The Healers' Purpose: A Slice of Life Fantasy Novel, page 33
“...Sometime,” he said at last, as they passed another storefront. “Thank you for offering.”
“Next time, then.”
The sound of it made Keifon feel a little lighter. It must have shown, because he sensed Whalen’s mood lift too. Keifon harbored a selfish hope that he might help his friend let his guard down tonight. They’d talked through the plan, setting up this outing; Whalen had promised not to buy any drinks at the bar, his own idea. All they had was music and company and the relative anonymity of a crowd. All they had — he wouldn’t think that way. What they had was precious in its own right.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to fade into the background,” Keifon said, watching the tavern’s sign approaching over the curve of the hill. He left the rest unspoken: so no one would take them as a couple, so he wouldn’t get in Whalen’s way.
Whalen growled under his breath. “I’m hardly on the prowl. Anyway, if my goal were to attract attention, you’d be an asset.”
Thinking of a younger self who wanted nothing more than attention, Keifon almost insisted, and then remembered Agna’s old habit of badgering him about finding a partner. And what had driven that particular obsession? — Oh. He cleared his throat. “Understood.”
They walked side by side, looking ahead. Whalen spoke up quietly. “It’s not my style, anyway. Taking things quickly.”
“Mmn.” He could not say the same, with the possible exception of his current relationship. It wasn’t a time to dwell. “Just fun for tonight, then. No expectations.”
“None,” Whalen said.
They reached the Mask and Staff, where the windows and door stood open, pouring a cacophony of voices into the street. Whalen looked back with a half-smile, and Keifon followed him in.
The main room’s high ceiling helped to dispel some of the heat, though Keifon still felt it pressing against his skin. It was not an unwelcome feeling here, promising a night spent in human company, promising distraction. Keifon fixed his attention on his friend before Whalen disappeared into the crowd. The same actions, the same habits he’d once indulged all the way into oblivion could be harnessed to dive further into the present. Into building and celebrating instead of forgetting and avoiding.
A clatter of drums drew the attention of much of the crowd. Many of the patrons began to sort into lines, jostling for place across the middle of the open room. Whalen caught Keifon’s eye, and together they slipped between the other patrons toward the bar. As the musicians thanked the audience and announced their next song, Whalen leaned against the bar and relayed an order to the bartender. Keifon hung back. He was thankful to not have to communicate over background noise, trying to mimic the Kaverans’ pronunciation so they’d understand.
Before long, Whalen handed him an earthenware tankard full of water. He gestured with his own mug toward the edge of the room, and Keifon guarded his drink from the elbows of nearby patrons as they made their way in that direction.
Once they had found spots at the periphery, Whalen leaned in close enough to be heard over the crowd noise. “I’ve got to watch for a while and catch on. Been too long.”
“Me, too. Yeah.” It had been more than ten years since he frequented a tavern with music, on the other side of the mountains. They’d learned different dances then.
Some two dozen people formed up in a pair of lines, most clapping to the rhythm the band had struck up. Once the rest of the instruments launched into the song, the dancers erupted into motion. More or less in unison; these were not trained entertainers. Keifon tapped his foot to keep time.
The steps seemed like something he could handle. Picking up a dance wasn’t quite like picking up a song, though some aspects translated; understanding how a song was structured, where to expect changes in key and tempo. It also called for confidence and comfort in his own body, something he’d relied upon alcohol to supply in the past. He’d also need the willingness to look a fool if he made a mistake, and that was easier now than it had ever been.
Something about the atmosphere, the warm air, the presence of so many people made him content to stay unnoticed. Sometimes an awareness of his companion beside him rose into his consciousness, and sometimes he became absorbed in watching the crowd. The dancers traded places, one line and then the other shifting so that dance partners changed every verse or so.
The second song ended. He was as ready as he needed to be. Grinning despite himself, Keifon set his mug on the shelf along the wall and stepped toward the dance lines. He heard Whalen grumble, but soon enough the woodcarver caught up and joined him. They took the places of two dancers who had retired early, midway along the line, staggered from one another by three or four places. Which was just as well; two novices following one another’s lead might end in disaster. The musicians improvised for a few more measures, waiting for the lines to settle, and then swung into another song.
For the first verse, Keifon landed opposite a Kaveran woman some twenty years older than himself. She clapped and stomped with such confidence that Keifon found it nearly effortless to follow her lead, and she shot him a wink when they linked arms to whirl across the center of the floor. As a dancer at the head of Keifon’s line transferred to the end and the partners shifted, he offered a mock-formal nod.
The pattern began to settle into his body, a little easier with every repetition. Soon the dancers aligned so that Keifon met Whalen again, both barely concealing their pride at having grasped the routine. They came in to link arms, and Whalen spun him hard; Keifon took an extra stutter-step to keep from crashing into the next dancer. He turned back into formation, pointedly rubbing his arm. Whalen shrugged apologetically. The second spin was better matched, half arm-wrestle and half dance step, and they launched one another back to their own lines. Keifon laughed, hidden by the music. Feeling a moment’s connection lit a new ember in his chest. This was what he’d wanted. Something simple and pointless and happy. He could have that now. So many barriers had begun to clear, through circumstance and time and long, careful practice.
