The Rowan

by Anne McCaffrey

‘Now, wait a moment, Rowan,’ and Afra caught her arm as she started out of her chair.

  ‘You heard! He needs me! I’m going!’ I want a wide open mind from everyone on Station, she added, jumping herself out of Afra’s physical grasp and to the launch. She flipped open the canopy and settled herself within. Where’s my linkage, Afra? There was a long pause, although the Rowan could feel each new mind of the Station’s personnel adding strength to hers, Mauli wishing her luck as Mick echoed it. Afra, do it now! If Jeff needs me, I must go! Do it before I realize what I’m doing!

  Rowan, you can’t attempt … Afra began, desperately worried for her.

  Don’t argue, Afra. Help me! If I’ve been called, I must go! She already was consumed with anguish by Jeff’s absence in her mind: she would go mad with the uncertainty of why his touch had been so abruptly withdrawn.

  I will be watching far her at the usual point … came that faint firm mind-tone.

  With her own abilities augmented by all those on the Station, the Rowan overrode Afra’s hesitation, bringing him so firmly into the merge that he could not resist or alter it. Then, with the coordinates of the dwarf star firmly in her mind, she pressed against the generators, too, and launched her carrier.

  PART THREE

  DENEB

  IT WAS BLACK, yes, but the capsule made the jump with no rotation to remind her of an old terror. She felt the unfamiliar multiple-mind touch hers, felt both urgent need and gratitude. Inclining to it, she followed the path it showed her.

  Her carrier rocked as it landed roughly in the cradle. Simultaneous to the apology for the landing, she heard the gasping, clanking off-torque rattles of a malfunctioning generator. If the multiple-minds had gestalted with that, she was bloody lucky to have reached her destination at all.

  Opening the canopy, she lifted herself out of the carrier, fighting to hide additional dismay at what she saw. The generator, apparently hastily installed at the side of what had once been an airfield control tower, gave one last wheeze as a stanchion collapsed. A cloud of black, oily smoke rose to obscure the mechanical corpse. From the temporary tower a group of people emerged, one of them carrying a child across her shoulder.

  The Rowan reached out and recognized the dominant mind of the merge: Isthia Raven, Jeff’s mother. Of the ten minds which had participated, only hers remained relatively unstressed by what the Rowan knew would have been a tremendous effort for a novice team.

  My profound gratitude, she sent gently to them all. How badly is Jeff hurt? she asked directly of his mother.

  Isthia Raven looked to her right, to an older man with such a strong resemblance to Jeff that she wasn’t surprised to discover that he was an uncle.

  ‘A freak accident,’ Rhodri said, guilt/grief/concern vivid in his mind as he spoke. ‘We’d found an unexploded beetle bomb. We’re supposed to let them …’ (and a thumb jerked skyward indicated the Fleet in orbit above Deneb) ‘… neutralize ’em but the fardling idiots set their great flaming pod down so hard it jarred the detonating mechanism and it exploded. Jeff tried to shield us and forgot to duck! Damn fool altruist. I told him and I told him that you gotta think of number one first.’

  As he spoke, she caught a replay of the scene from his mind, which was an orderly one for all the present turmoil of self-recriminations. She saw the cylinder uncovered in the trench it had plowed on the edge of the City; saw the disposal group’s tentative investigation; saw the large armored Fleet pod come down, displacing dust and dirt in the ungainly landing, heard the shouts, saw the bomb’s disintegration, and the searing rain of fragments and even their deflection. Then she saw Jeff’s body start to rotate, stagger, and fall.

  ‘The worst is the chest injury,’ his mother said. And from her clear mind, she showed an all too graphic image of Jeff’s lacerated body and the long deep wound across the left pectoral. ‘The medics say it’s only shock but I couldn’t reach him. I thought you might be able to. Time is critical.’

  ‘Where is he?’ the Rowan replied with a calmness and assurance she did not feel. Especially as she sensed that Isthia Raven was withholding some information. Something else had gone horribly wrong with Jeff. She must deny despair as long as she could.

  She paid strict attention when Isthia projected an image of an underground facility, the only still functioning medical installation in the battered City. A large ‘7’ was painted on the pillars outside a lighted entrance. ‘We’ll follow,’ Isthia added, nodding toward the assortment of groundcars.

