The Healer (25 page)

“You don't think that understanding the past makes a difference?”

“I understand it well enough.”

“Did you love her?”

“Love her?” The question shocked him.

“Yes. Did you love Vecque?”

“She was being drained.”

“I understand. Would you have tried with anyone, is what I'm asking. Anyone who was being drained?”

“No,” he said, then, “Yes.” Then frustrated, he threw up his hands. “I can't answer that. What's the point? I don't know.”

“There is a point, but we don't have to talk about it, since it obviously upsets you.”

“I'm not upset.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No? Then I have another question. Do you know why there's a law against what you did? Why it's prohibited for a tesque to heal a tesque?”

Yes. Of course he knew. And she knew he knew. And still, she insisted on telling him.

“Because you die when you try it. One or the other of you; usually both. And from what they say, it's not a pretty death.” She paused, then added pointedly, “The thing is, you didn't. Neither one of you did.”

“Vecque would have been better off if she had.”

“Do you think so?” Another pause, followed by a shudder. “It would have been a horrible thing to witness.”

“It was a horrible thing to watch her being drained.”

“Yes. You've had your share of horrors.”

He had, it was true, and he hoped that they were over. “I would have taken her place if I could have.”

At this her whole body seemed to come to attention. “Really? Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” he said, because it was true, or it had been. He also said it because he guessed that she would like to hear it, would like the sort of man that it conveyed, someone not above self-sacrifice. And by the look that she was giving him it seemed she did, and he wondered, was it a dishonor to Vecque, or to Vecque's memory, that now, now that he had something to live for, or at least to hope for, however brashly, now perhaps it wasn't true, that faced again with such a choice he might feel less inclined to take her place?

“You know, you needn't hide your face,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your forehead. With your hair. You have a habit of trying to cover it.”

There was a softness to her voice, a tenderness, but for Payne it was simply too embarrassing. He turned away, cheeks burning.

“Can we talk about something else?”

“I thought men liked to talk about themselves. Most of the ones I know do.” She was teasing him, but seeing his discomfort, stopped. “Of course we can. What would you like to talk about?”

“My reassignment.”

“Ah. Yes. Good. Let's talk about that.”

Sadly, he didn't get the chance, as Nome chose that moment to wake up. Tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, she appeared in the bedroom doorway. Seeing Payne, she smiled and started to recount a dream she'd had that he was in. Then her eyes fell on Meera.

Who, after a start, quickly regained her composure. “Hello. I'm Meera. And your name is?”

Nome looked to Payne for help, but he was as mortified as she was. “Nome,” she mumbled.

“Nome. How nice. Don't mind me. Please, go ahead and finish what you were saying.”

Nome paled.

“The dream,” Meera prompted.

Nome took a half-step back and shook her head.

“No? I suppose you're right. Keep it to yourself. Dreams are meant to stay private.”

At which point Payne found his voice. “She's just visiting.”

It took Meera a second or two to understand what he meant by this. Meanwhile, Nome's face had darkened.

“Who are you? Who is she, Payne?”

He had the strongest urge to lie to her. To tell her who she was, her name and such, but not what she represented.

Both women waited for his response.

“Meera,” he said at length, which Nome, if she had listened, already knew.

Meera herself was only marginally more helpful. “I'm a friend.”

Nome crossed her arms and jutted out her less-than-mighty chin. “Payne's telling you the truth. I was only resting. I don't live here.”

Meera dismissed her concern with a wave of her hand. “It doesn't matter to me. It's not a law I care about. Although I'd hardly call it keeping a low profile. Or staying out of trouble.”

She directed this at Payne, who, in fact, already felt in trouble. With Nome on the one hand. With Meera on the other. Mostly, he worried about Meera—that he'd somehow blown his chance to leave. He was also absurdly afraid that she'd assume he was taken.

Eyes blazing, Nome came roaring to his defense. “He hasn't done anything wrong. Neither of us has.” She stormed over to her man and in support and solidarity with him (as well as to punctuate her claim) laced an arm through his.

“Go away,” she told Meera. “Pick on someone else. Leave us alone.”

