by J. V. Jones
Green Plague. Imnea had seen it only once, years ago. That was after it had claimed half a town. The witching folk had banded together then—an event as rare as the Red Moon that had shone down upon the effort—trying to burn away the infection not only from a handful of bodies, but from the village itself. It was said there were times in the old days when the Green Plague, sweeping through the land, had killed two out of every three people. That time it didn’t. Maybe their efforts had helped stop it. Maybe the gods had seen so many witching folk offering up years of their own lives to heal others that they decided it was time for a single act of divine mercy to be granted. Or maybe Death was just too busy gathering up all the new contracts the witching folk had offered him that night to worry about spreading the convulsive disease further.
She didn’t need to feel the boy’s skin to know he had fever. Or to read his future to know the terrible suffering that awaited him if the disease went unchecked. It was a horrible way to die.
“I don’t do healing anymore.” The words lacked the conviction she wanted them to have. Damn these people, why did they have to bring the boy here, into her home?
“You have the power. They say you’ve healed this sickness before.”
“And I don’t anymore. I’m sorry. That’s the way it is.” Each word scored her throat like a hot knife as she forced it out. Didn’t the woman understand what such a healing would cost her?
What gives you the right to demand my life?
The Plague would force the boy· into seizures soon, terrible seizures in which he would scream out for water, but vomit up anything that was given to him. It would go on for days, if his family didn’t put him out of his misery And they wouldn’t. They’d pray and they’d make offerings and they’d ask the gods to please, please make this boy one of the few who were strong enough to survive the Plague. And so he would suffer, endless days of agony, until all that was left was a desiccated husk from which the human soul had long since departed, begging unheard for the final mercy to be granted.
And then others would follow. The whole town, sooner or later. Maybe even Gansang itself, if the infection spread far enough. Very little could check the Green Plague once it had taken hold in a place.
He was still in the early stages. If she healed him now, if there were no others infected yet, the town might be spared.
Imnea turned away to stoke the fire. The new log wasn’t catching. The embers were growing dim.
“Please,” the mother whispered.
No bribes. No threats. No promises. Imnea was prepared to counter all those. But the simple heartfelt plea was none of those things, and all of them combined. Guilt stabbed like a hot blade into her heart.
I should give her a knife and tell her to end it. For the child’s sake. If she doesn’t handle the body fluids when she kills him there’s a chance it won’t spread.
With a sigh she turned back to face the pair. They deserved that much, these villagers, that at least she would meet their eyes while she shattered their hopes. But it was the girl’s eyes that caught her own this time, not the woman’s. Clear eyes, remarkably so given the hollows of hunger and hardship that hung beneath them like dark moons. Green eyes, flecked with gold as if with fairy dust. Yet it wasn’t color or clarity that made the girl’s gaze so arresting as much as an indefinable something... as much out of place in these dim surroundings as a gleaming star would be.
Such depth, in that gaze. Remarkable in one so young. Imnea wondered briefly if she had the Power ... but only briefly. She had no time to worry about matters of Power, least of all to appraise the potential of some fledgling witch who would probably die of hunger and cold in the gutters of Gansang long before she ever found a suitable teacher.
Perhaps it was that thought which plucked at her heart like a harp string. Perhaps it was the memories of the ones she had taught, and the children she had borne, and all those people who had turned to her for healing or counsel or simply comfort, in her thirty-five years of life. Maybe it was something about the Power that made her hear their voices now, begging her to help this woman ... or maybe it was Death playing tricks on her. Trying to hurry her along, so that he wouldn’t be late for his appointment with the next witch on his list.
Damn you to hell, she thought. My life you can have, that was mine to give up, but not this boy’s. Not yet.
In a voice as harsh as winter ice she said, “Give him to me.”
The bundle was given to her wordlessly. It was lighter than it should be, she noted; mostly blankets. The child hadn’t been big to start with, and the early stages of the Plague had probably stripped his bones of what little meat theyd had. Her own bones ached as she shifted his weight in her arms. Poor child, poor child, at least if you live through this ou can tend to any others who get sick. There’s comfort in that.
