soulofawitch_463-9e1.htm

by Soul Of A Witch (lit)

  "Thank you, Sire."

  Releasing her, the Acceli floated backwards, the glow appearing around him, growing brighter and brighter until she again had to shield her eyes. When she opened them, he was gone. So, too, were the presences.

  "Oh my," Petras twittered, its tendrils dancing with nervous energy across Beulah’s face. "Oh my. Oh dear."

  "Oh yes," said Beulah.

  ~ * ~

  "Are you sure this is where we should be going?" Ralfis asked, nervously eyeing the hut appearing in the distance. "To a witch?"

  "Witch or not, I’m told she may be the only answer to Wes’s healing," Sinya replied. "I don’t care who she is. I’d pay the mystics themselves to--"

  Drake stamped both feet hurriedly and spat.

  "You dirty bastard," Franc said. "On the floor, Drake? Did you have to do it on the floor?"

  "Never mention mystics and payment together," Drake replied.

  "But the floor?"

  "I’ll wipe it up, don’t worry."

  "Your superstition is getting out of control," Ephim warned dourly. "Never mentioning mystics and payment togther. What a load of crap."

  Drake stamped both feet and spat.

  "Oh for--just cut it out, all right?" Franc glared at his friends. "And stop mentioning mystics and... just don’t."

  Sinya watched the hut grow bigger as they approached. From the outside, it didn’t look like much. Made of wood with a verandah all around it, mountains loomed in the distance, providing a perfect backdrop. At the front steps bushes flowered and a stone path led all the way down to the river that was quite a distance away. Must have taken forever to lay that path down but then, he shrugged mentally, if this Beulah really was a witch, she’d probably conjured it up herself.

  There was no other sign of civilization anywhere. The hut was a good thirty miles or more from Kyros. He shouldn’t be surprised that she would live on Ylan, on the outskirts of the Outlaw Sector. Probably got burnt out of her original home. Poor old crone. If she could heal his brother, he’d buy her a mansion if she wanted it.

  Landing the ship near the hut, he walked down the ramp and stopped in the dust to survey the hut more closely. It actually appeared a little larger than when he first saw it. He started toward it, a nervous Drake trailing behind him.

  "I’ve been waiting," a voice greeted him and he glanced up, startled, to see that the witch-woman was standing at the top of the steps, the verandah casting her in shadow.

  A shapeless grey gown hung down to barely sweep the wooden floor. Arms folded, she regarded him steadily. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun. That was all he could make out.

  "I’ve brought my--"

  "--Brother to see me. Yes, I know." She glanced over his shoulder at the sleek, black pirate ship. "Bring him in."

  How had she known? Turning, Sinya strode back toward the ship. Must be a witch thing. Perhaps she can read minds.

  Beulah waited expectantly for his return, her thoughts already on the boy to come. She couldn’t feel any real life emanating from his presence. It was unusual unless he was unconscious. But even then he should be exuding some feeling, some life force. She watched as Sinya reappeared carrying his brother wrapped in a blanket. He mounted the steps and she nodded to the open door.

  "I’ll just wait out here," Drake announced apprehensively. And stamped his feet and spat.

  Beulah gave him an unreadable look before following her visitors inside. The door remained open.

  "Where do you want me to put Wes?" Sinya asked, glancing around the room.

  "On the bed there." She gestured to the corner. "I’ll examine him."

  Sinya carefully set the youth on the bed and stepped back to let the witch-woman look at him.

  Standing beside the bed, Beulah could see that the youth was indeed unconscious.

  "It’s very mysterious," Petras whispered in her ear.

  "Or not," she returned.

  "Pardon?" Sinya asked.

  "I wasn’t talking to you."

  Then who had she been talking to? He cast her an odd look.

  Time to find out what was going on here. Taking a deep breath, Beulah raised her arms above Wes, palms flat, and closing her eyes, she tipped back her head and concentrated. There was nothing, a total blanket of white nothingness. No sound, no feeling. It was as though he were dead yet she knew it wasn’t so. She could feel the beating of his heart as if it were her own, the blood running warm through his veins. But she couldn’t feel any consciousness.

