by Jean Winter
“Well, a song mage, a-a real one is a very rare find these days. In fact, most of the academic world has dismissed the old stories as legend—fiction,” Dr. Wyk said, his enthusiasm growing with each phrase. “But, I believe differently. I think they really do exist. They are just nearly impossible to find nowadays because, well, I think that the predisposition is largely passed on genetically, and a hundred years ago, anyone showing any ability in the art was hunted down and killed on the charge o' witchcraft.”
The eagerness with which the professor spewed this information contrasted starkly with the willingness in which Lyra received it. As if she didn't already have enough against her, they wanted to pin her as a mage/witch too!
“Then I am definitely not your woman, sir. Not only do I have absolutely no desire to learn about this, I can tell you that no one in my family has ever shown any 'magical' ability, either. It's all hogwash and superstition.”
Nim said, “Did you no' tell me that your grandmother also practiced medicine?”
“Yes, but her work was based on natural healing herbs and time-proven techniques. That was the secret to her success.”
“Did she sing, too?” Nim pushed.
“Yes, but you know,” Lyra sighed, “it's soothing. It calms people in traumatic situations. That is all it is meant to do.”
Nim still did not look dissuaded.
“Tell me,” the older woman said, “In your town, in your area, did everyone come to see her?”
“… Yes. She was the best.” With reluctance, Lyra remembered that even people not of their settlement, not of their faith, had, at times, traveled to seek out her grandmother—under threat of the government's wrath and all.
“And have no' people come to you, as well?”
“I guess so.”
Two of her settlement—a man in his early thirties and an older woman—were specifically set up to practice medicine and midwiving full-time. They took the majority of the patient load. Lyra only ever considered the trade as a hobby, but now that she thought about it, there were certain friends, in addition to her family, that only went to her. She also had, on occasion, turned others over to go see the professionals when requests began to interfere with her family life or if a certain case appeared too overwhelming for a wife and mother just helping a little on the side. Suddenly, memories of the professionals sometimes calling on her for assistance began to creep in, as well, and Lyra gave an irksome rub to her forehead.
“They know, my dear,” Nim gently continued. “Perhaps it is only on a subconscious level, but somehow, people know that things go faster—smoother—with you there, just as you know intuitively what to do.”
A moon shaped dent in the well-used surface of the dining table stared up at Lyra, and she stared stubbornly back. It could not be true. Her skill was due to the years she spent at her grandmother's knee and her own study and experience since then, not magic. People still remained sick for days sometimes under her care. It still took weeks to recover from certain injuries. There was nothing remarkable about her methods or results.
“Maybe I have gotten lucky a few times, and perhaps I learned well under my grandmother, but I can promise you, I have treated people for years and never had any unusual or unexplained results. I know this!”
“I wonder,” the professor chimed in, thinking hard. “Mistress, have you experienced anything especially … impactful to your life in recent weeks? Life changing, maybe?”
Don't laugh. Just answer the question.
“Perhaps.”
He nodded. “It has been my experience that after particularly traumatizing or poignant events, certain elements o' a person's being can become more pronounced—more prominent—as if the experience allowed something within them to break free. They are no' just changed emotionally, but in a very literal sense, physically, as well. I wonder if, in your particular case, this special ability lay largely latent in you, until something momentous happened that jogged it into full activity.”
She had heard quite enough.
“Professor, Nim,” Lyra nodded to each of them in turn, “you have both obviously spent a lot of time rationalizing sense into the mysterious healing of my lord's wound, of which I can only take your word regarding its existence. But let me make it clear that it does not matter what you believe of me, I do not believe it! Any of it. So, please leave and let me and my lord go about our business.”
The looks were exchanged again. Then Nim calmly reached into her medical bag while Dr. Wyk removed his jacket. He rolled up his shirt sleeve and took something handed him by Nim—a shiny, narrow scalpel. Then with a nervous throat clear and just a hint of indecision passing across his features, Wyk closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and swiftly drew the blade across his forearm with a little gasp. Lyra jumped from her chair.