For a moment she shut her eyes. Just resting, gathering her spirit, letting the aches and pains of her premature aging settle into the background so that her rational mind was foremost. The gods hadn’t taken that away from her yet.
I wouldn’t want to live through another Plague year anyway, she told herself. One horror like that is enough for anyone.
She began to hum softly, a focus for her witchery She could sense the woman and the girl watching, fascinated, as she prepared herself, If only she could show them what it felt like! If only· she could share with another person—any person—the pain and joy and fear and exultation of such an act! For one of them to understand what Powerwas like, how terribly it cost her to use it, that would be worth everything. Because then her sacrifice would be understood. Then she would be loved for what she had given up, not hated for all the times she had failed.
At last, when the music was ready, when the room was ready—when the child and the mother and the time and the night outside and all the world were ready—she reached inside her soul to where the heart of all power lay. It was faint these days, so very faint, not the resplendent beacon of power she had discovered in her youth, but a much older soul, nearly exhausted now. It wouldn’t have lasted another year, she told herself. And it would have been a cold and lonely year to live through, with all the villagers hating her.
Are you sure? Death whispered in her ear. Very sure, Imnea? This time there is no turning back.
“Go to hell,” she whispered to him.
The warmth of her living soul filled her flesh, driving out the chill of the winter night. Then outward it flowed, into the boy. Clean, pure, a gift of healing. She shut her eyes, trusting to other senses to observe as it bolstered his own failing spirit, feeding strength into his athra, giving it focus. Fire burned along his veins and the boy cried out, but neither the mother nor the girl flinched.
The disease was strong in his flesh, rooted in a thousand places; she burned them all, drawing upon her athra for fuel and the boy’s own soul for focus. Some witches said that a disease was like a living thing, that fought back when you tried to kill it; she thought of it more as a thousand living things, or tens of thousands, that might fight or hide or burrow deep into the flesh for protection from such an assault. You had to find them all or the disease would come back later with renewed strength. How much of her life force had she wasted in her early years, learning that lesson?
The log in the stove hadn’t caught; the fire was dying. Winter’s chill seeped into the cabin and into her bones, and she let it. There wasn’t enough power left within her to keep her flesh warm and heal the boy as well. Not that any witch with a brain would waste power on the former task anyway ... not when there was wood to be burned. Powerwas too precious to waste on simple things. If only she’d understood that, in the youth of her witchery! A tear coursed down her cheek as she remembered the hundred and one little magics she could have done without, the tricks performed for pleasure or show or physical comfort. If she could undo them all now, how much time would they add up to? Would they buy her another week, another year of life?
Too late now, Death whispered.
Dying. She was dying. This is what it felt like, when the embers of the soul expired at last. She could feel the last tiny sparks of her athra flickering weakly inside her. So little power left. How much time? Merely minutes, or did she have all of an hour left to wonder if she had done the right thing?
“It is done,” she said quietly.
The mother leaned down to take the boy, but hesitated when she saw his face. “He looks the same.”
“His soul is clean. The pustules will drain within a day or two. He will be safe after that.”
And you, his mother ... if you have caught this thing too, I am sorry, there will be no one to beg for favors when the first signs show ...
She tried to rise, to see them out. Hospitality. But her legs had no strength, and her heart ... her heart labored in her chest with an odd, unsteady beat, as if the drummer which had guided it for thirty-five years had stopped his music and left it to flounder.
She was cold. So cold.
“Mother?”
The eyes of the girl were fixed upon her. So deep, so hungry, so very determined. Drinking in knowledge as if it was the fuel her soul required. See, child, what Powercan do. See what happens to you when you use it. There was no wonder in the child’s eyes, or even fear ... only hunger.
Heed this lesson well, my child. Remember it, when the Power beckons. Remember the price.
“Come, child.” It was the mother’s voice, nearly inaudible. Imnea’s hearing was growing dim; the world was an insubstantial thing, all murmurings, windsong and shadow. “Come away now.”
Are you ready? Death whispered to her.
Imnea clung to life for a moment more. A single moment, to savor those dreams which had guided her ... and to mourn those which had gone unfulfilled.
Then: Yes, she whispered. Voice without sound. Yes, I am ready.
In the stove the last embers of the fire sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness.