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Man's Best Friend

The Healer's Price

"Let me drive."

"No."

"Why?"

"We've talked about this before."

"But I want to."

"We've talked about this nine times before."

"But I want to."

"I don't care. You're not driving my car."

"But why?" Bob whined.

"For the tenth time: because you're a dog."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"You need a license to drive a car."

"But I've got a license. You bought it for me this afternoon."

"That's a dog license. It means you have a license to be a dog."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if a dog catcher finds you and you've got that license on then he'll know you're a dog and he'll bring you home. But if you don't wear that license, he'll think you're a cat and you'll go to the Pound."

Bob gave me that look.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"You mean he won't just see that I'm a dog if I'm not wearing this stupid metal thing?"

"Nope. And if he takes you to the pound, you'll have to get a lawyer for when you go in front of a judge to find out if they're gonna snip your balls off."

Bob crossed his legs.

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"Not me. I'm your friend."

"But won't the judge see that I'm a dog?"

"Nope. He won't know you're a dog unless you have your license on."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"But why won't he just look at me and see that I'm a dog."

"He's a judge. They're like that."

"Are they born that way?"

"No. The go to school for it."

Bob whistled. Sort of.

"But why can't I drive?"

I sighed.

"Because you don't have a driver's license. You need to have a driver's license to drive a car. That way, all the other drivers know you're a driver too and the police won't arrest you for pretending to be a driver when you aren't one."

"But I'd make a good driver. I like to go fast."

"You like to drink out of the toilet, too, but that doesn't make you a good plumber."

"Do they have to have a license?"

"Yes. And they have to have a license if they want to drive a car."

"This is very complicated, isn't it?"

"You get used to it. Anyway, your feet don't reach the pedals yet."

"Yes they do. Look."

Bob stretched up in his seat so that his back legs touched the floor. They could almost reach where a break and gas pedal would be. I had to admit that he was close.

"Well, I suppose I could cut some wooden blocks for you and you could put them on the pedals."

"Will you cut them now?"

"No, Bob. We're still in the car."

We passed a big crowd outside the courthouse.

"What are those people doing?"

"Voting."

"What's that?"

"It's where you stick pieces of colored paper with someone's name on it in a box and then the person who has the most pieces of paper with his name on it wins. Sometimes you have a big machine with numbers and switches on it instead of paper."

"That sounds like fun. Let's stop and play with them."

"We can't."

"Why?"

"You're only allowed to vote every hundred years and I already did and you don't have a license to vote."

Bob started to sulk.

"I don't get to do anything fun."

"You humped Rev. Henley's leg Tuesday."

"Yeah, but you stopped me just as I was getting the rhythm."

"Sorry."

We drove on for a few blocks.

"You barked at the postman today."

"Yeah, but he's no fun anymore. He just squirts that icky stuff at me and runs away. He used to fall down."

We drove on for a few more blocks.

"Can I drive yet?"

"No."

"Can I drive yet?"

"No."

"Can I drive yet?"

"No."

"I have to go."

"But you went before we started."

"I have to go again. I just saw a tree. I want to check for mail and I wanted to leave something for Zenobia."

"Can't it wait?"

"If I were driving, I could stop whenever I wanted to."

I pulled over near the parking lot of a supermarket. Bob got out and leisurely walked up to each car in the lot, inspecting all four tires and checking for keys in each ignition.

"I thought you were interested in the tree."

"What kind of car is this?"

"It's a Jag."

"What's that?"

"It's a very big cat that makes very expensive cars."

"It doesn't smell like a cat."

"This is a cat that takes baths like you do."

Bob had to think that one over. He walked to the tree, sniffed it carefully and growled.

"Zenobia hasn't answered my last note. Sometimes I wonder why I bother."

Bob heisted his leg.

"Because you had a nice, long drink at the doctor's office."

"Why did you leave me there last night?"

"Because I had a hot date and I didn't want to have you humping her leg."

"Who was it?"

"Cheryl."

"She didn't seem to mind the last time she was over."

"I know. That's why I didn't want you there last night."

"You could've said something. She's really not my type."

"Well, the vet had some things he needed to do. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, but I'd feel better if I could drive."

"No."

Bob sulked a little more.

We were back in the car and pulling onto the Parkway before he spoke again.

"The doctor stuck something in me yesterday and I slept for a long time. Do you know what it was?"

"It was probably a needle. They're long and thin and shiny."

"It looked like that. It hurt too. A little."