“What are you doing? Are you CRAZY?”
Bright red blood began to drain onto the table, forming a puddle.
“It would be helpful if you worked quickly, Mistress J'Kor,” Dr. Wyk said through a shaky breath. “I have a bit o' a clotting issue, you see. It takes forever ….”
Lyra ogled incredulously at Nim's unperturbed facade. “If this is your way of making me perform for you, it won't work! I told you, I don't do magic. I don't know how!”
“He really is serious about that clotting issue, my dear. I suggest you get to work.”
Lyra wanted to scream. She strode around the table, grabbing a kitchen towel as she went. “You are both insane. D'you know that? If he dies, you had better not pin it on me.” Folding the towel a few times, she applied pressure to the cut. Then taking the scalpel carefully out of Wyk's trembling hand, she asked Nim if she had any essence of busmuth to thicken the blood.
Nim's rather airy, “Fresh out, my dear,” made Lyra's blood boil. She made another towel into a tourniquet for Wyk's arm.
The cut had to be placed over a bowl and a fresh towel pressed against it before Lyra could clean up the puddle on the table—a rather awkward task considering neither Nim nor Dr. Wyk were willing to help.
“Mistress,” the doctor said, his eyes taking on a glazed sheen, “please just try.”
“Try what, sir? I don't know what you expect me to do. And even if I did, I don't know that I would do it.” Her chin shot out, hard and defiant. “Forgive my assertiveness, but this is an idiotic thing to do—gambling your life on me.”
Wyk's little laugh was high and wheezy. “Not a gamble, Mistress. Faith. Call it faith. Please.”
Faith?
Ugh! Why did he have to choose that word? Lyra dabbed up the rest of the smears on his skin and turned to rinse out the washcloth, but Wyk's hand shot out, catching her arm.
“I can bleed for hours, and you canno' keep me bound up for long before permanent tissue damage begins. Listen to my voice, Mistress. Place your hand over the cut. Find my tone. Match it.”
“Your tone?” Now his lips had paled. Lyra didn't get it. He hadn't lost that much blood.
Then, it suddenly dawned on her. Wyk didn't just have clotting issues, he suffered from hemophobia. He was afraid of his own blood! Well, it was no surprise given his condition. Sheesh! The guy had shown more guts in opening himself up like that than Lyra had, at first, appreciated.
“Close your eyes,” he said, beginning to sweat now. “When I stop speaking, listen to me.”
“That doesn't make any sense, sir,” Lyra moaned. “How can I—?”
“When I go silent, listen to me,” he insisted. “Now, close your eyes. It helps.”
With a hard glance at Nim, Lyra took a chair next to Wyk and closed her eyes.
The breeze rustled through the leaves in the trees outside. Sheep bleated in the distance. A chair creaked as Nim shifted in her seat. Dr. Wyk's breathing was slightly labored.
This is stupid! I'm only hearing—wait …
CHAPTER 12
…
Lyra heard something … something low and steady, like the thrumming of a buzzbird's wings. Then it le
ft. Someone was touching her hand! Lyra opened her eyes.
“Oh, sorry.” She had forgotten to place her fingers over the cut as ordered.
“Do no' speak,” the skinny professor chided. “Listen.”
Okay! I'm listening, I'm listening …
Oh my.
She could suddenly hear the professor … living! She didn't know how else to describe the sound. It wasn't his heart beat or his breathing; Lyra had somehow tuned into his … his life—his soul?— manifesting itself to her in an audible way. She almost stopped breathing as she focused solely on this “tone” she was hearing for the very first time.
“I hear you,” she whispered in wonder.
“Can you match it?” Wyk whispered back.
