Healed by Hope

by Jim Melvin

  “Lord Torgon, beyond hope you have returned to us . . . finally! Feasts have been prepared, as well as entertainment. We had hoped this to be a joyous occasion. But now I see that the queen is not well. Healers shall be summoned immediately, but you are the greatest of healers. Is there anything we can do if you cannot?”

  Torg started to respond, but then he noticed a skinny child standing next to Laylah and reaching out to touch her. A woman rushed forward, shouting, “Nimm . . . no!”

  The girl reacted obediently and backed away, then she turned and walked bravely over to Torg. “You knew Tāseti?” she said.

  “Nimm, he is the king,” the woman said, but Torg waved her off.

  Then he looked down at the girl. “I knew Tāseti well. She was a great warrior.” He reached down and gently took the girl’s tiny hand. “My name is Torg, and I too am Asēkha. You must be Nimm. Rati told me about you. I applaud you for your courage. Among us, you are a hero.”

  “That’s what everyone says, but I don’t feel like one.” Then she gestured toward Laylah. “I know what’s wrong with the lady.”

  “Nimm!” the woman shouted.

  Torg signaled to Aya, and the woman was led away. Then he knelt in front of the girl and rested his huge hands on her shoulders. “Tell me.”

  “The baby wants out.”

  Burly came up beside Nimm. Though she was small, the enchanter was barely half her height. “Why do you say this?” he said in his peculiarly squeaky voice.

  The girl’s response was chilling, more so because of the tone of her voice than the words themselves. “The baby isn’t nice.”

  Nimm’s words heightened Torg’s anxiety, and he turned to Aya with a wild look in his eyes. “Postpone any entertainment. We must arrange Thānam vejjakammassa (a Place of Healing). When the full moon rises to its zenith, I will lay my hands upon the queen and see for myself what the baby is about.”

  The Asēkha nodded and then rushed off, and soon the Taikos were thrumming again, issuing commands that were unmistakable to all. Within a bell, the Vasi masters and all the Tugars that had remained in Anna—warrior and non-warrior alike—had gathered in the heart of the Tent City. Each carried a uttara and Tugarian dagger.

  A wooden litter was brought forward, and Torg placed Laylah upon it, though his brief touch caused her stomach to writhe. As if to make matters worse, the day had become unseasonably hot, almost rivaling the temperatures that Invictus’s magic had all too recently induced.

  “Majjhe Ghamme (midsummer) has come early to Tējo,” Gutta said to Torg. “It’s as if the sorcerer still lives.”

  “A part of him does,” Torg said.

  They paused briefly to eat a light meal, but by late afternoon they were prepared to depart. Torg led the way into the desert, followed by fifty Vasi masters, fifty score warriors, and ten times that many others. Aya and Gutta carried the litter upon which Laylah was strapped. Burly, Nimm, and Ura also joined the caravan, along with the Faerie, now incarnated as Jord. The noble ones came too, though they bore no weapons.

  The large company marched northward out of Vimānal on foot and then veered eastward, entering a broad area of hardpan littered with rocks that the sun had long since baked brown and the wind had long since polished. Here the temperatures grew even hotter, but Torg strode resolutely forward, ignoring a jackrabbit that raced past him just a stone’s throw away. Torg used Obhasa like a walking stick, and wherever he poked its tail into the ground, a puff of smoke erupted from the sand.

  Every fifth Tugar carried a Taiko that was held in place by shoulder straps woven from camel hair. The drums formed a rhythmic harmony every bit as pervasive as the humming of druids. Under ordinary circumstances, Torg would have found this to be hypnotic and seductive, but now he seemed unable to relax. The long march to the fossil dune was a torment, not a joy.

  While the sun still was in the sky, Laylah remained silent and motionless. The baby in her belly made few protests, as long as no one physically touched her. But when the sun set at their backs and the full moon rose before them in a clear, star-speckled sky, Laylah began to keen.

  Torg quickened his pace. The dune, he knew, was still at least three leagues distant.

