James White: The First Protector

The man must have heard him because the moaning ceased. He opened his eyes, looked up at Declan and started to speak but coughed blood instead. A moment passed and he tried again.

"Please," he said. "End it."

Before Declan could reply, Sean moved forward, quickly went down on one knee beside the man, and said gently, "Ease your mind, I am a healer."

The boy lifted the man's arms and hands clear of his belly and placed them at his sides, then peeled back the blood-soaked clothing to bare the chest and stomach. It was a long, deep, transverse wound that gaped open to reveal the man's entrails, many of which had been severed and were sliding wetly onto the ground. There was a strong smell of excrement. Declan heard the boy's sharp intake of breath before he looked up at him and said angrily, "You made a bloody mess of this one."

Declan wanted to tell him that the man had tried to make a bloody mess of him, and had nearly succeeded, but he held his tongue because he knew that this was not the time for logical argument. Sean had turned away to look at Ma'el.

"You are a great wizard, master," he said in a pleading voice. "I have seen you work wonders, near miracles with your magic and charms. Can you…?"

Sean's words trailed away into silence because Ma'el was shaking his head.

"Both of you withdraw to the wagon," Declan said firmly. "This will not be a pleasant sight for the eyes of the young or the old."

While their footfalls faded with distance he stared down at the leader of the robbers, a cruel and violent man laid low. His intention had been to slay the tinkers and Declan did not like him for that, but neither did he hate him enough to let the man suffer for hours or days of continuing agony from such a terrible belly wound that he could have no hope of surviving. Declan's eyes moved upward to the other's face as he grasped the hilt of his gladius in both hands with the point hovering above the man's body.

"Are you certain in your mind about this?" he said.

The man nodded slowly.

"Are there last words you would speak?" said Declan quietly.

The man opened his mouth, coughed blood again for a moment then shook his head. Declan raised his sword high and drove the sharp, broad point into the middle of the other's bared chest.

He caught up with the other two just before they reached the wagon. Ma'el's face was impassive as usual, Sean's showed anger, and neither of them spoke to him.

"If you carry a pick and shovel," said Declan, pointing at the wagon. "I would borrow them."

The old man climbed to the driving seat, ducked below the awning, and as he moved between the heavy curtain of animal skins behind it, a light much brighter than that of the moon shone briefly from inside the wagon. A moment later he emerged with the implements Declan had requested and with them two unequal lengths of yellow, planed wood. He gave Declan the pick and shovel, but before passing down the pieces of wood he held the shorter one transversely across the longer, closed his large, soft eyes for a moment and then handed them to him joined together as one single, crossed shape.

"How did you do that, master?" said Sean, excitedly asking the question that Declan was about to ask. "My family have always followed the Druidic teachings, but I've heard tell of that symbol. They say that it is reverenced and used on their grave markers by a religious sect that is gaining support in the Mediterranean nations and there are a few even in Hibernia. They call themselves the Followers of the Christus. Are you also a…?"

"I am not…" Ma'el began gently.

"Nor I," Declan broke in, shaking the joined wood. "What means this?"

"They are the followers of a Jewish lawgiver and prophet," Sean replied in the voice of one who is anxious to impress others with his knowledge. "He was gentle and taught the ways of meekness and love and respect between all men." He pointed to the wooden cross in Declan's hand. "For teaching that dreadful heresy, three centuries ago the Romans nailed him to a tree."

"… but I was interested in his teachings," Ma'el went on as if the others had not spoken, "because among other things he taught that there was a life after this one. I regretted his shameful and unjust death and that I was prevented from meeting and talking with him, but…"

"Do you think," said Declan in a disbelieving voice as he gestured with the cross toward the trees, "that the leader of the robbers was one of these followers? Considering his violent and bloody plans for you, surely that is most unlikely?"

"… the Christus preached of the existence of a supreme being who knew all things because he himself had made all things," Ma'el continued gently, "and who was all-powerful and, withal, was understanding and compassionate with all of his creatures. My feeling is that the dead robber may have need of such a benign and forgiving being."

Without another word Declan walked slowly toward the trees, the pick and shovel handles gripped in one hand and the wooden cross in the other. He was no longer feeling cold but twice he gave a small shiver of wonder.

The first time was when he took a very close look at the grave marker. The join between the vertical and horizontal pieces was smooth and without a hairline crack showing, and it was work of a degree of excellence that would make a master carpenter proud. But Ma'el had used no tools, instead he had merely closed his eyes and pressed the two pieces of wood together. Many times Declan had watched so-called wizards and magicians practicing their craft at country markets or for the amusement of the highborn, where the onlookers had gasped or shouted with wonder at their tricks and tossed coins or bought the magic potions that were on sale afterward. But this simple joining of wood was a quieter and much more wondrous form of magic because he was holding it in his own hands and there was no trickery involved.

–

The second shiver was when he remembered the old man's words about the Christus who had died over three centuries ago. Ma'el had not said that the holy man had died before he was born or when he was too young to travel to meet him. Instead he had said that he regretted that something had prevented them from meeting and talking together as Ma'el had wanted. Surely that meant that old man and the Christus had been alive at the same time.

Just how old, Declan wondered, was this old man supposed to be?

When the work of burying the robber leader was done, he returned to the others to find that all was silent Ma'el was inside the wagon and Sean was stretched along the driving bench and breathing evenly underneath his blankets. Declan laid down the pick and shovel silently and moved back to the dying fire.

For a long time he sat crosslegged with Ma'el's blankets draped around his shoulders, warm and tired and comfortable but with his mind too busy for any thought of sleep. It was not the thought of the robbers coming back that disturbed his mind; they were a craven bunch who would prefer to rob less dangerous victims, but thoughts about the strange people he had met and saved: the old, old magician of power, and his young apprentice healer and servant who seemed to know many more things than a boy of his age should be able to comprehend.

Declan did not know whether he stopped drinking about them before or after he fell asleep. But suddenly he was looking at the gray and white ashes of the dead fire, the sun was rising in a cloudless sky above the trees in whose branches birds were singing, and an ungentle foot was kicking him in the back.

"For someone who was supposed to remain wakeful all night," said Sean, looking down at him with an expression of disfavor, "you make the most horrendous sounds while you are not sleeping."

Excerpt from Ma'el Report. Day 112,538…