by Eyal Kless
Trevil bowed slightly. “Whatever the Healer wishes, on my word.”
“Take da Patshin to the third hut,” the man ordered, and his subordinates quickly moved through the door.
Trevil began walking after them but the man blocked our way. “You be carry gun or coin? Nay metal in’ere is Healer’s law.”
“We carry no metal,” Trevil turned his head and looked at me, searching for a sign that his words were true and when I blinked and nodded at him, he added, “We left it all in the truck.”
The man nodded. “Then you be follow me, wash and change ya wear before ya stand with da Healer.”
Trevil looked as if he was going to argue but thought better of it. We followed the man inside to a small brick building, where we removed our clothes and washed ourselves with a rough brush and a bucket of water. There was no separation between the sexes and we both had to change and wash together with only an oil lamp lighting the centre of the room. I got a glimpse of Trevil’s body. I am an older woman by any account, but I had to admit I was impressed. He was tall, lean, and muscular, not a gram of fat on him, the sort of body chiseled by harsh living. In Tarakan people only bought or medicined such a body.
He did not bother to glance at me, though, which was lucky because he would have noticed I had no markings of any kind on my skin. The man came back, removed his own clothes, and led us, naked, through a long steam room so hot it was hard to breathe. Trevil walked before me, too anxious and preoccupied to notice me at all.
At the end of the steam bath another bucket of cold water waited for us together with clothes made of blue canvas, which felt rough on my vessel’s skin. I only had a rope belt to tie around the waist. The clothes were the same size for myself and Trevil, so mine almost touched the floor and Trevil’s were almost indecently short.
“We stabilized da Patshin,” the man intoned. “He be ready, and you be too. Da Healer be coming to treat soon, and you be ready to pay.”
He led us out of the building, picking up a fresh torch from a designated holder. Even in the middle of the night, everything felt in order, like a well-run hospital. The main building was imposing even though it was only two floors high. I figured by the old, grand architecture that it was probably much bigger once, maybe used as a life centre, filled with gaming rooms, bars, and music clubs, which was what buildings like this usually turned into long ago, when shopping malls became obsolete. A lot of it was now patched up, though a bit more carefully than the outer wall.
The outer area was dotted with large huts, each clearly marked with a number painted in red on all walls. The ground itself was soft cut grass and there were even flowers and cultivated bushes everywhere. As the wind changed, my vessel’s heightened senses detected the noise and faint stench of livestock, and there was also what looked like a large greenhouse on one side of the grounds. It felt like civilisation here was desperately holding on to the corpse that was postwar humanity. Somehow it made me feel better.
When we reached the hut marked three, it was bustling with activity. Two women came out, one holding Brak’s torn clothes and another a pile of his bloodied bandages. Two torches were burning on each side of the door, and four seminaked men were busy lighting small candles on each side of the road, all the way back to the main building.
A man dressed in a white sheet, a cap, and a face mask came out of the hut. His attire was stained red as well. He took his face mask off, leaned over, and whispered something in our guide’s ear. The man nodded and turned to us.
“Da Patshin lives, but just so,” he said in the same accent as the torch-bearing man. “We stop da blood coming but bones are broken and blood seeps inside. He be weak now. Only Healer could help or he be gone to the great dark by morning, no later.”
So this was it? No modern medical treatment, emergency medifield equipment, or even real doctors, just voodoo nonsense. Brak was done for. I kept my mouth shut though, there was no point in commenting, criticizing or drawing attention to myself. Maybe I could convince Trevil to drive me to the City of Towers once Brak died. Worst case, I’d have to steal the truck, or kidnap and use Trevil as an unwilling guide.
The torch-bearing man nodded to his colleague, who bowed and departed quickly, then led us into the hut.
It was lit by several dozen thick candles. Brak was laid on a table and was covered by a canvas blanket. He looked no better than when we moved him out of the truck.
“Brak.” Trevil tried to walk towards the table, his hand outstretched, but the man grasped Trevil by the arm as two others moved quickly to block his way.
“No touching da Patshin,” he ordered. “You stand in da far place.” He pointed at the corner. “No touching da Healer too, understand?”