  Eventually, some of the physically weaker of their caravan began to lag behind, including most of the noble ones, though Torg noticed that Dammawansha was keeping up admirably well. Torg had not even had the time to greet the High Monk, nor to speak to him about the horrendous torture and eventual enlightenment of Sister Tathagata. Any and all such conversations would have to wait until Laylah was made well again. She had suffered far too much for one lifetime. He would do everything in his power to heal her, above and beyond even the welfare of the child she bore.

  The moon provided an enormous splash of illumination. Torg saw Mudu carrying Burly on one shoulder and Nimm on the other. The enchanter’s expression was difficult to read, but the little girl’s face was grim. Ura followed close behind, her body slathered in sweat. Torg doubted the woman could keep up this pace much longer. Then he saw another master sweep behind Ura and fling her over his shoulder. Torg twitched his left index finger, signaling his approval.

  Inexplicably, Jord was nowhere to be seen. The Faerie had started out with the caravan but now seemed to have disappeared into the throng. Torg gave this some thought but then shrugged. There was nothing he could do. She would reappear when she chose, and not before.

  The song of the drums intensified.

  Obhasa thrummed in Torg’s right hand.

  The Silver Sword, strapped to Torg’s back, remained cold.

  Thousands of uttaras and daggers glowed blue in the moonlight, as if dipped in oil and set aflame.

  During all this, Laylah continued to keen. It smote Torg’s heart, but not his resolve.

  The hardpan gave way to an area of softer sand laced with a seemingly endless arrangement of linear dunes, each set about one hundred paces apart and extending north to south as far as the eye could see. At first the dunes stood barely as tall as a Tugar, but each successive one was a few spans higher than the previous one. Torg cut directly across the series of ridges, which were wind-compacted at the base but loose and slippery at the top.

  The Tugars had no problem with this, but the few noble ones who had maintained the pace to this point—including Dammawansha—now fell far back. Nimm, Ura, and Burly only kept up because they were being carried.

  As the dunes became taller, they also became more widely interspersed. Now each dune was at least fifty cubits tall and difficult even for the Tugars to traverse. Finally they crossed over the largest dune they had yet encountered, easily one hundred and fifty cubits tall. Beyond lay a velvety blanket of pure white sand.

  Torg stopped for a moment and stared. About a league distant stood their destination: a fossil dune as ancient as a mountain and at least seven hundred cubits tall, which was nearly twice the height and age of the dune upon which Torg had first achieved Sammaasamaadhi almost a millennium ago.

  Shortly before midnight, Torg and the leading edge of the caravan arrived at the dune. Torg helped the two Asēkhas carry the litter up the steep incline, though it was difficult work even for three such powerful men. When they reached the top, Torg lifted Laylah off the litter and laid her down on the dune as quickly as possible. The knife-like crest ran beneath her spine, while her arms and legs draped over each side.

  Laylah screamed when she was touched but went still when Torg backed away. Her eyes squinted against the brightness of the moon, which loomed over the dune so close that Torg felt he could reach up and touch it with his hand.

  By now, the rest of the Tugars and Vasi masters had arrived, and they scrambled up the dune, assuming positions along various points of the incline like trees clinging to the side of a steep mountain. Half of the Tugars crossed over the crest on the far side of the dune.
Then they looked up at Torg and Laylah, their deep-blue eyes reflecting the moonlight.

  Aya and Gutta stood on each side of Laylah, about two paces below where she lay. Still carrying Nimm on his shoulders, Mudu came up next to Aya. Another Vasi master, with Ura on his back, crossed over and stood next to Gutta. Torg did not protest. The girl and the woman already had played large roles in the events that had transpired. It appeared they would continue to do so.

  Torg felt something tugging at his breeches, and he looked down to see Burly standing at his feet. The enchanter appeared almost frantic. “Something bad is about to happen,” he said. “I can sense it like the approach of a storm. Do you not feel the same?”

  “We will create Thānam Vejjakammassa,” Torg said. “No harm can come to her once that is done.”

  “Are you so certain?”

  “I am certain of nothing.”

  Just as Torg was about to begin the ceremony, he heard huffing and puffing from far below. Dammawansha had finally arrived and was working his way up the side of the fossil dune. “Wait, Torgon! Do not start yet. Allow me to join you.”