Lyra listened again, absolutely fascinated at the new, strangely musical quality of the hum. She gasped! It was a note—no, more than one note—but one tone holding predominance over the others, like the root of a key in a bell chord. With a quick, soft throat clear, she tried vocalizing the key note. She started following some of the other faint tones she could pick out. It was like humming one of the ancient, nearly monotone melodies from the earliest forms of music in recorded history—staunchly based between just a few notes with only the minutest of variations every so often.
It began to grow louder in her ears. It filled her senses, taking over every other thought Lyra had hitherto been entertaining until there was nothing but the music of this man's soul ringing through her own body. Lyra's pulse, even, seemed to slow to match the rhythm of the changing tones.
Lyra … Somewhere, very far away, she heard her name.
“Lyra, stop. That is enough,” Nim commanded.
Lyra's fingers were removed from the professor's arm and her eyes flashed open to a fleeting sense of vertigo. Dizzily, she met eyes with Nim. Why did she feel so tired all of a sudden? “What happened?”
“Bless the Mother. What a trip! Woo hoo!” Wyk exclaimed, flushed with excitement. “'Na Lyra, how do you feel?”
“I … I don't know.” She began a massage of her forehead. “What—?” She looked down at the man's arm she had been lightly stroking. A thick red line—a roughly formed scab—ran along the pale skin like a craggy mountain range. This was his cut.
Lyra started. She looked up into the face of the glowing professor who was busily trying to untie Lyra's tourniquet knot with one hand. “Did you see that? Did you see that, Nim? It was brilliant!” he proclaimed.
Nim, coming at him with a newly wetted cloth, wiped away the remaining blood smears, and they started speaking in excited undertones.
“I saw the skin close right up!”
“Did you hear that? She was changing notes.”
“Remarkable!”
“I have never seen such a fast heal before. Rather untidy, but—”
“I feel quite energized—amazing even!”
To the side, Lyra sat in her chair feeling sick. Had she just done that? No! It couldn't be! This was not natural. Not right. Oh God, I did not just do magic! What's happening to me?
“Mistress J'Kor, are you all right?” The two were suddenly watching her with concern.
The churning of Lyra's stomach intensified and she opened her mouth. “I—” she tried, then Lyra made a dash for the bathroom. She flung herself inside, turned the lock with trembling fingers, and dropped to her knees, heaving and retching into the little trash can near the sink.
It was only a matter of seconds before the first knocks began. “Lyra, child, do you feel ill? What is wrong? Please unlock the door.”
Lyra coughed once more then wiped at her mouth, letting the cool of the paneled wall soothe her throbbing head as she huddled against it, filled with revulsion at her own hypocrisy. Once she had heard that tone, it was like instinct had taken over. She was only partly aware of her actions after that. Yet, the end result could not be denied. She had done that! Had closed up his skin! Lyra knew it with every rocketing thump of her heart.
“Please go away, Nim! Leave me alone. Can't you see I just want to be left alone?” she cried. Then Lyra was rocking back and forth, just as she had done day after day during her depression in the khari'na caravan.
Heavenly Father, what did I just do?
The knocking and entreaties for her to come out continued, but hugging her knees, Lyra blocked them out. By habit, she thought of a hymn and her lips started forming the words, but then she suddenly pressed them together tight, refusing to go on. The sound of her voice—her “magical” voice—frightened her now. She didn't even want to speak anymore. She didn't know what to make of herself.
Lyra covered her head with her arms, trying to hide entirely from the world. Merciful Father!
Minutes passed, Lyra wasn't sure how many, but Nim and Wyk had given up some time ago. Then she heard, “Lyra? I have a key. I am going to come in.” It was J'Kor's voice, soft and reassuring
“Please! I don't want to talk to them anymore,” Lyra cried. “My lord, please make them go away!”
There was silence. Then more silence and Lyra felt free to joylessly retreat back into herself.
After another long while, she heard a scratching in the keyhole and the knob turned. Through tear-blurred eyes, she made out J'Kor in the doorway. “Nim and the professor have left,” he said gently. “Are you hurt? Feeling sick?”