Payne shifted uneasily in her embrace and tried to calm her down. “She doesn't want to hurt us. That's not why she's here.”

“No? Why then?”

“We were talking. That's all.”

Gently, he freed himself of her, leaving her hands to dangle helplessly, one of which started picking at her meli. “About what?”

“His gift,” said Meera.

“What gift?”

“Of healing.”

“It's not a gift,” said Payne, tired of hearing this. “Every healer has it. It's a given.”

But Nome had brightened. “Oh yes it is. It's a wonderful gift. He's a wonderful man. I don't know where I'd be without him.”

“He's helped you?”

“Yes, he's helped. In every way.” Revitalized now, hands working the air, eager to sing his praises. “You should have seen me before. I was a wreck. Payne took me in and taught me. He showed me what to do.”

Meera raised her eyebrows and glanced at him.

“A teacher, too?”

He was irritated with the both of them, but Nome especially. “No. Not that either.”

“Oh yes he is. And more than that.”

“Even more?” Eyes laughing now, enjoying Payne's discomfort.

Nome, too, was enjoying herself. Mending the wounds of rejection by getting back at him.

“He's the best there is. The kindest, nicest, smartest…”

“Stop it,” said Payne.

“The absolute best. Who else could have healed me?”

“He healed you?”

“Of course. I wouldn't be here if he hadn't.”

And just like that the fun and games were over. The air grew still, as if a spell had been cast.

“You healed her, Payne?”

“No. Not like that.”

“He did,” insisted Nome. “He helped a lot.”

“That's not what she means.” He was angry with her now, angry with the both of them. “She means a meli healing.”

Nome frowned and glanced at Meera. Then at Payne. Foundering.

“He could if he wanted to. I bet he could. You could,” she told him. “I know you could.”

“That's enough.”

“Do you want to try? I'll let you. I will.”

She grabbed his hand and tried to tug him toward the bedroom, but he shook her off, causing her to stumble. Humiliated, she let out a little choked cry. Her eyes darted between the two of them, and then she attacked.

“She wants you for herself. That's what this is all about. She wants you to heal her.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Meera.

“Ask her, Payne. Ask her if she doesn't.”

Payne stared at Nome. “Maybe you should come back another time,” he told Meera.

She didn't answer him. She too was looking at Nome, shaken, it seemed, by what she had said.

“I'm sorry,” she said at length. “I truly am. I wish things were different. You deserve better. All of you do.”

She turned to Payne. “I appreciate your offer, but coming back won't be necessary. That is, unless you plan to stay.”

The priapic Tower. The Building of Investigation. The sunwashed, treeless streets. The wall. The road to Gode. The guarded gates. The other road. The Pen.

Rampart was not a city so much as a destination. For some it was the final destination. Healers, for example, would never leave, not with their faculties intact. Once assigned to it, they stayed until they were fully drained. Nor did every human who made their way into the Tower make their way out again. Not alive. Some could not be salvaged or saved. On the whole, though, success rates were respectable; by many measures, they were commendable. Considering the protoplasm that the healers had to work with, success in any form at all was cause for cheer.

Of the three main elements of the healing triad, two were represented here. The third, instruction, took place elsewhere. Research, which centered on ways to activate inactive melis (for the nine in ten
in whom this was the natural state), and, alternatively, to generate artificial ones, was carried out in a low-slung, branching barrack of a building where scientists practiced science and subjects were housed. Healing itself took place in the Tower, a tall, austere, parabolic-shaped monolith that dominated the landscape, rising like a magic bullet above the plain.

The Tower was known by other names as well. Some called it the Citadel, some the House of Hope, some the Temple, some the Tomb. It was all of those, but more than anything it was a last resort, a magnet for those who, by virtue of circumstance or habit or simply time, were afflicted with the worst diseases of the human body and the human mind, the gravest and the most recalcitrant, the most embedded and advanced. Some who came were crippled beyond endurance, some demented, some hideously cachectic, some incapacitated by intractable pain. A fair number were on the verge of death. Whatever the provenance, all came by way of desperation, out of options, almost out of hope, their one unanimous request, simple and straightforward: heal me.

For healers, being summoned to Rampart was the ultimate recognition, and it required, on a daily basis, the greatest performance of their lives. Of all healings these were the most demanding, the most exacting and also the most exciting, the most intense and the most extreme. They were also the most debilitating, which had prompted an enlightened Board of Regulators to institute a rather liberal policy of rest and recuperation. For these were the finest healers of their kind, the most talented and skilled and practiced, and the hardest to replace. They were as precious, literally, as life itself. The Drain would take them all in due course, but there was no need to hurry it along.

She waited as long as she could wait, as long as she could stand it, as long as anyone in her position could possibly stand it, and then she
waited longer. He needed time to learn that Sixes were within his power, well within it, time to prove himself but not so much time that he became too tired, that he lost, if it was possible, his edge. Fortunately, she had other things to occupy her time. There was the house to care for. There was Bolt to keep in touch with. There was the Oversight Committee on Research and Experimentation. There were her parents, who were getting on in years. There was Wyn.

But Payne was preeminent in her thoughts and in her plans. She needed him, and while she had made her peace with this, she still on occasion felt it as a weakness, for she was not the sort of person who liked to be in need. She preferred to handle things herself. This gave her both the pleasure of accomplishment and the certainty of a job done the way she wanted it. Not that she was unwilling to delegate authority, only that she was careful how and to whom she did. She lived a careful life. This, in contrast to the high-spirited, daring, and, in at least one respect, reckless days of her youth. Now, in sustained reaction to those days, she played it closer to the vest. Politically, she remained outspoken, but personally, she kept to herself. This had gained her a reputation for being aloof, which, like most reputations, had its germ of truth while missing much of the underpinning and substance of that truth, but this did not concern her. Solitude at one time would have seemed a sentence to her, but now she welcomed it, or at least had grown accustomed to it. She wore it as a sort of cloak, likening it in her mind to a vow of abstinence, self-imposed and just.

But being private did not mean that she was out of touch. She had many sources of information, and it was a point of pride with her and in some cases of necessity to stay on top of things. Change was in the air: with the Committee; with her aging parents; with the guards at the Pen, who were getting antsy; with Payne. After years of shepherding him behind the scenes, she was about to set him loose, and as she contemplated this, she considered what her responsibility was to him. That she had deliberately kept her distance from him had not
prevented her from having feelings for him, nor had she deluded herself into thinking it would. What surprised her, though, was how strong her feelings were. She liked him, more than liked him, and wanted him to like her. Short of that, she hoped he wouldn't end up despising her. But he deserved to make his mind up for himself, which was to say he deserved to know the facts. He had to know them, and she was about to lay them out for him, even to the point of baring her heart if it came to that, although she hoped it wouldn't. But maybe this was wrong. Maybe the best and most responsible thing—responsible in the sense of considerate, decent and kind—was not to tell him anything, to keep him in the dark. Knowledge was a snake, and ignorance could protect him from its bite. She could orchestrate this as she had orchestrated so much already in his life. Take the high road and bear the burden by herself, suffer nobly, silently and alone.

Except she wasn't alone. Wyn was suffering, too. Which was why she needed Payne.

Accordingly, she made plans to visit him in his apartment, which was in the Tower, near his healing room. But as the date approached, she had second thoughts, wondering if this, in fact, was the best place to break the news to him. As a rule, she liked to visit people more than to receive them. It gave her the opportunity to gather information on how they lived—their tastes, their sense of order (or disorder), their means, their private worlds—and it came at little expense to herself. It was a way of seeing into someone else's mind, which was more than an amusement to her. She was never bored by other people's minds. Disappointed sometimes, disgusted, but never bored. Visiting a person at home, or at work for that matter, had the added advantage that she could leave when she wanted. It was the optimal situation, one over which she had the most control.

But she had seen how Payne lived. Moreover, she knew his mind, maybe better than he knew it himself. It was time to open hers to him, time for him to learn something about her own life, since, if all went as planned, he would soon be inextricably bound up in it.

