Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

‘I’m not sure,’ Steven replied tersely, ‘although somehow I saw a man, a man in a long cloak, he had a bow and was running through the woods back there.’ Steven gestured behind the warehouses and into the dense brush flanking the dunes.

Mark was kneeling as well. ‘Jesus, he’s dying. What can we do? He’s dying.’

Steven had already left.

He burst into the broken-down hovel and grabbed the hickory staff, cursing himself for ever going anywhere without it, then pounded back to where Mark and Brynne were trying to make Garec comfortable.

Several steps out, the old fisherman stepped in front of him, a shadow in the darkness. Steven nearly ran the gaunt figure down. ‘Sorry, not now. My friend has been shot. He may not live.’ He was frantic, trapped in the throes of a full panic attack, his thoughts coming too quickly – every idea on how he might save Garec was dulled by the reality: his friend’s life was ebbing away. His hands shook as he struggled to focus on anything, sand, water, the wharf, the old fisherman – nothing registered, and to make matters worse, the magic was flaring up in great bursts that raced through his body like an electrical storm, enough to level a mountain. Steven worried that if he unleashed it, there would be nothing left of Garec to revive.

‘You must save him.’ The fisherman spoke calmly, and grasped Steven’s upper arm with a vice-like grip that hurt enough to slow him down for a moment. ‘Use the magic, Steven Taylor.’

‘What-?’ Steven cared only that the old man was keeping him from Garec. ‘I must go.’

‘Save him, Steven,’ the old man repeated.

Steven shook his arm free and hurried down the beach. Brynne was sitting quietly on the sand, her knees drawn up to her chin. Mark was pushing down on Garec’s chest in a rhythmic motion. Yes, CPR. That’s right. That’s good. Steven was glad to see some evidence of home, of something sane and sensible working to save Garec’s life.

‘He’s dying, Steven,’ Mark whispered. ‘Can you do anything?’

Mark’s plea was another slap in Steven’s face. They were not in Idaho Springs. CPR was not enough. Garec needed him to work magic, to summon the strange, unimaginable force he had at his command, to heal the damaged tissues in the Ronan’s lung and to drain the blood from the wound so Garec might start breathing on his own.

‘And restart his heart, Steven.’ Mark had read his mind. ‘You’ll have to restart his heart.’

Tentatively, Steven reached out to touch Garec’s chest. Nothing. No signs of life. How did the old man know my name? He called me Steven Taylor. How did he know that? Concentrate. He knew my name. He knew I had magic at my disposal. Focus. Focus on the problem at hand. Steven drew a blank. Take your time. Slowly. Take your time. He is already dead. Catch your breath.

Steven felt the magic that had been raging inside him inch its way slowly through his wrists and out into his fingertips. Dr Smithson. Dr Smithson taught Anatomy and Physiology. Classes on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, with a Tuesday afternoon lab. Steven had hated that lab. One o’clock to four o’clock every week, every Tuesday. He was a business major. What in all hell was he doing in a lab class? The heart, the lungs. Get them started. They would know what to do. Garec’s lung had an arrow piercing it. That was where to start. Gentle bursts of magic sprang from Steven’s fingertips, lancing their way through the dead man’s tunic and into his flesh. Remove the arrow. His heart has stopped; his lung will not flood with any more blood than is there already. So remove the arrow.

Steven started to pull the black shaft gently from Garec’s chest, but it was embedded firmly, several inches deep. ‘Mark, you’ll have to help me,’ he whispered.

As gently as they could manage, they tugged the arrow from Garec’s ribcage. Mark winced as it scraped bone, but with a final hard pull it was out, and Steven tossed it down the beach and turned his attention back to the injury.

Garec’s heart had not started beating. How long had it been? How did that old man know me? Damnit. Focus on the task at hand. How long could he go without brain damage? Three minutes? There is no word for minutes in Ronan. He savoured the English: minutes, seconds. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Three minutes was a long time. You’ll be fine, Garec. I just have to figure this out.

Steven sent the staff’s magic into the injury. The power leaped from his fingers and he and Mark felt the Ronan’s inanimate form twitch in response.

‘Sorry,’ he spat, ‘sorry, Garec, sorry.’

Steven pulled the magic back and focused his thoughts. How far were they now? Maybe thirty-five Mississippi? He had until one hundred and eighty Mississippi. There was still plenty of time.

‘Plenty of time,’ he whispered aloud. From somewhere far, far away he heard Brynne pleading with him to do something. Plenty of time. Steven closed his eyes and remembered Dr Smithson’s class. The heart and the lungs. Involuntary tissue. Get them started and they would work day and night for a hundred years. Get them started. Steven imagined Garec’s lung, the torn tissue free from injury, empty of the pool of blood that saturated it now. He kept the image alive in his mind as he allowed the magic to gently enter his friend’s body, a soft caress like a trickle of warm water rather than a burst of ancient power.

It was working. Slowly, he felt Garec’s lung tissue begin to heal. He felt the blood drain out through the wound and seep into the cloak beneath him. Garec’s diaphragm was alive now, and willing to expand and contract. He must get some blood to the brain. Where were they? One hundred and thirty Mississippi? No. It had been too long; he couldn’t guess. Any guesses now would be feeble attempts to make himself feel better. Blood to the brain, that was his next chore.

Employing the same strategy, Steven placed his hand over Garec’s heart and, breathing deeply, he imagined the heart of a young man, a vibrant and powerful muscle imbued with compassion and love and a sturdy constitution that would keep it beating for many years – Twinmoons – whatever. Again, he released the staff’s power.

Mark had two fingers pressed along Garec’s carotid artery. When he felt the first thump, he bellowed wildly, ‘You did it, Steven! He’s alive!’

Brynne jumped to her feet and threw her arms around Steven’s neck. Weeping openly, a breathless Steven returned her embrace. He had done it.

Steven fell back into the sand, exhausted, overwhelmed. He lay for a moment catching his breath and gazing up at the Eldarni stars: a jumble of incoherent constellations. He had done it. He had saved Garec’s life. The power was exhilarating and Steven had to fight the urge to spring to his feet and send a forty-foot tidal wave raging across the sea to crash against the Pragan coast.

Then abruptly he stopped. ‘How did he know my name?’ Rolling onto his side, Steven gazed up the beach to where the grizzled fisherman sat comfortably in the sand, smoking a pipe and watching the scene unfold.

‘No,’ Steven mouthed the word more than articulated it. A moment later he was on his feet and striding quickly towards the weather-beaten old seaman.

‘Well done, young man,’ the fisherman said. ‘It appears you have learned a great deal.’

‘I thought you were dead-’ Steven hovered over him, mouth agape.

The seaman placed one finger over his lips in an effort to silence Steven’s forthcoming accusation. ‘Don’t say that name; don’t even think it here. Simply uttering it could bring Nerak’s full wrath down on you. He may be at the far end of the city, but he could be here in a matter of moments.’

Steven was not sure he could withstand another emotional blow. His vision blurred and for a moment he felt as though he might faint. ‘You don’t- you don’t look like yourself.’