Hyllis Family Story 1: Telekinetic

by Laurence E. Dahners

  Suddenly wide awake, Tarc said, “Yeah!” He rolled out of bed.

  As he and Daum walked down the street, Tarc realized it had been years since they had gone somewhere together like this. The last time he could remember was when Daum had taken him to Ms. Alman’s school on his first day. After that first day Tarc had been expected to find his own way to the small building where he and many of his friends had obtained educations in the basics.

  Tarc thought wistfully that it would be nice if their family could do something besides run the tavern every day. They did go to the small fair Walterston held each year, but Tarc had always gone with Eva. Daum took Daussie to the fair. Business in the tavern was slow on fair days because many of their regular customers ate and drank out at the fair so his parents felt that two of them could go at a time. But Tarc wished they could all go together as a family.

  Somehow the streets seemed different, walking along with his father. He looked around, realizing that nothing was really changed except for the presence of Daum. Suddenly he saw three of the hard strangers coming down the street on horses, “Dad…”

  “I see them. Just keep walking.”

  Tarc worried that the men would go to the tavern with just Eva and Daussie there. Evidently Daum had the same concern as Tarc could see Daum’s eyes tracking the men. He slowed a little. Then the men turned to the right, heading down the street towards the general store.

  Daum’s shoulders relaxed and he picked up his pace, “Let’s make this quick.”

  Sally, John Blacksmith’s wife, asked, “What kind of knife are you looking for?”

  “Small throwing knives,” Daum said, looking around the room where they kept their wares. He frowned, “Why don’t you have any swords anymore?”

  “Men from out of town bought them all,” she said brightly. “Business has been great! John’s working up some more right now.”

  Daum glanced at Tarc, a worried look on his face. He turned back to Sally, “Rough looking men? We’ve had some of those down at the tavern, I’m not sure I’m happy to know you’re selling them swords.”

  Sally’s face tightened, “They have good coin. Did you refuse to serve them at your tavern? I’m not sure I’m happy these rough looking men are getting drunk!” She grimaced; then waved her hands as if to smooth over her irritated rudeness. “Sorry. We all have a living to make. John did ask some of the deputies about those men and whether we should be selling them swords. The deputies said the Sheriff wasn’t worried about them.”

  Daum frowned, “Yeah, sorry. It’s hard to turn away anyone who can pay good coin. Do you know if anyone has mentioned these men to Captain Pike?”

  Captain Pike headed up the local defense force made up of the townspeople. The sergeants at the drill center worked under him. He was nominally under the Sheriff, like the deputies who kept the peace, but the captain tended to argue with the Sheriff a lot more than other citizens. Tarc understood what his father was saying. Even if the Sheriff wasn’t worried, the captain might be.

  Sally shook her head, “No, and you’re right, somebody should make sure he knows. Will you be seeing him?”

  Daum turned to Tarc, “After we’re done here, can you run by the armory and invite the captain to come by the tavern for a free beer?”

  Tarc nodded.

  Daum turned back to Sally and gave her a weak grin, “Well, did the strangers buy all your throwing knives as well?”

  She shook her head, “No, but there’s never been all that much demand for those. We only have a few over here.” She walked to the end of the counter and opened the cabinet under it. Pulling out a small shallow box, she set it up on the counter. In it were seven pairs of knives.

  Tarc’s eyes were immediately drawn to three pairs of knives that were relatively small with long narrow blades. Daum apparently liked the looks of the same three pairs. He pulled them towards the edge and pushed one member of each pair toward Tarc. One at a time Daum picked up the three knives left in front of him and weighed their balance. He looked up at Sally, “Can we try throwing them?”

  “Sure,” she said, “just drop the bar into the door behind you there and I’ll take you out back. We have a post for you to throw at. Are you sure you don’t want to take something a little heavier? Those are kind of light.”

