Mindtouch (The Dreamhealers 1)

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “That sounds like a worthy endeavor,” Jahir said. He finished his little cup of kerinne and set it aside. “I have made my own choice.”

  Vasiht’h looked up at him sharply, then breathed out, seeing the tension in his roommate’s jaw, an emotional pain made manifest in the body. “You’re going medical.”

  Jahir brushed at the edge of the cookie, flaking off a few crumbs. “And you will tell me that you find that choice ill-advised.”

  “No,” Vasiht’h said. “No, I wouldn’t ever tell you that. Just…” He grimaced. “It wears you out so much. How can you keep that up, day after day?”

  “Nieve’s grandmother would say ‘one day at a time,’” Jahir said.

  “Nieve’s grandmother would probably also say not to borrow trouble,” Vasiht’h said. He sighed at Jahir’s look. “But no, I won’t belabor it. It’s your choice to make, and if it’s what you want, I’ll support it.”

  “That is… very kind of you,” Jahir said at last, and the words felt soft and damp with dew, and had some of the anticipation of dawn in them, and the quiet of it. Vasiht’h closed his eyes to savor the feeling; when he opened them he found the Eldritch watching him, and knew that mindtouch had been shared: that Jahir was aware of it this time. He wanted to pull back from it, but couldn’t.

  “It is… a wondrous thing. Isn’t it.” Was that awe? He thought it was, a quiet voice that belonged in a shrine.

  “Glorious,” Vasiht’h said even as it faded. He sighed, then said, “Eat the cookie. It’s got jam in the middle.”

  “Jam in the middle!” Jahir said. “I will apply myself directly.”

  And he did, as the incense drifted up from the stick and the Goddess watched with what he couldn’t help but think was both approval… and mischief. Surely that boded well? He hoped.

  CHAPTER 23

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” KindlesFlame said. “How do you feel about the decision?”

  “Resolved,” Jahir said. “There is a great deal to draw one to the practice of medicine in the Alliance.”

  “So long as you’re not confusing the tools of medical practice with the practice itself,” KindlesFlame said, stirring honey into his coffee. “The most effective medicine is often the least invasive.”

  “That comment would seem to invite elaboration?” Jahir said, glancing at him.

  “You haven’t heard that before?” The Tam-illee huffed. “You should get it engraved on your forehead so you can see it every day in the mirror. You’ll need it where you’re going.” He lifted his spoon as if to underscore the point. “We’ve had discussions about patient autonomy before, yes?”

  “Yes,” Jahir said, curious.

  “There is a level of autonomy that exists here,” KindlesFlame tapped his brow. “The obvious one, where we negotiate the patient’s treatment with the patient. But there is another level of autonomy, a cellular level. The body feels it has the right to solve its own problems, and often it will with very little intervention from us. If we respect and support the healing process, then the body will demonstrate to us its power. When we intervene in a way that disrespects that autonomy, we often do harm with the good that we do. We have to be careful how we usurp that autonomy, or we’ll sabotage the healing completely.” Kindlesflame pointed the spoon at him. “The lightest touch possible. That’s what we aim for. In any form of medicine, psychiatric or not.”

  Ridiculously, Jahir’s first thought was of how much more effective gentling horses was than breaking them. He was entirely sure the Tam-illee would find the metaphor bizarre, but it stuck. He said, “You would tell me then, that I am infatuated with the technology of medicine, and might forget that the goal is not to use it unless absolutely necessary?”

  “I am telling you that medicine is ninety percent indigestion, lifestyle adjustments and head colds and ten percent heroic measures,” KindlesFlame said. “Don’t lose sight of that.”

  “I shan’t,” Jahir promised. “But I am still intent on my course.”

  “Then impress me with your dedication,” KindlesFlame said. “And I’ll help you get one of the good residencies. You’ve got some time, yet… they’re awarded at the beginning of summer, so you’ll have a good two years to prove yourself.” He grinned. “You could even take a vacation for a term, if you work hard enough.”

  “The degree is four years, not five,” Jahir said. “Two years of education, two years in residency. I have been in school for almost one already—”

  “The degree is four years, if you hit the ground running,” KindlesFlame said. “Unless you loaded up on the medical track electives last fall…?”