  A pair of Tugars trotted down and helped the High Monk up the last few difficult paces. “Your presence honors this occasion,” Torg said. “But Burly the enchanter senses danger. Perhaps it would be best if you waited below.”

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen to me?”

  Torg managed a chuckle. “Very well. But once the powers are unleashed, do not touch my flesh. That truly would be dangerous.”

  “As you say, lord,” the High Monk replied.

  Now it was midnight, and the moon was directly overhead. Torg raised his arms and began the ceremony. When he spoke in the ancient tongue, his voice could be heard clearly by all.

  “Nandamanto tarunabhavam ca balam, koci vyādhino cinteti? (Enjoying youth and strength, who thinks of illness?)”

  “Kevala viññū! (Only the wise!)” the Tugars responded.

  “(Illness strikes like random bolts of lightning, caring naught for our aversions. Do you doubt it?)”

  “(We cannot doubt what we know as truth.)”

  “(The mind heals the body, but what heals the mind?)”

  “(Awareness heals the mind.)”

  “(Tugars, is there awareness for you?)”

  “Ema! Ema!”

  “(Tell me what you know.)”

  “(Death follows life.)”

  “Puna c’aparam (And again something else?)”

  “Maranam jivitam anugacchati! (Life follows death.)”

  Then in the common tongue, Torg said, “One day the queen will die. But not this day. Tugars, will you help me heal your queen?”

  “Ema! Ema!”

  Torg held Obhasa aloft and let out an ear-piercing shriek. A bolt of blue-green energy crackled skyward, as if determined to cleave the moon.

  “Jiivitam maranam anugacchati!” Torg shouted, his voice booming like a drum. “Maranam jivitam anugacchati!” Then he flipped Obhasa around and drove its rounded head into the crest of the dune between Laylah’s legs. At the same moment, every Tugar stabbed his or her uttara and dagger into the soft sand. An explosion of energy surged from the ivory staff into the titanic dune, spewing rivers of Death Energy along the surface of the sand like a network of arteries and veins. The blue-green energy spiraled to each Tugarian blade and set it aglow, before racing back to Obhasa and leaping into the ivory shaft.

  In response the fossil dune lit up, resembling a volcano spewing rivulets of lava down its side.

  The night became like day.

  In unison, the Tugars withdrew their blades, now magically imbued with Death Energy, and pointed them at the moon. Bolts of power leapt into the air and fanned out like fireworks, crashing into each other and then binding together. In a short time, a dome of protective magic encased the dune.

  Though her eyes remained tightly closed, Laylah screamed and wailed. As if gravity were losing its grip on her body, she began to levitate, rising above the crest of the dune to the level of Torg’s chest. Sparkling magic swirled around her, as palpable as a dust-filled whirlwind.

  Torg stepped between her legs, rested Obhasa against his chest, and then reached forward and laid both of his hands on Laylah’s bulging stomach. She let out a shriek that tore through the air with horrendous force, causing Nimm and Ura to cry out in pain and press their hands against their ears.

  “Nooooo,” Laylah screamed, arching her back absurdly. “No . . . nooo . . . Nooo!”

  A blob of golden energy as hot as magma sprang from her abdomen and splashed Torg in the face. This cast him backward, and he landed on his rump. But his own blue-green magic dissolved the gold—and he picked up Obhasa and regained his footing.

  Laylah remained suspended in the air, but now she squirmed like a wounded spider. The golden light that erupted from the flesh of her belly dueled with Torg’s blue-green magic and her own white magic, but the gold seemed stronger.

  Torg pushed forward and again pressed his hands against her stomach, attempting to uncover the extent of the malice that thrived within her. If given enough time, he believed he could pinpoint the damage to the unborn child and repair it, healing both the boy and the mother. Torg tried to concentrate, but the cacophonic whirlwind surrounding the sorceress was too frenetic to allow it.

