The Land's Whisper (49 page)

“Why then did he tell me it would take great
skill to heal Colette?” Darse asked.

“Ah, well, just because one knows the cure
does not mean there’ll be time to obtain or administer it properly.
He can sense what would heal the malady, but if the disease has
grown stronger than the person, it is sometimes too late. It’s true
that even then, Dresden has brought people to health again, but
he’ll not deceive if he fears the worst will come. He’s honest to
the quick of his fingernails and believes people ought to prepare
for what’s before ’em, regardless of the difficulty.”

Marion’s stirring of the brewing leaves
halted, and her arms hung suspended. She spoke in a faraway voice,
“He did the same for my father.”

She blushed, suddenly remembering herself.
“I’m not used to all these questions,” she said with an embarrassed
laugh. Her deft hands began straining the tea while her tongue sped
through a rushing wave of explanation. “He was very ill—my da.
Dresden was still working the Healers’ Track, but more to help
others than to sustain himself. He came to our village in the heat
of hitze
,
but my father had been sick for many seasons
already. Dresden merely had to glance at him to know he was beyond
cure. Really, it surprised us all. We knew he was sick, but he’d
hidden much of his pain from us—always trying to spare us, the
silly man. Dresden told us all the blunt truth, and it allowed us
all to say our parts.” Her rosy cheeks pinked into a soft smile.
“And with that honesty, the fear vanished. My father spoke candidly
from that moment on. Some of my best memories are from that time,
even though he was slipping away. He’d call me to his bedside and
rattle away the most bizarre tales I’ve ever heard, and we’d be
shaking in laughter down to our toes by the end.” She shook her
head. “And if Dresden had concealed? No, his way is right, even if
hard.”

Marion brushed a hair from her face. “I was
old enough to leave home after his death, and so I followed Dresden
like a chick after her mama hen. I wanted to learn from him. We
walked the Track for a bit more than three orbits together. And
I’ve been with him now, oh, eight orbits, but have only learned
thimblefuls of the knowledge he has, and that is with grueling
study too! But it’s been good work, and I like the way he treats
the people he heals.”

“How so?”

Marion smiled broadly. “He looks at them and
simply wants what’s best for them… I think that’s terrifying for
most doctors who encounter him; they think curing the disease is
always what’s best. No, Dresden seems to see more than the physical
malady.” She laughed, and her cheeks pinked again in embarrassment.
“But now we’re just reaching into my own funny musings!” She waved
off her wandering ideas with a smooth slash of the hand. Her eyes
turned and settled upon the slumbering man. “Just know that you’re
standing in the presence of the greatest healer of our time.”

~

The conversation closed, Darse took the
other bedside chair and joined Dresden again in slumber. He awoke
to warm sunlight caressing his cheeks and a strange hum soothing
his ears. The sound was rich and fair, bringing images of Ziel to
his mind. He lazily lifted his eyelids and arched his back into a
stretch. He ached from sleeping aright, but his discomfort was
forgotten in the blossoming of his curiosity. Before him, in
coppery glow, Dresden drew music from a shell, lightly tapping it
with a hammer. The hammer glinted silver and was no larger than a
woman’s hand. The shell was about the size of a tomato, but with
the hue of a pearl, and without spot or blemish. Its smooth beauty
gave Darse a childlike urge to reach out and explore every
surface.

Dresden struck the shell again—and continued
to whenever the song grew weak—to produce an unexpectedly deep and
strong noise from so small an instrument and so light a rap. It
pealed as fully as a bell, yet longer and sweeter: a low and deep
note, flowing into a higher and richer tone, which tapered off in a
vibrato hum. All the while, Darse was lost in memories of Ziel,
filled with the melody of the waters he heard that first dawn in
Massada.

When the note stopped, his heart ached for
more, but he shook himself into the present. Dresden’s eyes were
upon him, and had probably rested there for some time.

“You have heard it before, then?” He did not
smile, yet his face was soft and lips pursed in interest. “When did
you hear it?”

Darse shook his head. “No. No, I’ve never
heard that before.”

“What was it you heard, Darse?” Dresden
settled the hammer and shell carefully into his lap.