  “No, but I am planning to make up for lost time in summer,” Jahir said.

  The Tam-illee flicked his ears back. It was the first time he’d done so in front of Jahir; it made him think abruptly of Sheldan’s diatribes about controlled body language. “You know summer’s a short term. And you’re not going to have any margin for error if you go all out.”

  “I know,” Jahir said. “I’m still willing.”

  “Obviously you’re willing,” KindlesFlame said. “The question is… why? What’s your rush? You have the time.”

  “I may,” Jahir said. “But if I am to live in the Alliance, Healer, I must surely live at its pace.”

  The Tam-illee leaned back and crossed his arms, regarding him as if he were some interesting puzzle. “You remember my lecture about using the talents and advantages we were born with?”

  “I do.”

  “Then, if you’ll forgive me for being blunt—one of yours is time. Is the leisure to take things at a healthier pace. Why wouldn’t you take advantage of that?”

  It was a good question. Particularly since Jahir had no idea what was driving him so powerfully. An anxiety, he thought, too deep to be examined: a sense that no matter how slowly he lived, everything around him was slipping away… flowers that sprouted already dying, and him powerless to change them. “I may avail myself of those years, it’s true, alet. But the people around me can’t.”

  KindlesFlame looked away—to hide his eyes, Jahir thought. Then he sighed and took up his cup. “If you’re going to rush it, then, at least rush it smart. Stagger the practicum with the straight lectures. People born to this gravity well and still in their prime have burnt themselves out trying to front-load the simulation classes.”

  “I am grateful for the advice,” Jahir said. “And I’ll be sure to do so. The advisor assigned to me has been very helpful, though she issued her share of warnings to me.”

  “Did she?” KindlesFlame said.

  “Her exact words were ‘if you want to eat, breathe and sleep school, that’s your business. But don’t expect a social life.’”

  The Tam-illee snorted. “That sounds about right.”

  “To be truthful, Healer,” Jahir said. “I look forward to it. To have a challenge…” He drew in a long breath, let it center him. “That is no small blessing.”

  “Let’s see how well you like your blessing by this time next year,” KindlesFlame said dryly.

  The invitation to Kievan’s ceremony arrived in Vasiht’h’s box the following day: it would be held at the general campus’s shrine to Iley, rather than at the hospital’s multipurpose chapel, on the down-week rest-day at the end of the month, in the afternoon. A response was requested: would he and guest be able to attend?

  Vasiht’h hit ‘yes’ before he finished reading, and then sat up. And guest!

  “Would you like to come with me to a Tam-illee rededication ceremony?” he asked Jahir when his roommate arrived later in the afternoon.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jahir asked, pausing on the way to the great room’s chair.

  “I’ve been invited to a Renaming for one of the healers-assist at the hospital,” Vasiht’h said. “And I’m allowed to bring a guest. Would you like to go? The Tam-illee have them when they change their Foundnames.”

  “I would be glad to,” Jahir said. “I don’t know the customs, thou
gh.”

  Vasiht’h smiled. “Me neither. I’ll have to look them up before I go. Living here’s gotten me used to a lot of Seersan customs, but not so much the Tam-illee ones. We’ll figure it out.” He padded to the kitchen to start the baking for the quadmate gathering. A crumble, he thought: the stone fruits were coming into season, and Jahir had brought home a bag of peaches that smelled divine. He started measuring out the ingredients for the batter. “You have any plans for the end of term? We’ve got the entire month off before summer session.”

  “I fear my plans involve studying for summer’s classes,” Jahir said. “The term is short enough that I find myself concerned over whether I’ll be able to manage them.”

  Vasiht’h frowned. “Just how many classes are you taking?”

  “Five,” Jahir said. “The same as spring and winter.”

  “Five!” Vasiht’h put his spatula down. “Are you crazy? Summer classes are—”

  “Notoriously condensed, yes, I know,” his roommate said with a sigh. “And of the catalog available I’ve chosen the ones least likely to be impossible when shortened thus. But I want to be done with the coursework by this time next year, arii. The good residencies are awarded at the beginning of summer.”

  “That’s so soon,” Vasiht’h said. He couldn’t make himself pick the spatula back up. The crumble suddenly seemed very unimportant.

  “I don’t want to spend forever in school,” Jahir said. “There are things to be done outside it.” And then, chagrined. “Ah, I do not mean to imply that being a teacher is an unworthy goal.”

  “I didn’t take it that way,” Vasiht’h answered. “Some people aren’t suited to the university life, and that’s all right.”

  “Just so,” Jahir said. “Shall I help you?”

  Vasiht’h forced himself to resume mixing the batter. “I’m almost done with this part. I just need to cut the peaches.”

  “I can do that for you.” Before Vasiht’h could object, the Eldritch joined him in the kitchen, bringing with him a mindtouch, something deeply unsettling that Vasiht’h’s mind interpreted as the unexpected revelation of rot in food. And it was very much a subconscious thing: he could feel a layer floating over it, like the smell of baking bread. He wondered uneasily if this was what was driving his roommate’s decisions, and if so how it could be helped, or fixed. He couldn’t imagine living with that unexamined anxiety.

  That he’d sensed something so layered didn’t help at all. The last thing he needed was the mindtouches growing more frequent and more complex.

  “I would not want you to censor yourself on my behalf,” Jahir said, surprising him from his reverie. Vasiht’h glanced at his roommate, found his gaze fixed on the peach he was carefully slicing. The bright orange flesh against those white fingers, the ambrosial scent, the concentration… it was hard not to be struck by it, and to hate the thought of losing it to exhaustion—or success. Because if Jahir managed, he would be gone in a year, and Vasiht’h didn’t want to lose his company.

  “Excuse me?” Vasiht’h said.

  “If you are concerned, upset, if you have things you would tell me but think I might not want to hear,” Jahir said, and rested the knife on the cutting board to glance at him. “I hope you will tell them me, and not attempt to spare me. I value your opinion.”

  “You do?” Vasiht’h asked.

  “I do,” Jahir said, and resumed his work. “You keep me grounded, arii. I cherish that.”

  Cherish!

  “Then I’ll do my best to keep at it,” Vasiht’h said.

  Their quadmates were far less restrained when they heard Jahir’s plan. Brett guffawed and said, “You trying to die young? Keep up with the rest of us?”

  Leina covered her face. “Ugh, Brett, could you be any more tasteless.”

  “He could,” Luci said. “Doesn’t change that he’s right.” She peered at Jahir over her wine glass. “He is right, you know.”

  “Death by cramming,” Brett said, lifting his own glass. “Self-willed academic suicides. The college is littered with them.”

  “For a college littered with them there aren’t that many bodies lying around,” Vasiht’h observed.

  “They’re all underground,” Brett proclaimed. “Why do you think the grass is so green?” He leaned forward and waggled his brows. “Fertilized by the decayed remains of over-stimulated brain matter.”

  Jahir rested his cheek against his fist and lifted a brow.

  “That is the most skeptical expression I’ve ever seen on him,” Vasiht’h said to Brett. “Congratulations.”

  “What do I win?”

  “More sangria,” Leina said, pouring for him.

  “What are you trying to prove?” Luci asked, ignoring the banter. “Because a plan like that’s got to be hiding some psychological issue.”

  “That is the Vasiht’h’s line,” Mera said. The Ciracaana was slumped on the table, though Jahir suspected that was as much from over-indulgence as from the alcohol. He and Leina had brought more of the curry and everyone had eaten until they’d mopped their plates dry. “Yes? You, Glaseah. Trot out the therapeutic wisdom.”

  Vasiht’h snorted. “And practice without a license? No, thank you.”

  “I know the path is likely to be arduous,” Jahir said, warming his hands on his coffee mug. “But I intend to walk it.”

  “You intend to hike it, and then collapse on it, and then crawl to the summit, is what you actually mean,” Luci said with a sigh. “But I guess there are always a few who want to do things the hard way.”

  Brett snorted. “Spoken by the woman who always does things the easy way.”

  Luci stuck her tongue out at him.

  The Harat-Shar followed them to their apartment after the gathering disbanded, carrying the tray with the sad remains of the peach crumble, which had been almost entirely devoured. Jahir thought the only thing that had saved it was Leina’s hazelnut torte, which had been so dense Mera had accused her of hiding a neutron star in it. He opened the door for his roommate and the Harat-Shar and let them precede him before going to the kitchen to begin washing up. Vasiht’h filled a teapot and said, “So are you here to harangue my Eldritch?”

  Luci smirked. “Would it make him change his mind?”

  They both looked at him. He said nothing, and scraped the last servings of the crumble into a smaller bowl for storage.

  “I didn’t think so,” Luci said, amused.

  The tea steeped as the two of them bantered, and Jahir enjoyed the implied camaraderie, the safety of being here, among people he trusted.

  When Vasiht’h gave the Harat-Shar a cup of tea, she brought it to her nose and sniffed the steam, had a sip. “I really just wanted to tell you that… I haven’t spoken to him in a month.”

  He could not have seen or sensed Vasiht’h’s pause in any normal way, and yet he felt it and shared it. He let his roommate ask for them both. “Arii? Your choice? Or his?”

  “Mine,” she said. “More or less, anyway.” She rubbed her eye with her free hand, and then had another sip of the tea. “I love him so much it’s too hard to be a little bit friends with him. It’s easier not to talk to him at all. And I don’t think time is going to change what we need, and can’t give one another.”

  Vasiht’h sighed. “Oh, Luci. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” she said, her voice trembling. She cleared her throat. “But… there’s got to be someone else out there I can love who also wants what I want.”

  “You’ll find someone,” Vasiht’h said. “It’s a big galaxy. And once you’re done with school you’ll be working somewhere with a lot of people in it. You’re bound to meet someone new.”

  “I can hope,” she said. And laughed a little. “You know, it’s funny… half the reason I think I come here to talk about it is because you two have what I want.”

  Jahir had been accepting a cup of tea from Vasiht’h when she said this, and it startled them both.

  “Excuse me?” Vasiht’h asked. />
  “I mean it,” Luci said. “Look at you two. You’re not just roommates, the way Brett and I are. You keep house together. You cook together. You go out together. When you move, you don’t bump into each other because you always seem to know where the other person’s going to be.” She rested her chin in her hand. “When I sit here and we’re talking, I can feel it… like you’re not two people, but a pair, with your backs to each other, facing out.” She lifted her head. “Do you have that metaphor, or is it a Harat-Shar thing? It’s part of the angel religion, the idea that on life’s battlefield your partner is the person you trust enough to guard your back.”

  “The metaphor is self-explanatory,” Jahir said, and it was, and it struck him powerfully.

  “Well, that’s what I want,” Luci said. And added, “Except with sex. Personal preference there.”

  Vasiht’h laughed shakily. “Yes. At least you’ve got enough Harat-Shar in you for that.”

  “I do, don’t I?” she said, and smiled. And sighed. “It still hurts. I keep waiting for the hurt to stop. But distance helps, a little. Makes it easier not to keep picking at the scab. I guess that’s normal too.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Vasiht’h said.

  “And you agree, Tall and Pretty?” Luci asked.

  Thinking of his own grief on the matter, Jahir said, “Distance makes many things bearable.”

  “I’ll hope,” she said. “For now I guess I’ll go it alone. I’m used to it, even though it’s not as nice as having someone to walk with.” She pushed her tea cup across the counter and said, “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me, listening to me complain about this. And yes, I know you’re about to say it’s not complaining, but let me make fun of it a little, it helps. Anyway. If there’s anything I can do for either of you, tell me, please.”

  “We will,” Jahir said, since Vasiht’h was still staring at her.

  “Good,” she said, and slid off the stool. “Then I’ll leave you both to your cozy domesticity. Relish it for me.” At the door, she paused and added, “And Pretty—you enjoy this moment right now. Because you’re not going to remember any of the coming year.” She pointed at him. “You let your roommate take care of you before you end up in the clinic again.”