The Third Magic (6 page)

THE GODS AT PLAY

S
he had known it
since she first read about the healing water in Dawning Falls. The first articles, humorous stories about gigantic pumpkins and dairy cows that produced extraordinary quantities of milk, began to appear shortly after Arthur's surprise appearance on television, after which he had vanished without a trace.

The second spate of articles was about an unassuming young man named Zack Diamond, who had recently bought the land containing Miller's Creek. Skeptical journalists had pointed out that the so-called healing properties of the water had begun to occur right after Mr. Diamond had taken ownership of the creek. Some sort of moneymaking scheme was suspected, but a thorough check on Diamond revealed a young man of high ideals whose single oddity seemed to be that he had undergone a near-death experience during a catastrophe involving a building collapsing into a sinkhole in Manhattan.

As soon as she learned that, Emily traveled immediately to Dawning Falls and walked without knocking into the tumbledown frame house built on Miller's Creek.

"Oh, hi," Diamond had said as he looked up from a two-foot stack of papers on a desk made of a hollow-core door laid over two empty file cabinets. Books and notes to himself were scattered all over the room as if they had been blown about by the wind.

Diamond himself was far younger than Emily had expected, and there was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was in any way knowledgeable about business, which was the sad truth. Motivated only by a desire to help mankind, Zack Diamond was obviously inadequate to the task of running what was quickly becoming one of the biggest tourist attractions in the eastern United States.

"Just a ..." He became momentarily engrossed in something he was reading, then looked up, suddenly seeming to remember the woman standing in front of him. "Um, the water's outside," he said, noticing her scars. "Help yourself."

"I am Arthur Blessing's aunt and legal guardian," she said without preamble. "Did you kill him for the cup?"

Diamond looked at her as if someone had just knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Well, did you?"

"No! He didn't want it. I mean ..." His mouth opened and closed in frustration. "No," he repeated quietly. "He's fine, as far as I know."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "If I did, people might be able to find out by torturing me. So I don't keep in touch."

Emily stared at the man for a moment. He was afraid. She did not have to verify her suspicions about the cup. By his silence, Zack Diamond had confirmed everything she had wanted to know.

"Look, whoever you are—"

"I'm who I said I was," Emily explained, her voice more gentle than it had been. "I'm not a spy, and I don't want to take the cup from you, if that is your suspicion. If you have it, then it's because Arthur wants you to have it. And I rather like what you're doing with it." She looked around the cluttered room. "This office, however, is another matter."

Diamond smiled sheepishly. "I can't afford any help yet."

"You will. Meanwhile, I can help you to organize this mess." She looked down at her scarred hands. "I haven't anything else to do with my time, anyway."

Diamond faltered.

"You're wondering if you can trust me," Emily said, writing down the phone number of the boardinghouse where she had rented a room. "Let me know when you've made your decision." She turned to leave. "Just one more question."

Diamond looked at the papers clutched in both of his hands. "Yes?"

"Is Hal still alive?"

At Hal's name, Diamond's brow relaxed. "You know Hal?"

"I do," she said simply.

"He's alive. He's keeping Arthur hidden."

Emily smiled. "Hal's good at hiding things," Emily said. "Better than you. Why didn't you just keep the cup to yourself?"

Zack swallowed hard. "I wanted to do some good," he said. "And ... and I was afraid to be alone with it."

She nodded. "I understand." She held out her hand. "Emily Blessing," she said. "If you want to reach me, I'll be—"

"I want you to work here," Diamond said. "For no money, and no guarantee of ever getting any money."

"Agreed," Emily said. "Until I decide to leave."

"Okay." He shook her hand. '"Er, you won't—"

"I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks."

"You could still be killed, though."

"I know."

"And I could be lying."

"I know," Diamond said.

Emily sighed. "I think I'd better get to work," she said. "You're hopeless."