  The Rowan nodded understandingly, for the kinetic effort had drained energy from everyone in that makeshift team.

  She concentrated on her destination’s coordinates and teleported herself as close to the 7 pillar as possible, making it less likely that she would collide with a person or an emergency vehicle. Her nose was only an inch from the pillar. She turned herself toward the entrance. Immediately she felt the presence of more Talents, Talents of varying strengths and most of them trying to cope with grief and anguish. Well, this was a hospital! What else did she expect as its aura? Jeff Raven might be the most important one to her personally, but she had caught sight of peripheral victims in Rhodri’s vision.

  The doors into the Level 7 facility whisked apart for her. She was surprised to find people alert to her arrival, pointing directions to the intensive-care facility where Jeff Raven lay.

  She paused long enough in the anteroom to let the sanitizing panels purify her. As soon as that procedure was finished, the inner door slid aside. The recovery room was circular, split into ten wedge-shaped cubicles, several of which were curtained with patients already installed. Against the wall above each section, easily visible to the nursing staff seated at the central hub of the facility, were banks of screens, monitoring the vital signs of the injured.

  Jeff was in the fifth cubicle, four medics and a nurse watching his screens, murmuring occasional comments. Their mental comments over the erratic behavior of his life signs told the Rowan that two despaired of his recovery: Two more were Talents, and one was desperately trying to think of something more to do for Jeff. Her approach was noted and room was made for her at the bedside.

  Despite what she had gleaned of Jeff’s injuries from his uncle, she was shocked to see him, his tanned face bleached by the powerful surgical lights, his left side showing nearly a dozen wounds in an almost stylized pattern along his upper arm, chest, hip, thigh, and calf where fragments had been removed. But the chest wound was the deepest. She could follow it, through the layers of skin, muscle, and bone, right to his heart and see where the damage had been repaired.

  ‘Asaph, Chief Medic,’ said the older man. His mind still sorted out alternative treatments but he looked to her for some ‘miracle’. ‘They got you here in record time. We’ve only just come down from the theater.’ He paused and the Rowan had no need of her Talent to recognize his reluctance to proceed.

  ‘Your prognosis?’

  He sighed, choosing his words, but the Rowan followed those he discarded and those he used. ‘He has suffered massive shock and insult. It was touch and go despite the fact they ’ported him directly here. The Admiral sent down two of his best surgeons,’ and Asaph indicated two of the other medics.

  The Rowan’s swift probe told her that the naval medics were amazed the man had lived through surgery and didn’t give him a chance of survival. Their doubt stiffened the Rowan’s purpose.

  ‘Shock can be reduced, and major bodily insult,’ she said with such confidence and assurance that she surprised herself. But this was Jeff. Jeff Raven, her lover.

  ‘Get him through the next few hours and he could stabilize,’ Asaph said, somehow taking heart from her positive attitude.

  ‘It’d be a miracle,’ one of the naval men said, shaking his head. ‘There should have been a response by now …’

  The Rowan ignored him and looked at the two Talents – the nurse, whose mind identified herself as Rakella Chadevsky, Jeff’s aunt, and the medic, identified as his surgeon brother, Dean.
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  ‘Have either of you tried for a response?’

  ‘Tried, yes, when he was first brought in …’ Dean admitted.

  There was not so much as a flicker, Rakella said, and a great deal to be done physically before it was too late. At that, I only just managed to restart the heart!

  No delay? the Rowan asked, refusing to panic for that was what Isthia Raven had withheld from her. Hearts can be repaired, replaced if necessary, even in this temporary facility. As long as the brain had not been deprived of oxygen, a heart wound was not as serious as a major head wound would have been for a Talent.

  None, Rakella reassured her. I was monitoring his heart closely because of the wound … she gave a tremulous smile, I caught it before the EEC could register it!

  Then no-one’s tried to reach him on the metamorphic level …

  Neither of us know that technique, Dean added.

  ‘Then you’re about to learn,’ the Rowan said, wondering just what Talent medical staff were taught on Deneb, apart from reviving a faltering heartbeat.