Trevil took a steadying breath and nodded, visibly controlling his frustration as we walked to our designated place. Excluding Brak and us, there were four other men and three women in the hut, which made it crowded. I touched Trevil’s arm for reassurance, and he looked down at me for the first time since we entered the premises. His face was flushed with anxiety. He loves him, I thought as I stroked his arm, a show of compassion meant to establish an emotional bond between us—or at least that was what my training told me was the right thing to do.
“Don’t worry.” I said the words that Trevil had said to me back in the truck. “Brak’s a warrior, he’ll pull through.”
Trevil smiled weakly and patted my hand gently.
Good. Trust will make things easier later.
A slow drum beat began, and everyone in the room went down on their knees and faced the door. Trevil and I quickly did the same. The sound of singing came from outside, male and female voices in beautiful harmony, changing chords with the slow beat. At first, it was just a hymn I recognised, an old melody with certain religious roots. If my vessel had a brain amp I could have known its exact origins. As the choir walked closer to the door, words were added and the volume of their singing gradually increased with every sentence.
Praise da Healer, Praise da Healer
Praise him so, for he is no darkness
Praise him so for he brings light
Pay the Healer with your love
Pay da Healer with your life
The chorus repeated the words several times, and the song crescendoed as the door opened. A dark-skinned man wearing a thin white robe stood at the door. Everyone in the hut bowed deeply, touching their foreheads to the floor, and we followed their example. When I rose back to my knees I saw that the man’s face and legs were covered in black spots, which on second glance proved to be something more than sunspots or some kind of skin disease. There was something a bit too orderly about them. The shapes were unnatural, almost geometrical, meaning this voodoo healer must have tattooed his entire body. Behind him, outside the hut, stood the choir, each man and woman holding a candle in both hands. Many of them bore the mark of long exposure to a contaminated environment. Some even had peeling skin, exposed raw flesh, the sort of damage that would normally cause excruciating pain, but they all stood there, singing.
The effect of the torches and candles was like a halo of light coming from behind the man, and that, I had to admit, was quite impressive. The man opened his robe and let it fall behind him, leaving him completely naked and unashamed. I noticed that his testicles were either missing or too small to detect. He was otherwise whole, with those strange black marks covering the entirety of his incredibly thin body.
Everyone rose to their feet and bowed again as the naked man walked to the table. Two men took the canvas covering off Brak’s body and I saw Trevil grimace. The wound, although clean, was ugly, and blood was dripping from it.
The naked man bowed his head and touched Brak’s body with both hands. He grimaced in a show of pain.
Nothing more than an act, I thought. What did I get myself involved in?
“Da man bears metal in his flesh and poison in his blood. He is close to darkness,” the naked man intoned in a croak. “Darkness wants him, he belongs to it now. Who want
s me to bring this man to da light?”
“I wish so, Healer,” Trevil bowed stiffly as the naked man turned his attention to us.
The naked Healer turned and walked towards Trevil. “And who might you be to the man to bring him back from darkness? Who begs me to take upon me another’s pain?”
“His name is Brak, and I’m his cousin,” Trevil said.
But the naked man shook his head. “You are no blood of his blood. Your words not ring true. Lies lie in darkness. Only truth brings back to life.”
“We are not blood,” Trevil admitted, and immediately the attitude in the room changed. My guess was that lying to the man calling himself Healer was not a light offence. Perhaps that was his way out of curing the incurable, to save face in front of his fanatical followers, and if that was the case, my own troubles just got worse.
The torch-bearing man stepped forward to intervene. “No lie brings life,” he said in a harsh voice. “Da Healer shall not—”
But the naked Healer silenced him with a hand gesture; his brown and almost freakishly large eyes were on me.
“And who ya be?” he said.
“A traveller, from afar,” I answered as vaguely as I could. This was not technically a lie. The naked man seemed to forget Brak altogether. He stepped closer to me, and I fought the urge to enter a battle stance. I let him get close until he reached out and touched my chin, his hand uncomfortably warm. I stood motionless as he manipulated my head right and left, standing so close to me I could smell the stench of his breath.