Within a month, the administrative office of Miller's Creek was running smoothly. The following month, Diamond received a large donation from the father of a young girl whose bone cancer had gone into complete remission after an encounter with the healing waters. It was enough to pay Emily a modest salary for the next year. After that, Zack Diamond was called to speak all over the world about the miraculous water of Miller's Creek, and Emily Blessing was left to run the place alone.

She never told the young man that she had gone to the creek on the same day she had first come to see him.

E
mily Blessing had never
been a vain woman—her mind had always been her best feature—but when she heard the gasps of those who had been miraculously healed at the creek right in front of her, when she watched people fall to their knees in prayerful gratitude, when she saw an old woman's goiter shrink before her eyes and the fingers at the end of a five-year-old boy's withered arm move, she had been filled with hope for herself.

Before she went in to see Zack Diamond, she had waited in the line for hours, ashamed that she was putting off the task she had traveled a great distance to do, but feeling compelled to feel once again the healing warmth of the cup.

For she had experienced its power before. Long before the cup had found its way to its underground place in this unsophisticated town, when it was still an object known to men who were willing to kill for it, Emily had been shot point-blank in the middle of her chest and left for dead.

She had been past all hope of survival when the cup had touched her. That was all it had been, a touch, yet it had been enough to heal the massive wound from the inside out, leaving nothing but smooth skin and a blood-soaked blouse.

The cup, like all miraculous objects, had caused so much trouble that Emily had been glad to learn that it was gone forever. And yet now, waiting her turn in the line of pilgrims, hope surged through her body, her heart pounding as she drew closer to the healing waters, her face flushing, her hands trembling with excitement.

And then her turn came to touch the magic water, to splash it on the grotesque scars that had transformed her from an ordinary, forgettable woman into a pitiable monster whom people avoided because they did not know where to look when they talked with her. She poured the water on herself, she drank it, she held it to her throat like a poultice as others behind her craned their necks to watch the expected miracle of her transformation.

But there had been no miracle. Emily had known from the first moment that the cup was not working for her. There was no warmth. The last time she had been touched by it, her whole body had vibrated with its intense power.

But not this time.

For a moment, the entire crowd at the creek gasped and moaned with dismay at Emily's unchanged appearance. But their concern was soon superseded by their desire to experience their own healing, and within minutes she found herself completely edged out, standing alone outside the periphery of the group as they once again shouted in amazement at the miracle water.

Maybe it's not the cup after all, she thought, shaking with disappointment. She knew that the cup worked. It had worked on her before.

A woman rose out of a wheelchair and walked through the parted crowd with tears streaming down her face. "It was warm!" she cried. "It was warm, like a living thing."

Like a living thing. Yes, that was how the cup had felt before, those years ago, warm and living.

Emily made way for the woman, who walked past her as if she did not exist. There was no room in the hearts of the faithful for reminders of failure. The secret of Miller's Creek was indeed the cup, and the cup still worked.

Just not for her.

She gathered her strength, steadying herself as others filed past her without a glance, pretending she did not exist. Then she wiped her face with a tissue, threw back her shoulders, and walked into the building where Zack Diamond sat at his desk surrounded by papers.

Now, four years later, she no longer wept over the scars that covered her body, just as she no longer wept over the loss of Arthur, or her guilt, or her broken love for Hal, who had left her without a word of good-bye.

She had a job and lived her small life, and tried to accept those things as enough.

A
week after Ginger
Ranier's disappointing pilgrimage to Miller's Creek, her daughter Gwen came to visit Ms. B.

"The water didn't work on my mother," she said, thumping a tattered scrapbook on the comer of the desk.

"Hmmm." Emily was absorbed in double-entry bookkeeping. There had been a number of sizeable donations that month.

"It wasn't a big deal, though. She only had a couple of bruises. They went away by themselves."

"Good."

"And her boyfriend never came back."

"I see."

"He was a brainless prick."

"Are you trying to shock me?" she said without looking up.