“I heard a song… It sounds crazy, but it
came from Ziel.” Darse saw no surprise upon his companion’s face.
“We washed up on the shore from the portal’s cave. Bren, my
companion, was still asleep, and I was looking out at the water. I
guess it was just the song of the lake… It made me feel…” Darse
shook his head, trying to find the accurate description. “Whatever
I heard, I felt right when it played, and the contentment carried…”
He looked up from the floor, where his eyes had hovered while he
grasped towards the memory. “What does it mean? What was it I
heard?”

Dresden smiled now. “My friend, you have
heard her voice. It’s the water’s voice. She sings a lovely song,
but not all can hear—or care to hear.”

“Why would someone not want to hear that? To
feel alive and new like that?”

“The same reason why you desire to.”

Darse shook his head. Meaning escaped him.
He looked expectantly at the doctor.

“I’m sorry. I don’t intend to confuse,”
Dresden explained. “You seek life, happiness, joy—yes? Well, that
is no different than every other creature that walks and breathes
and has a soul here in Massada. Except some do not quite understand
what will bring about these treasures. And so they seek what
brings, well, quite the opposite… It isn’t a hatred of life so much
as it is a confusion about it.”

Darse sat silently. He was beginning to see,
or at least glimpse, the healer’s reasoning. “What’s the water
singing about? Why does she sing?”

A mischievous smile spread across Dresden’s
lips, and his blue eyes twinkled. He looked every bit a man, every
bit a boy. “She sings about creation. Granted, only the maralane
know her speech, but I have gotten that much out of them. And as to
why? Well, I imagine she sings simply because she cannot help it.
Why do any of us do the things we do? It is just nature, I
think.”

“And your shell?” Darse pointed to Dresden’s
lap.

“Ah, yes. This is from the water. I caught
an aria from her in it.” He winked. “Well, it was a bit more
complicated than that, but yes, it is a piece of her song from one
cool autumn dawn.”

“What does it do?”

Dresden laughed. It was a low and contagious
sound, shaking his thin frame. “You shall be my apprentice yet!
Honestly, though, it is just water’s song. It doesn’t
do
anything. I simply could see Colette needed to hear it. That is
often the case with those who have forgotten the meaning of
creation.”

Darse was silent. He did not know how to
respond. It seemed like such a philosophical answer to the problem
of a girl who had been kidnapped. But was it really so absurd? He
himself had heard the song…

Dresden smiled and stood, pocketing the
shell and mallet in his front two pockets. He brushed his hands
against his pants and began to pack items into their respective
cases. Darse looked down at Colette, and when he glanced back up to
Dresden to say something, the lunitata had already slipped from the
room.

Strength shall rise from suffering.

-Genesifin

Brenol slouched beside Colette, gnawing his
lower lip. He had been told she had woken a few hours previously,
but only for long enough to discover the truth.

He could not help but stare. Her smooth face
was flawless, dark coffee hair softly cascaded down the pillow, and
each gentle hand rested tranquilly by her side. The perfection of
her exterior was a wrenching sight, for he knew what lay within
must be broken and rent. Too much had happened to her—kidnapped,
shifted from location to location, drugged. And more.

There were images from Deniel that he
shuddered away from, knowledge that caused ripples of grief to rip
down his spine. Suffice it to say that neither Colette’s body nor
mind had known peace. And now she was deprived of her best friend,
her brother. How could she endure Deniel’s death? He had seen her
eyes looking up into his in those memories. He knew the love she
carried for him. He knew.

He longed to right her life, right her
heart. He sighed, “Zette…”

It was only a whisper, but she stirred at
the sound.

Brenol stood up anxiously. He bent over her,
hand resting gently upon her arm.

She smiled before opening her eyes, and her
hand reached out and squeezed his. But when she did raise her
vision to take in the room, her face clouded and grew distraught.
“Where is Deniel? Wasn’t he here?”

Reality and memory crashed upon her with
force. She moaned, and the sound seemed like a whisper from the
grave, low and weak. Her frail hands shakily gathered the blankets
up to her face, and she curled her body into a tight ball.

Brenol frowned. “Colette… I… I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have called you that.”