  Suppressing the fears which his moribund appearance had raised, the Rowan moved to the bed and placed her hands on Jeff’s ankles. The slight chill of the skin was only normal, she told herself, and pressed deeper, feeling the faint shallow pulse at the meridian point. With fingers and mind she could feel the congestion there, as Jeff’s system began to close down prior to cessation. She dug her thumbs deep into the soles of his feet, in the solar plexus correlation point, rubbing with a hard, circular motion. Then she pressed hard on the top of each big toe, again, and again. Then back to the solar plexus reflex. As she pressed again, she heard Rakella’s quick inhalation.

  There’s a response. Whatever it is you’re doing got a response!

  You’ve repaired him on the physical level. I will deal with the metamorphic.

  May I assist you? Rakella asked.

  By all means. Copy my manipulations. I admit that I’ve had few occasions to use such treatment, but it can be quite effective. Any stimulus could make a difference. Right now, time would have no meaning for him so we use that timelessness to develop a support level strong enough to sustain his life force and restore balance.

  She was startled by the muted wail of an angry baby.

  Balance yourself, Isthia Raven said in a dry tone, entering the room. Grateful for the tonic of Isthia Raven’s presence, the Rowan did. I think, Asaph, that there are far too many unnecessary bodies crowding around my son. Do thank the Fleet men and send them on their way. Their thoughts are too negative, and that’s a bad aura to have in here.

  With Rakella now following her every move, the Rowan repeated the hard pressure on the sole, began to massage the whole foot, warming the flesh, then gently and lightly rubbing the main bones from toe to heel bone. She worked longer at the groove between the internal cuneiform and navicular bones, which should quicken his flagging energies. She moved on to the calcaneum, massaging the side of the heel back to the Achilles tendon. Lightly her fingers crossed the top of the foot, down, and under the outer ankle bone. Then she repeated the sequence, using hard strokes only on the sole and the big toe, before lightening her pressure up the bony ridge of the arch.

  Rakella had acquired the rhythm of the massage now, and they worked in unison. Occasionally Rowan tested the meridian above the left ankle, willing the tempo of her own measured heartbeat to echo in Jeff’s arteries, willing him to rally, to respond, however faintly, to show them that he clung to life.

  The superfluous bodies out of the way, Isthia moved to Jeff’s head, smoothing back his sweaty hair. Then she placed her fingers lightly on each temple and looked up at the Rowan. Jeff’s mother had the same startlingly blue eyes, the same direct, honest gaze. But neither of them could ‘feel’ his mind.

  We Ravens have hard heads, Isthia said, closing off her emotions to the hope still deferred.

  And callused feet, added Rakella.

  As the Rowan kneaded the sole, she suddenly felt the breakup of that awful congestion. She glanced at the monitors and they confirmed a slight but measurable improvement. Yet still, there was nothing of Jeff to touch in that special area in which all Talent dwelt.

  We will not let him go! Isthia said softly. Her eyes held the contact with Rowan.

  No, we will not! And the Rowan renewed her ministrations, sliding her hands up his legs to his knees and the next major meridian. Even lax in his present condition, she could feel the muscular strength of him – memories flooded back.

  Even those could help, his mother said drolly.

  The Rowan looked up, caught off guard.

  Jeff said you had a loud voice, the Rowan said respectfully, gently stroking the bony ridge down the arch. The lightest of caresses now to coax his return. He didn’t mention you had a long ear.

  Isthia smiled. I’d heard about this sort of hands-on techniques. Interesting!

  It might take time to show results …

  It takes time for most healings, Rowan. And I ‘feel’ that this is working even if we don’t see much progress.

  Suddenly Jeff’s foot gave a feeble twitch. The Rowan started in surprise.

  Now that’s a definite reaction, Rowan! Rakella said, looking much encouraged.

  So the Rowan pressed deeply in the pad of his left big toe and saw a wriggle in the Alpha line and a minute shudder in the Delta. Rakella gripped the right toe, and again there was a brief response.

  ‘How long do you keep this up?’ Medic Asaph asked, returning. He was deeply anxious about Jeff, his broad face reflecting concern and fatigue.