  Daum shook his head as Tarc put the bar on the door. She led them through the shop and out into the yard behind it. Tarc could hear John’s hammer clanging as he pounded something into shape, presumably one of his new swords. They saw a suspiciously man sized post stood to one side of the little yard. Sally waved at it, “Give it your best shot,” she said.

  Daum threw the largest of the three knives he had in his hand, but it missed the post completely. “Whoops, sorry.”

  Sally waved dismissively, “Don’t worry about it. Knife throwing takes a lot of practice if you want to be any good. Go ahead and throw the other two, then we’ll go fetch.”

  Daum threw the other two, and both hit. The smallest one was fairly close to the middle of the post. Tarc’s ghost could feel it curving slightly to the right as it flew.

  Sally smiled, “Well, maybe you should get the small knives if you can throw them that well. What do you think? Do you want to buy a pair?”

  Daum jerked a thumb at Tarc, “Is it okay if Tarc throws the ones he’s got? We’re each buying a pair.”

  Sally nodded, though Tarc thought she looked dubious about giving a kid his age throwing knives. He stepped up and hefted the largest of the three knives he still held. He knew that it would be hard to control, so he took extra care lining up. The throw was off a little to the left and probably would have missed the post but his ghost was able to push it back almost to the midline. It stuck in the post about an inch off-center to the left with a solid “thunk.”

  “Pretty good, kid,” Sally said.

  Tarc felt irritated that she had qualified her “good.” He felt certain that she was actually attributing his hit almost entirely to luck. He lined up with the medium-size blade and threw it. Its weight was much more controllable. So, despite throwing it a little high and to the right, he brought it down to stick in the post exactly in the center and therefore about an inch to the right of his first knife.

  Sally goggled a little; then said, “Very nice!”

  Daum cleared his throat. Tarc realized that Daum didn’t want him showing off and possibly alerting people to his talent. He threw the third and smallest knife, again placing it exactly where he wanted it to go, but this time the target he chose was about 8 inches down and 2 inches to the right.

  Sally chuckled, “Well, you’re human after all! But that was still really good.”

  Daum and Sally dickered a bit.

  Eventually Tarc and Daum left the blacksmith’s shop with the two smallest pairs of knives in paired sheaths that strapped over their shoulders. The straps were set up to holster the handles of the knives just below and behind their necks. That way they could reach up over their shoulder to grab the knife with their arms already cocked to throw.

  Tarc had expected to have to give up his working knife, but it remained at his belt. Daum said he didn’t want people seeing them working with knives that were designed to be weapons. Nor did he want them going around visibly carrying weapons. With the holsters underneath the loose heavy shirts they normally wore, the knives weren’t noticeable. However, should the blades ever be needed, they would have to reach down inside their collars for the knives.

  Feeling a little heady about his new possessions, Tarc headed off to the drill center to pass Daum’s invitation to Captain Pike.

  Pike was meeting with someone else, so Tarc cooled his heels in the courtyard of the armory there at the drill center while he waited. He felt desperately anxious to practice throwing his new knives and wanted to throw them from the holsters. However, he had the feeling that Daum didn’t really want anyone to know that they were carrying throwing knives in ‘over shoulder holsters,’ so he resisted the temptation.

&n
bsp; As the courtyard was empty, he decided it would be okay to practice throwing the knives as long as he wasn’t pulling them out from behind his head. He stepped into a corner and, after using his talent to check around for any warm bodies that might be close enough to be watching, pulled the knives out. He walked back out into the courtyard and began throwing the blades at the timbers of the wall. Just in case someone was observing him he threw each knife at a different mark 6 to 12 inches apart. That way if someone saw them hit, they would likely think he was missing his target by a reasonable margin. He threw the knives from varying distances ranging from 6 to 25 feet so that he would get used to the way the knives fell as they traveled through the air. With the arrows he had been able to lift the tips to compensate for a low shot by having them fly upward a little. The knives didn’t fly, so he could only lift them with brute effort from his ghost. This made it important that he adjust his aim point upward to compensate for the fall of the knife as it traveled.