"Did you have any dreams?"

"I was in a field, chasing rabbits."

"You don't like rabbit, remember?"

"I know, but I was chasing them anyway. Can I drive yet?"

"No."

"Why did the doctor make me sleep."

"Because he didn't want you to see what he was doing."

"Why?"

"Because it's a surprise."

"Is it a driver's license?"

"No."

"Is it a plumber's license?"

"Sort of. Different kind of plumbing. He snipped a couple of places in your gonads so you couldn't make any puppies with Zenobia."

Bob didn't say anything at first.

"You're kidding."

I turned left onto Mulholland.

"Nope. Snip-snip, all done."

Bob bent down and licked himself.

"It doesn't feel any different."

"Well, he didn't take anything out. He just cut a couple of things and tied them up out of the way. Are you a little sore?"

Bob growled.

"No, I mean, does it hurt to move?"

"No."

We drove for a few more blocks.

"No more puppy-making?"

"Only for practice."

"Why did he do that?"

"It was my idea."

Bob looked at me.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Why did you have him do that to me? I thought we were friends?"

"We are friends. I figured you were getting pretty serious about Zenobia and this car will only hold so many of us. I just wanted to make sure there'd be enough room."

Bob looked out the window the other way. He didn't say anything for seven blocks.

"Bob?"

No answer.

"Bob?"

"I'm not talking to you."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Aw, c'mon Bob, it's not like you'll really miss anything."

"A lot you'd know about it. I haven't seen you hump anything at all lately. Not even Rev. Henley's leg."

"He's not my type."

"Well, I'm mad and when we get home I'm going to chew up the sofa and piss all over the living room. Until then, I'm not speaking to you."

We drove on. After ten more blocks, I made a decision.

I'd had enough of this.

"Hey! You, yeah, you, the one with the doggie breath. Listen up and listen good."

Bob turned to face me.

"Do I drink out of your water bowl?"

"No."

"Do I steal food out of your dish?"

"No."

"Do I heist my leg on your cedar-chip filled mattress?"

"Well, not lately."

"Fine. The I do not want to hear any more of your whining about your gonads. You weren't really using them for anything important anyway, so you didn't really need them. Case closed."

We drove on for a few more blocks.

"Can I drive now?"

I sighed and pulled over.

"Yes, but only from here home."

An urgent pounding shook the old man's door.

"Healer! Healer, wake up! You must come; he needs you. You must come now!"

Luke struggled with his blankets. The chill from all his many winters clawed into his bones and his joints crackled like new ice breaking as he forced himself off the bed and across the room to the shuttered window.

"What do you want? Why do you wake an old man?"

The voice below answered him with words that smoked in the full moon's hard light.

"I am come from the bishop. The king's madness has returned and the court physician can do nothing. The bishop says he will grant an indulgence for you to attempt a healing. If you are successful, he will write Rome and seek a full pardon. But you must come now. The king's madness grows and the bishop fears he will be lost forever if he is not healed soon. What is your answer? Will you come?"

Hidden by night shadows and dim to worn eyes, Luke could see little of the messenger's face, but he could plainly hear the fear in the man's voice. Will I come? he thought. Cursed and driven from his old place at court by a young bishop eager for power, why should he risk frail old bones on a bitter winter's night? But, even as he savored those thoughts, Luck shrugged into a worn doublet and pulled a heavy woolen cloak around his shoulders. Leather half boots and a well-told rosary awaited him at the chamber door.

In the yard below, the bishop's messenger held a restive stallion for him. Mounting carefully, Luke settled into the saddle, wary of any sudden movement which might cause the skittish beast to bolt. The messenger's sense of haste urged both horses to a speed greater than an old man's liking. Gritting his teeth, Luke wound the reins tightly around his gloved hands and held on.