The lines shifted again, separating the friends and delivering new dance partners. Eventually it was Keifon’s turn to peel from the line and circle to the other end. They lasted through several more songs before Whalen broke off to return to their vantage point; Keifon followed him, realizing he ought to drink some water. The two of them collapsed into some vacant chairs, drinking deeply, mopping their faces with handkerchiefs.
The music was too loud to talk at length, so they merely caught their breath and finished their drinks. Whalen reached out for Keifon’s mug once it was empty, but Keifon pulled it out of range and motioned for Whalen’s instead. The woodcarver acquiesced, and Keifon returned to the bar to buy more. Waiting his turn behind another patron, he reflected that he wasn’t so nervous this time. The exertion had warmed his muscles and lifted his mood. And if he had to yell a little... well, no one would hear him over the music, would they.
A few exchanges and a few coins later, he returned to Whalen with two tankards of water. Whalen raised his in thanks, and then took hold of Keifon’s forearm to pull him into speaking range. “Somewhere quieter? For a while.”
Keifon glanced over his shoulder at the dance floor. He’d worked up a sweat, and was still thirsty after a full mug. A rest might do him some good. And they’d have time to go back out. He nodded and said “Sure,” though it might have been lost under the music.
His friend got up, and the two of them threaded through the tables and onlookers. Whalen set the course toward one corner of the room, and climbed the staircase leading to the tavern’s second floor. The music was quieter here; a long dining room was subdivided by partial walls that broke up sound, and the patrons spoke more quietly around their tables. Whalen chose one of the smaller tables, lounging in a chair with an elbow hooked over its back. Keifon took a seat opposite and drank a long swallow.
“Seems like it comes back to you, once you get started,” Whalen said.
“Mmn. I could use some practice. It’s fun, in any case.” Keifon pulled out his handkerchief again to wipe the back of his neck. “You nearly threw me across the room.”
“Well, people think they can throw me around, so I’ve got to be assertive.” The flick of Whalen’s hand acknowledged his own physique.
“I’m sure they learn their lesson.” Keifon took the edge off the words with a smirk.
“Mostly.” Whalen watched him over the rim of his mug. “How are you doing?”
“Good. ...Revitalized.” In this quieter room, he could begin to sort through all that had run through him with the drums and fiddles. “I think it’s just being around people, with no responsibilities. It doesn’t feel the same as it did when I was younger.”
“Yeah, I suppose not.” Whalen considered this. “It’s easier than I thought to do this sober. Maybe it’s easier now than it might have been then.”
“That might be it.” Keifon raised his mug, and Whalen met it with his own. “Thank you.”
Whalen waved it off with a trace of a frown, as if it were nearly insulting to be thanked. Subject dropped, then. “Sounds like you’ve been doing some thinking about the state of the world.”
Keifon leaned his elbows on the table. “I guess I have. It’s a lot of overlapping things. I’ve done a lot of thinking about how I got here. And I don’t mean to speak ill of the Daranites and the Benevolent Union. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t have met Agna, or you and Tai, or so many people who are important to me.” He had to pause to take a long breath, to settle the squeeze in his throat. “I’ve been thinking about how I would do it differently, if I were in their place now. How I could help someone else if it were my turn.” He resisted the impulse to look around them. No one was paying him any mind, and he wasn’t suggesting anything illegal. “It’s still coming together in my head, but someday... I want to band together with other people who want to help people. Not in a church. Just people. Because we want to. No contracts, or, or obligations. You need it, you can have it.”
His friend slowly nodded along. “Like my friends helped me, when I was starting out.”
“Yeah. ...That was part of what gave me the idea, too. I’m sorry about how I reacted when you told me about it.”
Whalen made the same dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter now.”
“And so I’m thinking about who I might ask, what form it might take. If it’s a place where people can go for help, or just a network of people. Those sorts of questions.” The last piece rose in his mind, the one he’d lain awake thinking about. If this idea took shape and the question of resources came up, he knew he’d ask Agna, and he knew she’d say yes. He hoped it would be for the right reasons.
“You’ll have your people either way, once you get started,” Whalen said. “Word gets out. If you had a base of operations, you could stockpile food, or whatever it is you’re giving out.”
“Yeah. There are higher costs if you have a place, though. But more options, too, like giving people somewhere to stay.” He’d secretly looked over community notice boards and newspapers, searching for available spaces. “It’s... an adjustment, to think about it this way. Not assuming the churches or someone else will handle it.”
The younger version of himself would always run to the Eytrans, become disillusioned, end up on the street, and sell his life to the Daranites. That story could not be changed. But he could create another option for the next person in his place. One more path. One more choice could be made without obligation. He’d been taught his whole life that such a gesture would have too high a cost: his reputation, his safety. He’d been taught that it would risk shame and ruin. But it didn’t have to.
A new buzzing lightness joined the chorus in Keifon’s blood. He wanted to run out and rally whoever would follow the banner. — Soon. And not so rashly. He finished his water and thumped the tankard down. “I’m ready to go back out, if you are.”