“Your clothes be off,” he ordered. I saw several of his men tense in anticipation of a refusal. This is just a vessel, I reminded myself as I undid the rope belt and let the crude material slip off my shoulders, but the next thought that flashed through my mind was, But it’s the only one I’ve got.
This time Trevil did notice I was unmarked. I saw him register it, but he was too worried about Brak to react.
The naked man scrutinized me. Strangely enough, I interpreted the expression on his face as a mixture of curiosity, disbelief, and even fear, not lust.
“You are a woman from a different life?” There was a question in his tone of voice, as if he was trying to confirm something.
I nodded, trying to hide my surprise.
“You are a woman of many skins?”
I looked around the room. Naked and weaponless, my chances were slim even with ESM. I could take their Healer prisoner, but I’d need Trevil to cooperate and leave Brak to die. That was not going to happen.
I nodded again, and watched the naked man take a hasty step back, his expression betraying shock, even fear. One of his men took a protective step forward but the Healer motioned him to stand and turned to Brak.
“I take this Patshin back to light, if he be willin,” he said, “but you shall both pay steep”—he motioned to Brak—“for he be close to darkness.”
Trevil stood stiffly, but he might as well have been on his knees again. “I can’t speak for her, but you can take everything I have, the truck, my weapons . . .”
The naked Healer shook his head once. “No metal, it is forbidden, you pay with kind and service, and I tell ya what price by the morrow.”
Behind the Healer’s shoulder I saw the man with the bone earrings looking surprised at this. My guess was this was not the way things were normally handled. Two things I knew for sure: I was not going to agree to serve this strange naked man and his cult for any length of time, but I was not about to declare my intentions at this particular moment. If Brak would die, as he surely would, I would most likely be free to go. If he somehow survived the night, I would make sure to be dressed and armed before I’d deal with the situation. The best course of action at that moment was just to stand there and let things play out.
Trevil looked at me briefly and I shrugged my consent. “I agree,” he said, and the Healer turned and walked to Brak’s body.
The choir outside was humming as we gathered around the body and placed our arms on one another’s shoulders. I had no time to retrieve my clothes, but no one paid any attention to my nakedness.
The Healer touched Brak’s body and a moan came out of him, echoed by the Healer’s own moan of mock pain.
“He be far gone into darkness,” he said as the men and women began to hum in unison, “far from where pain be. I must take his burden.” The Healer began rubbing Brak’s body with his hands. “I must take his pain.” His hands touched the open wound and Brak arched himself up off the table suddenly, crying with pain. The Healer joined the cry with his own and arched his back as the hum grew louder. I turned my head and saw Trevil’s eyes widen with fear.
“I must take his wound.” The Healer placed both hands right on the wound, and Brak’s body began to convulse so violently two men had to rush forward and hold him down. Two others grasped the Healer, who imitated Brak’s movement while screaming in pain as he maintained pressure on the wound with both hands.
Suddenly something small fell from Brak’s wound to the floor, and both Brak and the Healer screamed and arched their backs in unison once more. The Healer collapsed back into the arms of his followers while Brak’s body lay still on the table. The chorus began singing loudly as the Healer’s body was carried out by his followers. Trevil rushed to Brak’s side, crying his name, and I was left standing alone, naked and bewildered as the people around me rushed to leave the hut. I took a step forward for a better look, and there was no denial of what I saw. Brak’s wound was gone, not even a scar. I bent down and picked up what had fallen from the wound. It was covered with blood and distorted, but I had seen enough of them in my life as a soldier to recognise I was holding part of a bullet in my hand.
Chapter 13
Twinkle Eyes
It was not a long walk, distance-wise, but surrounded by the hostile Dwaine clan, it took us a long time to reach the Sky Bird. Like the other machines, it was gleaming and spotless. My guess was that taking care of Sky Birds together with shooting trespassers were the Dwaine clan’s favourite pastime.
This particular Sky Bird was huge—it dwarfed all the others by far—and I could not contain the awe it inspired as we stood next to its belly.