Their horses' hooves pounded the snow into a packed, grey track on the old Roman highway. Luke's eyes watered in the frozen air, his tears tracing sluggish streams down his face. The wind had swept snow against the high banks of the road, leaving bare wheat stubble in the fields that flew past them. Stars peeped through the firmament and the moon threw their likenesses back at them from the smooth, sparkling surface of the snow drifts. They left the level fields, tended with agonizing care throughout three seasons of the year only to be abandoned in the fourth, and headed for the dense shadows of the forest. Luke could feel himself ease into his mount's rhythm. The years between this ride and his last fell further behind with every mile as he gave himself over to the old, familiar joy of riding. Joining with his horse, partners in the same dance, he allowed his thoughts to flow outward, touching the animal's consciousness. Luke could feel his muscles relax into old, familiar patterns. He could sense his own heartbeat, its comfortable ebb and flow surging through his body, his being. He reached outward to his mount, seeking that same smooth swell, but he found, instead, an arrhythmia, a catch, a stumbling, ragged edge in what should have been a musically uniform flow. Eyes closed, his brow knit in concentration, Luke traced the discordance in his mind, following it back through artery and capillary until he found a portion of scarred, damaged muscle. Stroking behind the stallion's front shoulder, he could almost feel the stiff, injured flesh through his gloves. This would be his mount's last run unless he did something. Unless he did something. The biting wind carried his sigh of resignation beyond his cracked lips, lost in the woods behind him. Luke let go his hold on his own consciousness and plunged deep within himself. His hand warmed inside the glove. The heat carried out through flesh and leather, through hair, skin, bone and cartilage and into scarred tissue. That tissue, warmed by the heat of the healer's hand, softened. The stallion faltered, shook his head, champing the bit and then settled back into his pace. Luke felt the steady beat of the stallion's heart with a quiet sense of satisfaction that was soon lost in the shrill elation of running.

They rode on through the night.

A winter's dawn is a wan, sallow creature, scarcely strong enough to separate night from day; a shrunken sun climbing into the sky with feeble, tottering steps. The horses dragged along as hesitant as the sunrise. Luke could see his summoner's fatigue in the slump of the man's shoulders. He could feel his mount's exhaustion like a dim echo of his own. The sight of the king's high castle, rising against the pale sky, filled him with the hope of hot food and a soft bed.

After hailing the watch they entered the postern gate and crossed the yard to the stables and smithy. The Master of Horse, a kindly man who could enjoy the taste of new air without begrudging his young stable hands the warmth of their beds, strode out of the stables to meet them. He saluted the messenger with a broad grin and a friendly slap on the back. The greeting Luke received was considerably more reserved: a quick look of surprised recognition; a short, curt bow and a sudden preoccupation with the needs of their exhausted mounts.

Never mind, thought Luke. You always were a little afraid of me, not that you ever had reason. Of all the souls in this fief, I never knew one more concerned for the welfare of others than you, my friend. Go in peace.

Following his guide, Luke entered the castle.

They made their way through the back passages and servants' halls. The winter chill was everywhere, even in the castle's deepest recesses. The huge blocks of stone exhaled a breath piercing cold that mocked the bright flames in the castle's many fireplaces, defying them to warm the air. Maids and serving boys wore as many clothes within those walls as the king's guard did upon them. They also wore the same look of expectant worry. Even the kitchen, which was the castle's heart and usually full of contented bustle and noise, was oddly quiet.

As they passed by an open door, Luke saw fresh, hot loaves cooling on the tables. Their aroma nearly stopped him in his tracks, but the bishop's messenger never slowed and Luke reluctantly followed, contenting himself with thoughts of rest and food after his work was completed.

They came, at last, to the bishop's private apartments. That worthy stood impatiently by his door.

"Is this the best time you could make? The king weakens by the hour."

The messenger started, "Good my lord, we rode without pause or rest and I fear for the welfare of the horses . . . "

"You should rather fear for the life of your king and the welfare of his realm. Do you know what will befall if he dies without an heir?"

"Aye, my lord bishop, all too well, but we could not . . . "

"Enough. I will deal with you later. If I discover that you have dawdled, you will feel my displeasure. If the king does not recover, it will be the worse for you. Now, healer, can you and your magic succeed where the best efforts of our physician and my own prayers have failed?"

The bishop's words were drenched in bitter condescension and loathing. Luke knew that only the extreme gravity of the situation had forced the bishop to send for him.

"Such talents as I have, my lord, are always ready to serve my king. I can only pray God and His most merciful mother that I shall succeed."

"Pray, rather, to Belial or Astaroth or whatever demon you serve. If there were any other way to save the kingdom from certain war, I'd see your head on the battlements before I trusted the king's life to your faithless hands."

"I do not traffic with the Evil One, my lord. He is as much my enemy as he is yours. Perhaps even more so."

"Do not mock me, healer, or the only wounds you work upon today will be your own."

"What then shall I say? good my lord. You doubt my word, deny my faith, excoriate me without cause and still you require me to save our king. As I told you many years ago, my love for our Master and Savior is no less than your own. I honor Him in my thoughts, praise Him with my voice, love Him in my heart and obey him with my talents, using them even as He gives me strength to do so. How, then, am I less His servant than you?"