“I could take a few more,” Whalen said. “Let’s go.”
Agna: Happy and Normal
“You’ve all put so much work into this,” Agna said, looking around the laboratory. This wasn’t an official meeting, but the project had sucked in half of the healers by the end. “I’m sure the Academy will appreciate all you’ve done. I know I do.”
Dozens of pages of her sketches and Alme’s were included in the volume on the table, painstakingly copied and sorted, supplemented by Ettore’s and Alme’s exhaustive notes about their experimental protocols and Gaspare’s cross-references to all of the literature he could find. The team had prepared two identical volumes, one to keep at the hospital and one to ship back to the Academy. Rubina, who turned out to be more skilled with a needle than anyone realized, had bound them together between cardboard covers.
Agna lifted the cover and flipped through the pages, imagining the trip this volume would take back to the Academy. Sending it was as much a gesture of faith as of science: the faith that there would be an Academy to receive it.
“Now, we haven’t established causality, of course,” Ettore said as he stepped up behind her. “There’s been no evidence that these animalcules—”
“—Or energy packets,” Alme interrupted, lining up shoulder to shoulder with the older healer.
“—animalcules cause disease, or whether they’re a consequence of it.” Ettore spread a hand toward the pages. “There’s a correlation. That seems certain.”
“It’s a cause,” Alme said. “If it were a consequence, it wouldn’t show up in the environmental samples, just the patient samples. Think.”“We have yet to prove it,” Ettore said through gritted teeth.
A long glance passed between the two healers. Agna cleared her throat. At least they were working together, after a fashion. “We’ll continue to take samples,” she said. “I’m sure there will be plenty to investigate. Save it for volume two.”
“We’ll run more tests,” Ettore said. His eyes on Alme seemed to say something else entirely, some reminder of an argument carried deep into the night.
“Tell me about your theories,” Agna said, and got comfortable on one of the stools.
Both of them lit up, as she’d hoped. Ettore extended a gracious hand to his rival with a trace of sarcasm, and so Alme, tossing their ponytail over their shoulder, began first. The gist of both theories was scribbled on the board, though the notes were so thick with corollaries now that any new observer would become hopelessly lost.
Alme’s theory was easier to swallow; Agna had read similar treatises during her brief trip to Nessiny. Alme believed the microscopes allowed observers to see energy with their own eyes. Not as a glow, burning off like a candle’s flame; in its natural state. All that remained to be proven was whether the shapes they saw represented the infectious energy before it invaded, or the body’s own energy as it twisted in response.
Ettore paced back and forth across the lab as he described his theory, his brown sleeves swaying as he gesticulated. He believed the shapes were alive and acted of their own accord, living things too small to be seen without the magnification of the microscopes. Like fish they swam and multiplied and ate one another, in water, in soil, in blood. They could be killed with heat or chemicals, and soon found a way back in unless a sample was sealed against them.
“Energy doesn’t eat,” he said. “It doesn’t multiply. It flows and changes forms. It doesn’t live.”
“Define ‘live,’” Alme said, and began to launch into another well-worn argument when Agna raised a hand for quiet.
“A topic for a later debate, Healer Alme. I’d like to stay on track. What we have so far is plenty to send to the Academy. We’ll continue to investigate from there. We’ll look into the effects of different purification practices on the... subjects,” she substituted diplomatically. “I’m sure your theories can be explored further.”
That set them off again. Both theories had some salient points. Alme posited that the Balance healers’ practices kept imbalances at bay because they had been developed over a century of observing infectious energy. Ettore’s theory was, essentially, that they had been right for the wrong reasons. “We’re blocking the animalcules from entering our bodies,” he said. “The practices are good. We just don’t realize why. We’ve developed the practices by trial and error, is all.”
Agna rubbed her temples. “Healer Ettore, I look forward to reading your manifesto on an empty stomach. Until then, we’ll celebrate our progress so far. Dinner’s on me. Who’s coming?”
***
“I’m glad you’ve all got a project, but I hardly even see my roommate nowadays.” Oriana sulked over her drink.
Agna drew a very deliberate breath and looked up. Oaks that had once soared over the mountainsides now held up the ceiling in a tavern not far from the hospital. It was a slow night, and the seven in their party had been given a massive table in the middle of the room with benches on either side and chairs at the ends. Calogero had taken one of those seats, and was already talking about the one thing Agna had hoped to avoid with the other new healer, Oriana, Gaspare’s mentee.
“It’s good that you have someone,” he said. He probably didn’t hear the carefully stifled resentment in his voice.
“Plenty of ways you can help out in the lab if you want to,” Rubina offered from her seat at the other end of the table. “And why don’t you tell Alme you want to see them more?”
Oriana pursed her lips. “I shouldn’t have to.”
“No offense, but they’re pretty thick-headed,” Rubina said, gesturing with her tankard of ale. “I don’t think hinting is going to work.”
“Besides, subtlety is overrated,” said the only Kaveran at the table, a bearded mountain named Kroy, who turned out to be the complicating factor in Gaspare’s personal life.
“Damn right.” Rubina reached out with her tankard to toast with Kroy.