Colette’s pale face narrowed and hardened.
“How did you know that name?” she snapped. “Who are you?” Her eyes
flashed dangerously.

Brenol could barely speak. She was so cold.
He fumbled again through an apology.

Why can’t I just tell her? She should know
about Deniel…about what he did for her in the cave.

Tears rolled down her face in a silent
fountain. She forced her body up to a sit. Her limbs betrayed their
disuse, but her fear and obstinacy bulled through any physical
limitation. Colette turned to the bedside window and pushed the
thick canvas flap aside. She grasped the sill from her seat and
stared out the single pane, eyeing the approaching dusk.

Slivers of silver clouds smeared across the
darkening sky while a patch of pink still loomed in the horizon.
The cool, held back by the canvas drop, now seeped into the room,
and Brenol clutched his arms—bare, save for the goose bumps.

Just tell her. Just tell her. She needs to
know.

He shook—not entirely from the cold—and
spoke. It came out awkwardly but truthfully. He told her all, save
her own actions in the cave. No one needed to know that. No
one.

A minute elapsed before she acknowledged
him, but when she did, Brenol almost wished she had not. “Den’s
memories are in your head?” Her face was sharp and narrow, ready to
attack.

Brenol stood, dumbfounded.

“Answer me!” she spat.

His words came out slowly, afraid. “Yes. But
only some of them,” he added guiltily.

Her anger was palpable: her fingers clutched
violently in thin air, her shoulders curled forward with neck
retracted, her upper lip curved into a snarl. “
My
brother
and
my
friendship and
my
memories—in
you
! I
hate you! Get away!” Loathing drenched her face as her venomous
tongue continued. “Nothing’s mine anymore. Jerem took it all, even
Den. And now
you
have the pieces? I hate you.” Her eyes were
hard as flint, daring him to fight.

Brenol flushed from the injustice, but then
his thoughts rearranged and offered him an unusual composure. He
knew suddenly that this was not about him.
I’ve done nothing to
her. Nothing.
The realization calmed him, and he peered at her
with pity.
She really has lost everything. There’s nothing I can
say that’ll fix it. Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I can’t undo
the awful stuff that’s happened.”

He turned and reluctantly shuffled from the
room, feet as cumbersome as bags of wet sand. After closing the
door, he heard her release a desperate shout of incomprehensible
anger, followed by uncontrollable sobbing.

His stomach knotted. He had never known love
could tax a soul so raw.

~

Brenol returned the following day. And the
next.

She permitted him to stay with her for a few
moments, sometimes minutes, and then would order him to leave. This
continued for many days. All the while, his flashes became more
regular. He rarely had headaches from them anymore, and if they did
come, they passed quickly and without any loss of consciousness.
His understanding of what had happened to Colette grew steadily,
deepening his compassion for and patience with her. She had lived a
hell from which even the darkest of souls should be spared.

At first, Brenol had feared these memories
were overpowering him, transforming him into Deniel, but as the
urgency and pain eased, the fear of losing himself also dissipated.
Instead, he anticipated the pictures with a hungry eye, for
Deniel’s experiences granted him a perception and insight he never
could have otherwise gained. Deniel’s life sobered him—awakening
him from a long-held childishness—while somehow also restoring him
with hope and purpose. Whether because of Deniel or Colette, the
craving for Veronia no longer hounded him. He wondered whether the
nuresti connection was still present, but he contemplated it more
in curiosity than under a boiling greed. He was suddenly filled
with pride and newfound self-respect.

He was blind to it, but others observed it
keenly; Brenol was now no longer a mix of adult and child. He was
fully a man.

The hands of the corrupt carry destruction; their
evil spreads like ripples in water.

To calm its force is a feat for heroes.

-Genesifin

Half a moon elapsed, and Colette slowly
acclimated more to his presence. She allowed him to sit with her
for longer stretches, yet silence persisted through the duration.
Brenol’s remaining time was spent walking the grounds. The dark
brown earth meeting the golden skies had a calming curve that
allowed him a breath of solace as each day passed. The terrisdan
Selenia was a quiet one, but its eye nonetheless bore upon Brenol,
and he found the open air proved best for gazing back.