"Blaspheme no more! I will not listen to another of your lies. You are banned from this place by order of His Holiness and, if it were not for the king's foolishness, I should have had you banished from these lands long ago. I suspect the spell you have entangled him within has finally run its evil course but I shall give you one chance to undo your damage before it is too late. Then, when the king is once more in his right mind, I shall deal with you. But if he dies, there will be no one to protect you healer. Then the just wrath of God shall fall upon you for touching his anointed, even as David slew the Amalekite."

Luke's voice was soft, yet, as he spoke, each word was filled with a terrible intensity that charged the frigid air as though a summer thunderstorm threatened. "Then you will leave me, my lord, to do my work without your interference. If I meant the king harm, nothing you could do would prevent me. Only I can journey within the king's madness and only I can bring him back from it. If I chose to crush his mind, nothing that you could say or do could prevent me. But I am a healer and, if you are quite finished, I should like to see His Majesty before there is nothing left to heal."

Luke spun about, leaving the bishop to his own thoughts. He strode purposefully to the door without a word for the guards posted there and entered his monarch's room without knocking.

Although the king's chamber was the warmest in the castle, Luke noticed shards of ice in the pitcher of water near the king's bed. Still, winter's keenest teeth were blunted here. Heavy draperies on the walls muffled the stone's sharp breath. A brazier filled with dimly glowing coals stood near, casting a feeble circle of warmth that included the royal bed. The king lay, fitfully, feebly pulling at his covers from time to time. He seemed asleep and dreaming, his mouth in constant motion, but producing nothing more than a thin spittle and a few meaningless fragments of words.

Luke drew a low chair near the edge of the bed. He took off his right glove and felt beneath the mound of covers for the king's right hand. It comes to this, he thought. It all comes to this. If only I had stayed here. Perhaps I could have prevented it from being this bad. His father struggled with the black dreaming for most of his rule. And his father's father. I knew the day must come when he would face it as well. Now, I, too, must sink beneath those waves. God have mercy on us both.

Luke closed his eyes and willed himself to be calm. Letting go of his hold on this reality, he slipped out of his own being and fell into the mind of the king.

Madness ruled there.

Fear pounded against his mind, washing over him in an endless, inarticulate wave. There were no dream images attached to the emotion, just the emotion itself, stripped of any connection to the world beyond. The knowledge that he was seated at the king's side in the center of the kingdom's power held no potency over the frenzy which tore at his mind. It took all of his will to resist the urge to run headlong from the room. He struggled to remember his purpose for being here, his purpose for being. The hard boundaries between illusion and reality blurred, melted, disappeared and all of Luke's own hidden, secret fears screamed into freedom carrying him into new pools and eddies of terror.

With a convulsive shudder, Luke wrenched his mind out of the king's madness.

I'm too old, he thought. Too old, too weak. Even if I were younger, stronger, I might not succeed. And the risk. If I were strong, this would tax me to the limit. A weak old man could spend all of his strength and still lose his patient as well as his own life. Why should I risk what little I have left now? Almost without a thought, Luke shifted on his chair, about to rise and leave. His gaze fell to the king's face.

That face was pale, drawn. His body had become oddly still, belying the struggle he fought within. The only other visible signs of the king's torment were an occasional moan and a few beads of sweat on his forehead, but Luke knew his heart would soon tire. Fear made a man's heart beat fast and when there was no relief from it, fear could make a man's heart pound until it burst like an old wine skin filled with new wine. As Luke watched, he did not see the ruler of a kingdom. He did not see the only man who stood between his subjects and certain chaos, destruction, war and famine. He did not see the boy who had been his student, commanding him to shorten their lesson so he could go learn how to ride and hunt. He did not even see the eager young man who had been his friend, shielding him from as many of his courtly enemies as he could until he was no longer able to protect him; the man who had sent him into a comfortable exile in a small, distant village, filled with simple people who would respect his gift and protect his life. When Luke looked down at the form beneath him, he saw only a man, pale and worn with disease. A man whose mind was ravaged by a plague which would cause it to destroy his body.

King or commoner, friend, foe or stranger, Luke knew the duty his Master required of him was the same. He expects a lot from us, Luke thought, with a trace of frustration.

Clearing his mind a second time, he again entered the maelstrom.

Fear.