  After throwing for a bit, he realized there wasn’t any reason he couldn’t practice throwing from a starting position just behind his shoulder where the holsters would be. He started throwing harder, whipping the knives across the distance so that they stuck into the wall hard enough he had to wiggle them out.

  He’d just thrown the knives a solid 20 feet to stick into two adjoining logs when his ghost felt a couple of bodies coming out of Pike’s office. Tarc walked to the wall to retrieve his blades and was wiggling the first one loose when Pike stepped out and focused on him. The other man turned and walked away without apparently noticing Tarc.

  Tarc wiggled his second blade loose and walked over, “Captain Pike, my dad asked me to invite you down to the tavern for a free beer. He’d like to talk to you about some of the strangers we’ve been seeing.”

  Pike’s eyes narrowed a moment, “You’re the Hyllis boy, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Pike’s eyes went down to the knives Tarc held in his left hand. “Got yourself a nice pair of throwing knives I see.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Fancy yourself as pretty good?”

  Tarc shrugged, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Let’s see what you can do then. Put them as close as you can to the big knot there, height about the same as a man’s head.” Pike pointed loosely, but Tarc immediately saw a 6 inch diameter swirl around a big knot in the wood that had to be the one Pike meant.

  Tarc threw his knives, carefully spotting one below left and the second above right, each a couple inches from the edge of the large knot.

  Pike barked a laugh. “Pretty good, boy. If you could’ve averaged them some, one would be in your opponent’s left eye and the other in his right! Keep working on it and you’ll be deadly.” He paused considering, “Tell your Pa I’ll be along sometime this afternoon.”

  “Yes sir,” Tarc said turning toward the wall his knives had stuck into and starting to wonder whether he could find a place to put the knives back in their sheaths so he wouldn’t be wandering through the street with them in his hand.

  “Your dad’s Hyllis the archer isn’t he?” Pike said behind him.

  “Yes sir,” Tarc said, turning back.

  “Are you the son Sgt. Banes says is going to make a good archer himself?”

  Banes mentioned me to Pike?! A feeling of pride suffused over Tarc, “I hope so sir.”

  “I do too son, I do too.” Pike turned back towards his office, effectively dismissing Tarc.

  Tarc walked on over to the wall and pulled his knives out of the timbers. He felt around the courtyard with his ghost and, detecting no one, slipped the knives back over his shoulder and into their sheaths. One cool thing about his ghost was that it told him exactly where the points of his knives were relative to the throat of the sheath. He could slide the knives into the sheaths without having to feel around for the openings. His ghost even helped him slide the point of the knife inside his shirt on the way to the sheath.

  When Tarc got back to the tavern, Denny Smith was just leaving his mother. At first he worried that she hadn’t gotten better. Then he worried that his mother would get him involved in examining her again, something that had embarrassed him last time.

  However, Denny stopped and, looking embarrassed, said, “Tarc, I’m much better. Thank you for your help when I first came in to see your mother.”

  “Um, you’re welcome. I didn’t do much though.”

  Denny shrugged, “Your mother seems to think you were very helpful in making my diagnosis. I was surprised too, since she’s been doing this for such a long time. But, however much help you were, I owe you thanks. An infection like that could have killed me you know?”

  Tarc nodded uncomfortably, torn between embarrassment over her gratitude for something he didn’t feel he had actually accomplished, and pride that he might actually have had something to do with saving another person’s life.

  Denny left, Tarc looking wistfully after her and hoping to have that feeling again someday.

  ***

  Tarc stood in a nook of the kitchen reading their general medical book. In the nook, anyone entering wouldn’t be able to immediately see what he was looking at. The family didn’t want anyone knowing about their books, so Tarc had a towel he could pull over the book should anyone come in. “Mom?” he said, “What’s this ‘pneumonia’ they’re talking about?”

  Eva looked up from the dough she was kneading, “That’s an infection in your lungs. It’s a pretty bad thing.”