  "Where are you?" she whispered. "Talk to me."

  Sinya observed her closely. Was she talking to Wes? Had she somehow linked with him? Please God, let it be so.

  Slowing her breathing down, Beulah searched through the white fog, trying to find a fragment of the youth’s life force, but all she felt was the same thing. Nothing. Opening her eyes, she lowered her arms and looked thoughtfully down at the unconscious figure.

  "Well?" Sinya asked.

  "Your brother is comatose."

  "Comatose?" He felt his heart sink, fear filling him. "Can you do anything for him?"

  "That is why they brought him here."

  "They?"

  "And you."

  Was she insane? First she talked to herself, then insinuated that someone other than me had brought Wes here. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe--

  "Maybe you’d better stop jumping to conclusions," Beulah suggested.

  "Are you reading my mind or something?"

  "Your thoughts are plain on your face. You think I’m mad."

  "You talk to yourself--"

  "Since when is that a crime?"

  "Well, it’s not but--"

  "And who said it was to myself?"

  "So you were talking to me?"

  "No. Now, the boy must stay here with me."

  "I’m not so sure--"

  Facing him fully, she looked him directly in the eye. Which was unnerving because even though the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, she somehow gave the impression of being taller.

  "There’s no one else in the whole galaxy who can help your brother, Sinya. There’s only me. He needs me if he’s going to come through this without self-destructing."

  "Self-destructing? What the hell--"

  "You know what I’m talking about. The bleeding, the swelling, the internal burning. How long do you think he’ll last like this?"

  "I..."

  Silently she waited, arms folded, one brow raised.

  Sinya’s shoulders slumped. "I don’t know. He’s never been this bad before. He--the other night, he bled and floated above the bed and spun around and... you have to help him, Beulah. Please. I’ll pay anything."

  "That is not in question. It’s my responsibility to assist him. What is in question, however, is your commitment."

  Black eyebrows shot up. "My commitment?"

  "How strong are you?"

  "I’m no weakling and fear nothing. I’ve never cowered in battle, never--"

  "Not that sort of strong. Physically is nothing. Mentally, emotionally, that is what I mean." Reaching out with one hand, she laid it flat on his chest. "How strong is your heart?" The hand shifted to his temple. "Your mind?" Black eyes burned into his. "Your soul?"

  He swallowed. "Strong enough for my brother."

  "Hmm." Reaching up, she laid cool fingertips against his temples and closed her eyes.

  Staying perfectly still, he wondered what was going to happen. For several seconds there was nothing but the touch of her slender fingers, the faint fragrance of night blossoms, and a warmth that tingled throughout his body. Then he felt it, a little stirring on the edges of his mind, a delicate invasion that probed and caressed his senses disturbingly. He jumped, dislodging her hand.

  "Hmm." She eyed him speculatively.

  "I’m sorry," he began, flustered. "You caught me by surprise. I’ve not felt anything like--like..."

  "That?"

  Was that a spark of humor in those dark ey
es? "Yes. Do you need to try again?"

  "I don’t need to try anything again. I have my answer."

  "So you believe me?"

  "I know you believe in yourself."

  "But do you believe I can do it?"

  "Why? Are you worried you won’t?"

  The witch was exasperating. Even through his worry for Wes, he felt a tinge of frustration. "I have no doubt that I’ll do whatever has to be done."

  "Good." She turned back to the bed.

  Sinya stared at her. "But your answer?"

  "Oh, I know you’ll do whatever it takes."

  So why couldn’t she have just said so?

  "She likes to be irritating," a faint voice whispered in his ear.

  Spinning around, he saw nobody beside him from where the voice had come. Gaze darting around, he saw nobody in the room apart from himself, the witch and his brother.

  "How long has he been like this?"

  "A week." Returning his attention to the witch, Sinya watched as she laid one palm against Wes’s forehead. "He hasn’t awoken since the night he called out. But you know about that."

  "Mmm?"