Gwen laughed. "Just seeing if you were paying attention."

"Well, I'm not, unless you come up with something at least mildly interesting."

Gwen folded her hands. She bit her lips.

Ms. B looked up. "Yes?"

"It's just... well... That is, I have a question, if you don't mind answering it."

"I will if I can."

Gwen took a deep breath. "It's about the water," she said.

"The water from the creek, and how it doesn't work ... on some people."

"Like me." Emily said.

"And my mother," Gwen added quickly. I'm thinking more about her."

"Okay."

"Do you remember when we talked once about how magic might only work if you believed in it?"

"Not always," Emily said with a half smile.

"My point is, I don't think it's a belief in magic that makes the difference. It's something else."

Emily raised her eyebrows. "Such as?"

"Such as maybe it's feeling that you—I mean her, my mother—feeling that she doesn't deserve to be healed."

Emily swallowed, looked away.

"I'm saying that maybe some people just can't accept it, that's all." Her face was strained. "I wasn't talking about you, though."

"I see," Emily said hoarsely, feeling uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had grown. "Was there anything else?"

Gwen looked crestfallen. "No," she said. Then she added: "I'm working today."

"Good," Emily said brightly. "I'll see you later, then." She went back to her bookkeeping, her jaw clenched tightly.

Gwen recognized the dismissal. As she rose, she made a small, apologetic gesture that succeeded only in knocking the scrapbook off the desk. It landed with a resounding slap. Several pages spilled out and scattered beneath the desk.

Emily looked up in annoyance.

"They're just some drawings, Ms. B," Gwen said as she scrambled on her hands and knees to pick up the rough, yellowed papers.

Emily's irritation vanished in an instant. The shabby scrapbook looked as if it were thirty years old. It was probably the only paper the girl had, she realized. One of the pages rested against her shoe. Emily reached down to retrieve it.

It was a charcoal portrait, quite good. The subject was a girl with dark hair bound intricately by a netting of fine thread.

"Why, it's superb," Emily said. "Really, Gwen, your talent is such..." She squinted at the drawing. "She looks familiar. Who was your model?"

"I dreamed her," Gwen said. "Last night. I don't remember what the dream was about, exactly, except that there were three people, two girls and a boy, and one of them said something about healing, and how it was like love, it wasn't enough that it was given, but it had to be accepted, too." She blushed. "That's where I got the idea for... for what I said."

Emily picked up another of the portraits.

"That's the second one I did," Gwen said. "I got up at five o'clock in the morning and started drawing, so I wouldn't forget what the faces looked like."

This, too, was a young woman's face, framed by flowing blond hair. Wearing a long gown of what looked to be coarse fabric, she stood in a posture of supplication, her arms upraised before a large stone on which had been placed ritual items: the skull of a bird, a shell, a flowering branch. In her hand was a dagger, pointed skyward.

'This is interesting," Emily said.

"I don't know why she's holding a knife."

Emily brought the sketch closer to her face. Though the figure was smaller than the first, the features of the face were very detailed. "Why, it's you," she said.

"It is?" Gwen bent over the sketch. "I didn't plan it."

"Remarkable." Emily turned the page back to the first portrait. "Of course. This one is your face, too, minus the extreme makeup."

"But I dreamed them both. Plus the third one. It's underneath."

"It's entirely possible that you dreamed them," Emily said, glad to be on less emotional ground. "In fact, it makes perfect sense. These are aspects of yourself you're seeing, this rather fairy-tale princess persona, and this, a priestess of some sort." She smiled as she lifted the paper to reveal the third drawing. "They're wonderful, Gwen, and as examples of your technique—"

She froze. The spittle in her mouth dried as she moved her fingers slowly over the sketch of a boy on the brink of manhood.   

"Well, you can't say that's me," Gwen said. "I really don't know who it is. I've been through all my music magazines. He's not in a band, I don't think, and I don't watch much TV. Ms. B?"