Imagine fear as a living thing. It has no face. It takes no form. It rears up from behind, driving cold daggers into your back. It cleaves the tongue to the roof of your mouth, curls the body in against itself. It spans the horizon, horribly beckoning. Imagine a sea of living fear filled with rage, roaring its hatred with a thousand strident voices. Imagine a sentience whose only desire is the destruction of anything which is not itself. Imagine confusion as a living thing with dead eyes and blunt, bruising teeth, swimming in a sea of fear, relentlessly dragging its victims beneath those black waves to drown. Look up for the sky and find nothing but foam and fear. Sitting quietly on his chair, Luke's heart hammered in his chest as he pitched through that sea, searching for the king. He fought his own need to escape, clinging to a prayer and the rosary around his neck. Down, down, ever down he went, searching for the center, the deepest depth. In an eternity that lasted three heartbeats, he found it.

The king lay curled like a child, hiding his face from the fear which was both within and without. Luke forced his body to straighten. He gently opened eyelids squeezed shut and firmly held the king's head until those eyes focused upon his face.

Come, let us leave this place, Luke thought.

The king shook his head. No. I'm too frightened. I can't get away. I'll never get away.

We will leave this place now. We will leave and never return to it. Luke's thoughts rang sweet against fear's tumult, gentle, insistent, unyielding. We will leave now.

Before the king could answer, Luke took his hand and began. The king's madness ebbed and returned, tearing at Luke's grip even as the king struggled in his grasp, but Luke forged ahead. His right hand held the king; his left told each bead of the rosary. Ignoring everything except his upward course, Luke struggled onward, forcing himself through layer after layer of fear. Kicking against a sea of emotion which had its existence only within the king's mind, Luke struggled to keep that emotion from overwhelming him. Every labored breath took its toll upon his strength. Every moment within taxed his will, but still he fought. No danger of a physical death lurked in these waters, but Luke knew he could lose his life here, nonetheless. Like the real ocean, this flood had no landmarks to guide him. He could only grope blindly toward those areas where the current seemed less powerful, the waves less deep, and pray God he was on the right track. As his own strength ebbed, any mistake would cost both their lives.

Deep black, dark grey and cold. Unbridled cacophony then sudden calm and soft light.

Luke felt the chair's back against his own. He felt the glow of the brazier. He opened his eyes. No fear. No confusion. Just the king's chamber and a weakness he had never known before. He slumped back into the chair for a moment.

The door shuddered under the bishop's pounding and his shout rang down the hallway.

"Healer! Open this door immediately."

In a voice hushed with exhaustion Luke said, "The door is not bolted, my lord. Pray enter when you will."

The bishop burst into the room, the king's guards, swords drawn, by his side.

"Guards, seize him. You will pay for your treachery now, old man. What have you done to the king?"

"I have done as I told you I would do, my lord. I have done my best. The king is healed."

The bishop, glaring, approached the bed. He looked at the tranquil face of his liege, listened to the steady, rhythmic breathing, noted the color returning to his face.

"He may sleep a while longer, my lord, but he should soon awake. He will be very hungry for he has come a long journey with me this morning, but it is a journey he need never make again. The king is healed."

At a nod from the bishop, the guards released Luke and returned to their stations. The bishop, perhaps convinced of the miracle, considered Luke from across the room.

"I will not believe this fully until the king wakes, but I do see a change in him which seems for the better. Very well, in the event that our lord does awaken, let us discuss your price. I will write His Holiness upon your behalf, and, if he permits, I am prepared to return to you some of the lands taken when you were exiled. The Church will not, however, permit one such as yourself to return to the place you held hitherto. You also must needs promise to restrict the use of your 'talent' and heal only with my permission. Is that understood?"

Luke lifted his eyes from the now peaceful face of the king and gathered the remnants of his strength to stand and face the bishop.

"You have never really understood, have you, Your Grace? Twenty years of your life spent mouthing the words over and over, dressing them in your surplice and stole, perfuming them with your censure and drowning them in your holy water and you've never really known what our Master meant. My price has nothing to do with wealth or power. Your offers of reinstatement have no meaning or value to me. The position you hold, the position you hold so dear has become its own end for you. Unlike you, when I held that office, I never wanted anything more but to help bear the awful burden that lies upon this man's shoulders. My gift, or my burden, is to heal any who come to me in need. I cannot turn one away because you forbid it. My price, Your Grace. You ask me to name my price? It is the same as our Master's, the same one He paid."

And Luke crumpled to the floor, dead.