“Behold the holy Sky Bird,” said Dwaine, son of Dwaine, waving his arms dramatically as Nana Dwaine limped closer to the metal body. “This is the Leviathan. Your LoreMaster came here, and he and my da walked into the belly of the Leviathan, so he must have left whatever you are looking for right inside.”
Nana Dwaine wailed something unrecognisable as she uncovered a keypad at the lower side of the Sky Bird. “All you need to do is to know the password for the door,” Dwaine said as he ushered me forward. “If you type in the right numbers, the door shall be opened. If you type wrong . . .” Suddenly there was a handgun aiming at my head. Dwaine, son of Dwaine, looked at me from behind the muzzle. “I will give you one try.”
I glanced at Galinak, but there were too many weapons trained on us for him to be able to do anything that would not result in our certain death. I turned my head back, fighting the rising panic, and a bowel-loosening feeling in my stomach. The numbers on the keypad flashed green. There were eight empty slots sketched above them. I remembered reading somewhere, in my past life, that there were a hundred million possibilities for such a code, and now I had to guess the right code the first time, or die.
I closed my eyes and tried to block out the situation we were in. What would be a code that LoreMaster Harim would have chosen? The eight digits hinted it was a specific date, as was counted by humans in the pre-Catastrophe era. Two for month, two for days, four for a year. The counting of the years was forgotten by many after the Catastrophe, but the Guild of Historians kept the old tradition. The big question was which date my LoreMaster would choose as a code. A birthday? A death day? Or maybe it was just a random combination of numbers, in which case my brain would soon be decorating the shining metal side of the Sky Bird.
As if on cue, Dwaine, son of Dwaine, pushed the muzzle of his gun
into the back of my skull. I opened my eyes and exhaled. With a trembling hand I reached the keypad. If LoreMaster Harim truly meant for this place to be visited only by other members of the Guild of Historians, then the code should be somehow known to them. I could think of only one such date. I entered two digits, 12, then the next two, 11, and committed to the decision I had made, punched 2247.
There was a loud buzzing sound and the belly of the Leviathan lowered its hatch down towards us. The demeanour of the Dwaine clan changed immediately. Nana Dwaine clapped her hands together and shrieked in approval and her son holstered the gun, although he did not look pleased about it. All around us weapons were lowered and even stowed back in their holsters, and Galinak was allowed to join me.
“I thought we were goners,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, lucky I remembered the exact date of the Catastrophe.”
“A bad day for humanity, but as it turns out, a good day for us.”
I glanced at him as the door of the Sky Bird touched the ground next to our feet. He looked relieved, and I guess I was showing it as well.
Dwaine, son of Dwaine, stood next to me on my other side but to my surprise he did not step forward with us. I turned to him in question, but he shook his head in regret. “Da said not to go inside them Sky Birds until Grandpa Dwaine comes back from sky.”
Galinak and I walked forward and into the belly of the Leviathan. When we cleared the landing, I found a lever with a drawing which clearly indicated its purpose, and turned it. The door began moving up. Galinak turned back, waved his hand and shouted, “We’ll be back for dinner, hope you have stew.” A few heartbeats later, we found ourselves in complete darkness, sealed within the belly of the Leviathan.
If I were to believe legends, long ago the metal Sky Birds ruled the skies, moving people and goods across the globe. It was hard to believe that a huge machine such as the Leviathan could reach the heavens, but whatever its original purpose, my LoreMaster Harim changed it into his personal haven. There was a cushy-looking reclining chair and a whole sitting corner with several oil lamps, which I found and lit for Galinak’s sake, and a heavy wooden reading table. Books, scrolls, and pre-Catastrophe think pads were stored neatly in rows upon rows. I examined a few of the books briefly and found they were mostly copies made by scribes such as myself in the City of Towers. All my hours of copying manuscripts in the high towers suddenly made sense. LoreMaster Harim had taken measures to ensure that should the Guild of Historians’ extensive library be destroyed, at least some of the knowledge it contained would survive. Yet we soon found out that books were not the only thing my LoreMaster stored in the Leviathan.