  “Really? They don’t make it sound so bad here.”

  “That’s because their antibiotics could cure most patients with pneumonia. Nowadays about half the people who get pneumonia die.”

  “Oh,” Tarc said chewing his lip. “The book says to get a chest x-ray and a sputum culture for diagnosis…”

  “X-rays were beams of something kind of like light that could shine right through people. Then they could see that part of your lung was full of pus. You can tell that with your ghost so you don’t really need an x-ray.”

  “What was the sputum culture?”

  “Sputum is like spit that you cough up from all the way down in your lungs. People with pneumonia can cough up a lot of it and it has some of the pus in it. ‘Culture’ meant that they would grow the germs from the sputum to find out what kind of germs they were. Then they would know which of their antibiotics to use. Since we don’t have antibiotics, trying to culture the germs is pretty pointless.”

  “Oh, is pneumonia another of the… things we can’t treat at all?”

  “Pretty close,” Tarc’s mother sighed, sadly. “About all we can do is give the patient fluids and otherwise try to keep them healthy enough for their own body to fight off the infection.”

  Tarc closed the book and pulled the towel over it. He’d wanted to slam it shut, but a lifetime of respect for the fragile paper made that impossible. “Why do I have to study this stuff?! It’s not like we can do anything for anybody! It’s just a waste of my time!”

  “That’s just not true! It may not seem like we can do much because we are comparing what we can do with what the ancients could do in the books. But we do help and we do save lives. There are actually quite a few diseases that we can do at least something for.”

  “Well,” Tarc said disgustedly, “tell me which ones they are and where to read about them. I’m happy to learn about those, but I can’t see why I should waste my life learning things that are completely useless.”

  “Tarc!” his mother said, “knowledge is never useless! Besides, you’re really smart. If you learn everything you can from our books, maybe someday you’ll be able to figure out a way to treat some of those diseases. Especially with your talent.”

  I’m really smart?! Tarc thought in amazement. A lifetime of being yelled at for screwing up one chore or another would never have led him to believe that his parents thought he was intelligent! After a long pause to digest this stunning statement he turned to look at his mother, thinking that she might be gr
inning at her own little joke.

  She was staring at him with a very serious look on her face. “Really Tarc, I think you could make a big…”

  There was a loud bang that they both recognized to be from the main door to the tavern slamming open. Excited voices were shouting and Tarc’s first panicked thought was that the strangers had come to rob them. But the voices were calling for Eva in panicked and pleading tones. She wiped her hands and cast the towel aside as she headed out to the big room. Tarc followed right behind her after checking to be sure the book was completely hidden.

  A group of men were standing around Eva’s treatment table. They had put someone on the table that Tarc could hear moaning despite the excited voices. The men parted to let Eva step in and, in the brief gap, Tarc saw that the fellow was holding his hands to his side, blood seeping out between his fingers.

  Tarc felt a little lightheaded. He picked out little snippets of the excited, practically shouted conversations of the men around the injured fellow. “Got in an argument…” and, “… one of those damned strangers that have been in town lately…” and, “pulled out a knife…” and, “just stuck it in him…” and, “quick as a snake, that son of a bitch was…” Tarc’s world went fuzzy and he felt himself falling.

  Suddenly awake, Tarc realized he was drenched with cold water. Daussie’s face looked down at him looking worried or mad. Or maybe both? She held a dripping pitcher in one hand What in all the Hells just happened to me?! Tarc wondered.

  “Tarc!” Daussie practically shouted, “Get up! Mom says she needs you!”

  Ah, Daussie’s not worried about me, she’s worried about something else. He sat up. People were crowded around the treatment table. Now Tarc remembered the men coming in with someone who’d been stabbed. He stood, surprised to realize he didn’t feel unsteady. “Where’s Mom?”

  Apparently his mother had heard him because suddenly she shouted, “Get back! Get back and let me have some room! I need Tarc in here to help me!”