  ‘Until we bring him back,’ the Rowan stated flatly. ‘There is no time where he is now.’

  Asaph gave a snort. ‘Time? He gave us a time, I’ll tell you! Worth it, though. Jeff’s sort of special to us here on Deneb.’ Then he added hastily, ‘Unfortunately, I need Rakella. Jeff wasn’t the only one injured.’

  Isthia touched the Rowan lightly on the shoulder. ‘I should feed the baby,’ she said, and through her mind the Rowan could hear the now frantic cries of a very hungry infant. ‘If it’s necessary he can wait a while longer …’

  The Rowan could also feel the dichotomy of her needs: two sons to succor.

  ‘Feed the child!’ she said. She could concentrate entirely on Jeff, then, free of the anxieties of others; alone with Jeff, who was her responsibility right now as no-one else had ever been.

  Isthia slipped away through the curtains. The patient in the next cubicle groaned, and the Rowan heard the quick, soft steps of the nurse coming to attend him.

  Then, in privacy, the Rowan forced herself to look at Jeff’s face again, so sickly pale beneath the tan. For a man of such mental and physical strength and vigor, he looked boylike when unconscious, as if injury had wiped clean all traces of his charismatic personality as well as health. The ache within her grew to alarming proportions, an insistent pressure of tears behind her eyes and her throat so clogged that she had to force breath out and then down.

  Easy! Isthia’s touch, stemming as it must from a pain as severe as her own, soothed her. Do not compromise the good you’ve already done with negative emotions.

  Such a long ear his mother had! The Rowan was both resentful and grateful for that reminder. She paused long enough to bring the stool, the one other piece of furniture in the cubicle, to the foot of the bed. And then renewed the metamorphic treatment. Lightly, lightly, stroking endlessly. Occasionally she placed her fingers on the meridian point, feeling the beat of the arterial blood flow, and trying to bring the tempo up to her own circulatory level.

  ‘Are you there, Jeff? Are you still there?’ she whispered, willing him to hear her voice, if not her mind. And as she continued to stroke his feet, she talked to him in that whisper, so low that it would not reach past the privacy screen. Oddly, the sound of her own voice soothed her.

  The Rowan had never sat in vigil. Nor had she ever – no, once before, a long, long time ago – felt so helpless. In a tumbling stinking darkness? But never had helpl
essness been so bitter a state. What good did Talent do her now? And yet it had! His mind might not know that she was there, but his body did, borrowing her physical strength to bolster his faltering grasp on life. She placed her hand on his wrist, her fingers monitoring the slow but not so faint beat. Yes, his body knew that she was there, even if that could not be recorded in the green lines wavering along the screens.

  Through her hands she continued to let her energy flow to him. When Jeff … yes, when Jeff was well … she promised herself she would take additional training in the metamorphic from those Earth Talents whose healing abilities produced effects close to the miraculous. A miracle was certainly needed here. How long did miracles take on this alternate level?

  Had she truly reached it? Be positive! Jeff would live, would revive, be wholly himself again. She flowed life from herself into Jeff Raven in a calm and even stream, laden with love and dedication.

  Despite herself, despite her uncomfortable position on the low stool, despite her continued gentle massage, the Rowan must have dozed. For her head was resting against one foot. She shook herself awake, ashamed at such weakness, which was negative, when positivity was so essential. Apprehensively she glanced at the monitors: all registered stronger functions.

  The shout that then burst from her, bringing both nurses to the cubicle, was sheer exultation.

  Rowan! cried Isthia, hope bursting like a meteor tail through her voice.

  Back where she had missed it was the light but tender touch of Jeff Raven’s sleeping mind.

  He’s there! He’ll live! He’s there! He’ll live! she chanted, sobbing with almost unbearable joy and relief.

  She intensely resented the nurses who shoved back the curtain and brusquely motioned her to one side.

  Let them do their job Rowan, said Isthia in a tone of mild rebuke. It’s not as if he could help raise his endorphin levels and reduce pain. Which I guarantee you he’ll feel soon. He was brought in unconscious, bleeding to death, so there was no time to use less stringent methods of anesthesia. It’ll take him a while to revive from the chemicals. But at least now we know he will! You have my eternal gratitude.