  "The bloating and bleeding, the spinning around. You already mentioned it."

  "Yes, I did. What I want to know is how long has he been exhibiting signs of this phenomena?"

  Frowning, Sinya rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Well, he used to suffer headaches when he was really young, about four years of age. Gradually he started to complain of feeling pain but there was no physical reason for it that we could see. One day, he must have been about ten, he complained of a pain in his palm. I checked and it was bleeding. It disappeared within seconds. When my crew returned from the tavern, one of them had a bandaged palm. He’d cut it on a broken glass during a brawl."

  "It was in the exact same place Wes had exhibited," Beulah stated.

  "Yes."

  "And after?"

  "It became more frequent. Welts would appear and disappear, he’d bleed and then it would vanish. I’ve searched practically the whole galaxy to find a cure but no one knows what causes it. The last medic," his face darkened, "Advised locking him away from ‘normal’ life-forms. Banishing him, even, to the far reaches of the galaxy on some uninhabited planet."

  "How interesting." She cast him a side glance. "I take it you didn’t accept his advice well?"

  "He’s finding it hard to give any advice after I knocked some teeth out for him."

  "Violent," Petras said dourly.

  "Only natural," Beulah returned.

  "Me knocking his teeth out? I’m glad you agree--"

  "No, being violent."

  "I never said I was violent--"

  "And I wasn’t speaking to you. So," she palpated Wes’s wrist for a pulse. "The episodes have gotten worse?"

  "Much worse. He feels the pain of others and physically experiences their suffering."

  Black eyes narrowed suddenly. "He mind-travels."

  "Yes. On occasion."

  "How does he do it? What does he use as a tracer?"

  "Tracer?"

  "Emotion? Scent? Visions?"

  "Both. I mean, emotions and visions."

  "Explain it to me." She looked up at him sharply.

  "Well, he sort of has visions, a foretelling or feeling of something and by concentrating on an emotion from the vision, he can generally discover the whereabouts of the vision. He has used it before to help a friend."

  The boy was stronger than she’d first thought. Stronger and more dangerous. "And he exhibits the physical stresses of the person in the vision?"

  "Yes, and it causes him such pain." Sitting down on the side of the bed opposite her, Sinya stroked a stray strand of black hair back off his brother’s forehead. "Such wrenching pain that is growing more every day. He has no control over it."

  "Anytime, anywhere," Beulah stated softly.

  "Anyhow. But the last time was the worst. Then he collapsed and hasn’t roused since." Sinya looked up to meet her penetrating gaze. "Don’t let him die. Please."

  "You came to me for help and help is what he’ll get. But I warn you, the result may not be what you seek."

  "Any cure is what I seek."

  "The pain and anguish of learning is his, the acceptance and control. The distress for you will be in supporting him, forcing him to do things that he may not wish to do. Things that will scare him."

  "Scare him? Why should he be scared? If you cure him--"

  She gazed at him for several seconds before standing up to cross the room. "Take a seat at the table, pirate. There’s a few things that I need to explain to you. Do you wish for a cup of hot una?"

  "Hot una?"

  "Don’t look so perplexed. Make yourself comfortable at the table."

  "But Wes--"

  "Is not going anywhere, and in no immediate danger just yet." She filled a kettle from the tap and carried it across to the fire to hang on a hook above the flames. "The danger comes from you not fully understanding what we are about to undertake." Turning, she faced him, hands on her hips. "You can only stay by accepting the things you will see and hear. By having full trust in me."

  With a last, lingering look at his brother, Sinya stood up and crossed over to the wooden table. Sitting down on one of the chairs, he regarded the witch-woman seriously. "I don’t really have a choice, do I?"

  "You do. You can walk away right now and never look back."

  "And let Wes die."

  Wes wouldn’t die because he wouldn’t be leaving. But Beulah didn’t voice her thoughts.

  "And a good thing, too," Petras said. "This pirate won’t give in without a fight."

  "I’m counting on it."

  "You think I’ll leave?" Anger flared in the dark eyes.

  "I wasn’t talking to you."

  "Then who the hell--never mind. I won’t let him die. So far you’re the only one who appears to be able to help him and even then, I’m not sure you can." Folding his arms on the table, he squared his jaw.

  She laughed softly and he felt suddenly foolish.

  "So." Crossing to the table, she sat down in the chair opposite Sinya. "Before you choose to stay and assist fully or leave, you need to know several things. Listening?"

  He gave a short nod.

  "They call me a witch. I don’t do things the same way as other people whom you have approached. Things will happen here that are beyond your understanding. Some things may even scare you. But through all this you must have faith in me."

  He studied the face of the witch. At first he’d thought she was old, now he wasn’t so sure. There were no lines on her smooth face, yet the black eyes held an ancient wisdom. The white hair seemed to fit the illusion of an aged woman yet it was not... old. Her hands--he dropped his gaze to them--were slim with long fingers and neat, clean, short nails. Young hands? Certainly not old. No wrinkles or marks except those of daily chores. His gaze flicked across the gown she wore. It hid her figure. Raising his eyes to meet her’s, he said, "I know you’re a witch, but I don’t know you."

  "You will come to know Beulah the witch. Together we will walk the fires of illusion and reality to bring Wes under control. We will come to know things about each other that no one has known before. Other things, well, some things will always be our own secret. But most importantly," she reached across and took his hand in one work-roughened palm, "I need you to have faith in me. Faith that I won’t hurt Wes unnecessarily--"

  "You’ll hurt him?"

  Tightening her grasp on his hand, she prevented his withdrawal. "What he will go through at times will be painful for him. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. And here is what you must understand most of all, Sinya. I can’t cure him."

  "What?"

  "No one can cure him."

  "What?"

  "You cannot cure what is not there."

  "But he suffers, he bleeds! There must be something he has--"

  "He does have something, Sinya. It’s a gift."

  "A gift? You call th
e curse he has a gift?" Sinya gave a bark of harsh laughter. "You’ve been out here too long, witch. If you think it is a gift--"

  "He’s an empathic."

  Sinya stilled. Sitting upright, he stared across at the witch, saw the sincerity in the penetrating gaze. Wes was an empathic? Wes was... it had a name. Whatever was wrong with his brother, it had a name. It--

  "What’s an empathic?"

  "A person with the gift of feeling others’ pain and happiness, of feeling their emotions as though it were their own. Only Wes’s gift is stronger, the strongest I’ve ever seen. The only gift I’ve ever seen like this. He not only feels empathy with others, he shows physical manifestations of it. He bleeds as they bleed, to put it simply. His body takes on their sufferings and happiness. He absorbs their emotions."

  "Yes," Sinya whispered, slightly dazed by the revelations. "Yes, he does. He... my brother’s an empathic."

  Beulah stood up and fetched the kettle from the fire. Taking it over to the sink, she poured it into a pot with a spout and busied herself making mugs of hot una. Reseating herself at the table, she handed one to the pirate. "Wes’s gift is so strong, he has no control over it. As he has developed, so has the empathy until it has literally overwhelmed him. Unable to deal with what he feels and knows, he has shut down."

  "Shut down?"

  "He’s lost control and has cut off all communication with all emotions and the world of the living. Wes has closed his mind off in a fog. He’s in there somewhere." She nodded over to the still figure on the bed. "It’s my job to find him and bring him back."

  "That’s what I hoped but..." Ploughing one hand through his hair, Sinya dislodged the thin, scarlet tie and sent his hair spilling across his shoulders. "What happens when he awakens? If he has no control, he could die."

  "Exactly, and it won’t be pretty."

  They gazed at each other.

  "You have to teach him this control." Sinya’s hands engulfed both of hers, squeezing tightly. "You must! I can’t lose him, he can’t die!"

  "Relax. I’ll teach him this control until it is time for him to go further. But I need you to assist, as I’ve said before. The learning will be painful, for he has to control what he feels. I can control only so much. You have to be ready for the unknown, for the frightening. I may have to call on assistance from sources you have no knowledge of."