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Tears rolled down his cheeks. She helped him to his feet, and held him.
"Mentor," he said, "we are going to lose him."
"He is in Shanta's hands now," she responded. "Whatever happens, she will be
with him."
He wiped his eyes. When he seemed to have steadied, she took his arm.
"Come with me," she said softly.
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They left the sitting room, went down a stairway, and passed into a long
marble corridor illuminated by lanterns. Murals depicted Shanta in her various
aspects, creating life, sending the rain, protecting the child Tira against
the ser-
pent, appearing in blood-covered clothes to inform the Illyri-ans that she had
fought beside their sons at the battle of Darami.
They passed between twin columns, suggesting the Goddess's support for the
world, and ascended into the sanctuary.
The sanctuary was oval-shaped, dominated by a small unadorned altar. The only
light in the room came from a brazier, which contained the Living Fire,
brought to the Illyrians by Havram, who had it from the Holy One herself.
So long as these flames brighten my chapel will they give strength to your
spirit and to your body. Nourish them and live forever in me.
Sarim, broad, gruff, devout
Sarim, was waiting. He held an unlit torch, which she took from him.
"Blessed be the eternal light," she said, and pressed the torch into the
father's hand. He took it, and she helped him hold it over the brazier until
it caught.
Moments later, they passed out of the Temple into the streets. It was a windy
night. The torch, in Sarim's grip, flickered and blazed and Avila's cloak
tugged at her shoulders. Sarim and the father walked side by side. Avila, a
few steps behind, bowed her head and prayed fervently.
Goddess, if it be your will
His name was Tully. He was nine years old, and afflicted with a wasting
disease that had not responded to her array of medicines, poultices, and
palliatives. She had seen it before, the graying of the skin, the loss of
weight, the aching joints. And the gradual deterioration of the will to live.
Usually, the victims
were elderly.
Tully had been coming to the Temple for almost four months. At first
reluctant, and anxious to be away to join his friends, he had not responded to
her ministrations. In time the impatience in his eyes had broken and given way
to sadness. The boy had grown to trust her, and he fought the disease with
courage. But despite all she could do, he grew weaker with each visit. The
parents brought with them a childlike faith that broke her heart.
Be with him in the ordeal to come.
He had been a bright, green-eyed child filled with laughter when she'd first
seen him. Now he was wasted and out of his head, and his fevers raged all the
time. "Help him, Mentor," the mother had pleaded.
Tully was covered with damp cloths, in an effort to contain the fever. But his
eyes were vacant. He was already effectively gone.
Avila could not restrain her own tears.
Shanta, where are you?
She accepted the torch from Sarim and held it for the father. He took it
desperately and plunged it into the pile of sticks and coals in the brazier at
the side of the bed. They began to burn.
From the front of the house, where relatives were gathered, Avila heard
muffled sobs. She took the boy's wrist and counted silently. His pulse was
very weak.
She could not bring herself to look into the eyes of either parent. Instead,
she laid the emaciated arm back atop the sheet, but did not let go of it, and
bowed her head.
Mother Shanta, I never ask any boon for myself. I know that you are with me
now, and are always with me, and that is enough. I will accept without
complaint whatever your judgment for me. But please save the child. Do not let
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him die.
She watched the hopes of the parents fade, watched the boy's struggles weaken,
watched the relatives file one by one into the room to take their leave.
The wind worked at the windows and the frail flame in the brazier sputtered
and gasped.
Whatever your judgment
"Mentor?"
"I do not know." She resented their importunities. Why did they demand so much
of her, as if the divine power were hers to wield?
In the hour after midnight, the thin body ceased its struggles, the labored
breathing stopped, and Avila closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. The
mother tried to gather him to her breast and the father slumped against the
wall, whispering his son's name as if to call him back.
Shanta, accept to your care Tully, who lived only a handful of years in this
world.
On the way back to the Temple, Sarim asked whether she was all right. "I'm
fine," she said. And then, after a couple of silent minutes: "What's the point
of a god who never intervenes?"
6
The young Avila had loved riding along the banks of the moonlit Mississippi
with her father, hoping that Lyka Moonglow would put in an appearance.
No one has seen her for a long time, Avila. She's shy and prefers to come when
no one is about. But your grandmother once saw her.
There had been times when Avila was sure she'd also seen Lyka, a quick burst
of iridescence skimming the dark waters, a glowing curve much like a smile in
the night. But she'd understood that the adults were amused by her claims even
while they pretended to be amazed by them. In those days, the skies and the
forest had been full of divine power, voices speaking to her, unseen hands
turning the inner workings of day and night.
It was a vision she'd never forgot, even when tensions had risen in the
family, and she'd run off to Farroad where for three years she'd danced and
played for the men who worked the river.
Men had fought over her in those days. And one, whose name she'd never known,
a young one not yet twenty, had died. She'd knelt in the street that night
with her arms full of blood and felt for the first time the presence of the
Goddess.
What more natural than that Avila Kap would, at the somewhat late age of
twenty-two, enter the Order of Shanta the Healer, and dedicate herself to a
life of service to gods and men?
It had been a fulfilling existence. During the early days she'd heard divine
footsteps beside her in the dark streets as she hurried to assist stricken
families.
But in time the sound had faded, like voices in a passing boat. On the night
that
Tully had slipped away, she'd returned to her cubicle, warm against the chill
rain, and had lain awake well into the dawn, sensing nothing in the dark, no
power, no spirit lingering to heal the healer, no whispered assurance that
there was purpose to it all.
She was alone. They were all alone. What had the young man, the one they
called Orvon, said at Silas's seminar?
We may be seeing only what we wish to see.
She had sensed in him a desire to believe, and a smoldering anger.
But if no god went with her into the night, how was it that the medicines
worked?
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