  Then he felt a strange sensation, as if a rodent were crawling up his leg, and suddenly Burly was standing upon his shoulders. The enchanter wrapped his arms around Torg’s head from behind and pressed his small hands against Torg’s temples. Soothing warmth caressed Torg’s skull, and all went quiet in his mind. Suddenly, his concentration intensified, and he was able, psychically, to see inside Laylah’s flesh.

  Where the baby lay within her womb, golden energy raged like a maelstrom. The ferocity of it stunned Torg—but that was not the worst of it. Torg saw clearly that the unborn child’s brain was damaged. Powerful yet insane, the boy squirmed and writhed within Laylah’s belly as erratically as a wounded heart.

  Torg pressed the head of Obhasa against the fabric of her clothes just about her navel. Blue-green fire penetrated her flesh and worked its way inward, seeking out and then devouring the ravaged cells.

  For a moment, Torg believed he might be able to heal the illness that pervaded the child. But even as his hopes increased, Laylah screamed again, and a flood of red blood blew out from between her legs and showered Torg’s face.

  This horrified him, and in his confusion he heard Burly shouting, “The baby’s coming. Torg . . . you must kill it!”

  As if in response to the enchanter’s warning, Laylah’s clothes caught fire and incinerated, exposing her now-naked body. Torg gasped. He could see the baby’s head—impossibly huge—already forcing its way out. More blood splashed on Torg. Gallons, it seemed. It was ripping Laylah apart.

  Using all his skills as a healer, Torg ignored Burly’s pleas and instead concentrated his efforts on the damage being caused to Laylah’s body. Where her flesh shredded and tore, he sent beams of healing fire. But it was difficult to keep pace with the baby’s emergence. Torg could see that the boy already was as large as a toddler.

  And his eyes were open—and wild.

  Suddenly, the boy slipped free, reminding Torg of the way a camel gives birth. Torg would have tried to catch the newborn, but he was too busy repairing the damage to Laylah’s flesh. The boy—covered with blood and fluids—spilled onto the sand with a thud. Then he began to cry.

  Still suspended in the air, Laylah came awake.

  Her eyes sprang open in a panic.

  Laylah stared at Torg and then twisted around to look down at the child. Try as she might, she did not seem able to put her feet on the ground and stand normally. But neither did it appear that the birth had mortally wounded her. In fact, she bore no injuries at
all. With a final fantastic surge of magic, Torg had healed the damage even as it had occurred.

  The newborn meant little to Torg. Laylah’s welfare was all that mattered. But Burly and Nimm came forward and knelt beside the boy, who was longer and thicker than the enchanter and at least three times as large as a Tugarian newborn. To Torg’s amazement the blood and fluids were gone, incinerated either by Torg’s magic or the child’s. The boy sat straight up, his neck already strong enough to support his large skull, and he looked around with an eerie intelligence and an expression of distaste. Burly appeared afraid to even touch him, but Nimm crawled toward him on hands and knees, with a lack of fear born of childish curiosity. Then she reached out and took one of his hands.

  When she did, the boy wailed.

  As if in response, the entire dune began to tremble, giving birth to tiny avalanches that tumbled down both sides.

  “Torg . . . let me down,” Laylah said weakly. Then with as much strength as she could muster: “Vedana is coming . . . for him!”

  Torg swung about and scanned the sky. The magical shield he had used to create Thānam Vejjakammassa remained secure. “She can’t get to us,” he said, trying to reassure her. Then he grasped Laylah’s ankles and guided her to the ground.

  This time when he touched her, she was not revolted.

  And finally, she was able to stand, though her legs were trembling, and she was sweating profusely. After the violent birth that had just occurred, it amazed Torg that she was even conscious. Thānam Vejjakammassa had kept her alive, and his magic had kept her body whole. In some ways it was as if the birth had never occurred.

  Laylah dropped to her knees next to the boy and attempted to scoop him up in her arms. Torg crouched beside her to help but suddenly found that he was kneeling not on white sand but above a smoky hole that opened into a black abyss. The texture of the surface was wet and spongy, and Torg sank slowly into it. The baby already was buried to his chest, and Nimm and Burly were flopping around like fish trapped in a mud hole. Even Obhasa was being consumed.