Her house then. She would open her doors to him. It was a relief to come to this decision, and it made her glad. She had not had a visitor in oh so long a time. Change was coming to her, too. The ice of her long wait was breaking.

Hers was a handsome house—thick-walled, whitewashed, haciendalike—with picture windows and flowering vines and palms for shade. It lay several kilometers from the Tower, on a bluff above the Lac du Lac, what some called the Lacrimal Sea. There were other, more ostentatious homes nearby, trophy homes that sat unoccupied for the majority of the year. There were also several rooming houses for temporary visitors to the Rampart hub, most of whom were patients on their way to treatment, who afterward needed a place to recuperate. Frequently, they had their families with them, and at times the small seaside community had the feeling of a resort. At other times, it seemed more like a sanatorium. Some used the sea for its purported healing properties. Its waters had a high mineral content and, to the degree they puckered the skin and kept a body afloat, were said to be restorative. Others took walks, though now that it was summer, only at the margins of the day. The noonday sun brought reptiles out, but the sensible human stayed inside. Dawn and dusk and balmy night were the hours for mammals.

Meera had an old-fashioned broadbeam desk with inlaid wood and carved clawfoot legs that had been in the family for generations. She had an old-fashioned pen, too, and heavy vellum stationery that welcomed ink and absorbed a little of a person's scent. The desk was in a study with a lazy ceiling fan and a window on the Lac du Lac, where she liked to gaze while gathering her thoughts. It was midmorning, and the sea was smooth, in contrast to her state of mind, which was excited. She thought a minute what to say, and when she had the tone just right set pen to paper and composed her invitation. “Dear Payne,” she wrote, “I have news to share with you. Please come and join me at my home for a visit.” Short and simple, it struck the proper balance,
she thought, between formality and friendliness. She added a day and a time, then considered how best to sign it, settling on her full name, which seemed businesslike. She slid the invitation into an envelope, which she sealed and put aside, then, with a glance out the window, turned her attention to the Oversight Committee.

Valid had a new proposal on the table. It was worded in a way that made it sound pressing, almost dire. He, along with a sizable faction of the committee, wanted more tesques for their experiments, many more, and he wanted more liberties and less restrictions on what they were allowed to do. More funding too, all of which she was stridently opposed to. Years before, she and Valid had been allies, committed to a better system of health, which at that time meant to them improving the working conditions of healers. That remained her goal, but his had shifted: he now favored medical research and breeding trials, the former to discover a way to activate inactive melis, the latter to generate new and better healers—healers, that is, less inclined to be drained. He himself was engaged in this very research and was convinced that it would bear fruit, despite the fact that in the long history of human-healer relations, it never had, and not for lack of trying. Scientific research and investigation had been the source of many miracles and wonders, but sadly, a longer-lasting healer was not one of them. Nor had anyone ever found a way to create a greater number of healers. The experiments had been abandoned, not once but many times. Now they had been resurrected, along with the same old hollow claims. In Meera's eyes Valid and his cronies had fallen victim to amnesia.

In drafting a response to the proposal, she considered another fact that might explain the urgent tone of it. Valid, she had heard, was ill. Seriously ill. He had no offspring and if and when he died would leave no legacy but his ideas, his work. This measure, were it to pass, would not go unnoticed. It would change the landscape of tesque and human relations and quite likely lead to protests and counterprotests and possibly even another uprising, one to rival that of ‘09. She doubted this
was his intent, although with men like Valid, one could never be sure. The proximity of death did funny things to people, and she wondered if he feared being forgotten.

This suggested, along with a formal response, a more personal note, wishing Valid well and expressing hopes for a recovery. She did this first, while the thought was fresh, reminding him of their past friendship. He was a man of conviction, she wrote, not to mention a formidable opponent, and, despite their differences, she held him in high regard. She was careful not to go overboard with her praise, for he had a keen and discerning ear when it came to flattery. Too much kindness from a woman who through the years had steadfastly refused his advances would instantly raise his suspicions.

Satisfied with the effort, she turned her attention to the proposal itself. It was many pages long, but soon she had outlined a response. She had a facile mind and a way with words, and the language of opposition, honed by many years of practice, came easily to her.