. She wouldn't tell him where to find the group, but she did agree to contact them and convey his interest. Which, she observed, they were probably already aware of. In return, he agreed to be a sounding board for her.

She was having trouble with her healings. The early stages were going fine, but the later ones, especially extrusion, were problematic. She couldn't seem to get Concretions out without hurting herself. Her meli was always sore.

Payne took a moment before responding. There was an axiom in healing, capsulized in rule number forty-one: identity precedes containment. He reminded her of this and in the same breath wondered if she might not be a step or two ahead of herself. In his experience, difficulties in the later stages were often due to difficulties in the earlier ones that had gone unnoticed and therefore unaddressed. He suggested she pay more attention to identification and enhancement, then watched her nod, but dully, as if she weren't listening.

He forged ahead. “You have to order your approach. It's not a random process. Line up the afferents by gradient potential. Adjust them every millisecond, or even more frequently, every twitch.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Do you ever get scared?”

“Scared?”

Another nod, this time less self-absorbed, more alert to his response.

“Of what?” he asked.

“Of what you make.”

He didn't quite understand.

“They're so beautiful sometimes,” she said. “It hurts to look at them. It hurts my eyes.”

“Your eyes?”

“Or something. It hurts to watch them die.”

“Because you made them?”

She didn't know why, only that it hurt.

“Don't watch,” he suggested.

“That doesn't help. I know it's happening, whether I look or not.”

This he understood. He was always aware of the extinction of what he made.

“Don't think of it as death then. It's not, not the way it is for us. Concretions don't have consciousness or feelings. They're not flesh and blood or anything like it. They're constructs. We make them.”

“They're real to me.”

“They are real. But they're objects. They're not alive.”

“But they have life. Maybe not like ours. Maybe like a pebble or a stone or water. If not life then spirit. Something.”

“Not for long,” he said.

“No. Not long.”

“Would you rather it were longer? Or maybe you'd prefer they didn't die at all.”

He'd meant to say “die on their own,” which is how Concretions left the world; they self-extinguished. Nome didn't answer, and so he answered for her.