An indignant heat began to build in her stomach. How dare he leave her like he did and then have the nerve to sound considerate now! She used her blood-stained sleeve to wipe at her eyes. “Did you know he was going to do that? Cut himself?”
“Well, I figured they would try something to see you work,” he said, offering a hand up.
Lyra didn't take it. The heat intensified, billowing to her head, hot and angry. She collected herself and rose to him. “And you left me here to just 'figure it out?'”
“Lyra, I did no' have much choice. Nim—”
“You knew! This whole time you knew and you didn't tell me!” A new flush of tears formed, streaking his features. “You left me at the mercy of leering strangers and you didn't tell me why!”
Her hand flew. And she slapped him.
Full in the face!
Those beautiful eyes flew to the side with the impact, widened in absolute surprise.
But when they turned back there was anger. J'Kor caught her wrist on its way back down. “Look! I do no' owe you anything! In fact, you forget, dear lady—”
“I thought we were being honest with each other, my lord,” Lyra cut in, mimicking exactly the way he had said it earlier.
The anger did not dissipate in the turbulent grayness, but he did pause.
“Evidently, you are feeling fine,” he muttered. He dropped her wrist and straightened. “I am going back to work. Clean yourself up then come outside. The chickcock house needs cleaning today.”
WHAT? He expected her to drop this mind blowing subject just like that? Lyra's mouth hung open. Then it shut. Tight.
“As you wish, my lord.” She curtsied stiffly.
He strode off without another look and Lyra had nothing else to do but finish cleaning up the kitchen then go to the closet to change, as ordered. Boy, did she need direction now! If only …. Before Lyra knew it, she was gazing up at the top corner shelf again. Then she just shook her head and left.
Her approach of J'Kor for further details regarding the coop cleaning yielded only a brusque tip of his chin in its general direction and that she get to work. Once inside the low wood structure, however, it was easy to see what needed to be done: change the floor litter, refresh the nest boxes, scrape the roosts, brush down dust and cobwebs, clean the drum shaped water dispenser …
Lyra relived the events of the morning as she worked. The urge to respond to those sounds and sensations had been overwhelming. The temptation too great. It made Lyra shudder to wonder if she had succumbed to some evil spirit inviting her to try out something tantalizingly aberrant. Freakish. It had felt good—in its own way, that is, until she realized what she had done
and made her oblations into the bathroom trash. Then J'Kor had come in to confirm that he had known about this ability for a whole wee—
Sweet angels of mercy! She had slapped him! In the face!
How could she be so stupid? J'Kor had promised her a week and what day was it now? Furd'? Lyra had two more days. Two days before he decided whether or not to turn her in. And how had she spent her time? Arguing. Defying him.
“Go fix us something to eat,” J'Kor grumbled from the coop door. “I will be in in a few minutes.”
Lyra's heart pounded at the sight of him. “Yes, my lord.”
During the meal she didn't dare sit at the table. She just picked at a roll by the kitchen counter, and this time, J'Kor was only too willing to let her do so.
In a terrible depression, Lyra continued her day's work, knowing she'd better double—or triple—her efforts for the next forty-four hours. She brought in some fresh cut flowers for the table and while he ate, remained in the kitchen to prepare her favorite treat for dessert: nutcake—a squat, dense cake over which was spread a creamy frosting made from the roasted and pureed nuts of the mahree plant. It was cut it into squares and served with milk.
Next, she fluffed his pillow in his arm chair, got a small blaze going in the fireplace to the sound of a cool, night rain pattering on the roof top, and retrieved for him volume A he had been reading. “Please forgive my disrespectful attitude from earlier, my lord,” she humbly murmured as he seated himself there.
She did not raise her head or move until she was released with a short, “You may go.”
His next words to her didn't come until she was in the vanity closet nearly ready for bed.
“The children will be home tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “… I just remembered that I never allowed you time to do alterations o' your wardrobe at Sal's. We will have to see what the situation is by next week, I guess.”