Janice Hardy - The Pain Merchants

“Then we’ll all take some, me and my brothers and sister. It’ll be OK if we spread it around like that, won’t it?”

“It’ll be awful.” My stomach soured at the thought. “I can’t do that to them.”

Pleading, Danello grabbed my shoulders. “You have to. We don’t have anywhere else to go for healing. We don’t have much, but we can pay. A little food, a place to stay for a few days if you need it.” He looked me over then smiled, an odd mix of hope and pity in his eyes. “Looks like you could use that.”

More than he knew.

“I can’t,” I said. “I was there, at the ferry. I…I pulled folks out. I…” Wanted to cry. Wanted to run. Wanted to say yes and sleep somewhere dry. Shame settled on me like a damp chill. Hundreds had died tonight. Was I really thinking about hurting children for a bed? If I could consider that, I might as well work for the pain merchants, trading on misery for my own comfort.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

He stepped back a pace and looked at me, critically this time, reaching out and lifting one aching arm, then the other. Noticing every time I winced and bit my lip. “How much did you take?”

“More than I should have.”

I’d seen despair before, but it never looked as bad as it did on Danello’s face. I could get used to seeing that face too. Shame we kept meeting in the dark, twisted up in our own problems. “What if we also took that pain?”

“No. You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.” I folded my arms again, trying to keep what little warmth—and self-respect—I had left. Without my terror keeping me alert, exhaustion tugged at my sleeves. I needed to find a place to sleep; preferably somewhere that didn’t ask me to give pain to children. “I’m sorry, I really am. I hope—”

“Give me some, right now.”

“What?”

“Pain. Let me see what’s it like, then I’ll decide.”

“You’re insane.”

He held out a hand. “Just do it.”

No, not insane. Desperate. Willing to do anything to save his da and his little brothers and sister. Would I do anything less crazy to save Tali if she were in trouble?

If I showed him what it felt like, he’d change his mind. I checked the alley and the street. A few folks were chatting outside the taproom, but no one was close. I took his hand and pushed .

He cried out and his hand flew to his left temple. Groaning, he pulled his fingers away and stared at them, a surprised look on his face. “I expected blood.”

“There was a lot on the man I took that from.”

Danello inhaled, blew out slowly, nodded. “OK, give me another.”

“No!”

“You need—I don’t know, room—to hold more pain if you’re going to help my da.”

The boy was crazy as a guinea hen. The pain should have ended it. Should have made him realise what a stupid idea this was and not something you did to children, no matter how desperate you were. Refusing was the right thing to do. I took his arm, prepared to take back the headache.

Memories made me pause. I was ten when we were orphaned, Tali seven. The orphanage had taken us in, but kicked us out when I turned twelve cos I was old enough to work and they needed the beds for the younger ones. Tali was scared, wanting to go home and barely understanding why we couldn’t. Danello’s siblings wouldn’t be considered orphans, not with him old enough to care for them. They wouldn’t even get a chance at a real bed or a hot meal. All four would be out on the street soon as their rent came due. Sweet as Danello was, he sure as spit didn’t know how to live like a river rat.

He’d have to learn fast or they’d all die. He’d have to become the kind of person who would consider shifting pain to children to sleep in a bed. He’d have to become me.

I gave him more pain. A little in the arm, the leg, a twinge in the shoulder. Nothing in the hands or back. Nothing that might keep him from working.

Danello closed in on himself, sucking in his breath and falling back against the wet wood of the building behind him. “It feels different from getting hurt.”

“The body has defences for injuries, but it doesn’t recognise another’s pain the same way.”

“Oh.” Another deep breath and he stood straight, defiant. If I didn’t know pain, I wouldn’t have seen anything wrong with him. Crazy, yes, but he had iron in his bones for sure.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yes. How do you feel?”

“Sore, but not bad.” At least on the outside. Inside? Like maggots on a dead crocodile.

“Good enough for my da?”

“I think so.” Unless he was dying. If so, I wasn’t good enough to do anything but steal his kindness the way Tali and I stole heals. And, Saints save me, I wasn’t sure which was worse.

Danello lived in one of the better boarding houses on Market-Dock Canal, in a neighbourhood I could only dream of affording. His family had three rooms to themselves—two bedrooms attached to a small kitchen and dining area. Though a woman’s touch still showed, it had been a long time since it showed strong. Two dying plants—possibly coriander—sat on a shelf near the window, holding back faded and singed curtains bunched on one side. A rack of worn copper pots hung above a small stove, its skinny pipe chimney snaking up the side wall. They did have a view, though it was only a grassy corner of the market square. I spotted two people huddled under a bush, a ratty blanket tucked around them. I looked away.

“Did you find her?” a boy called, running out of the room on the left. “Oh, I guess you did.” His mouth wiggled as if he was unsure whether to be happy I was there or scared that I had come.

“Nya, this is Jovan. The other two are with our da.”

Not knowing what else to do, I waved, and the smaller version of Danello waved back. Same rich brown eyes, same pale hair, same determined yet sad set to the chin.

“Da’s unconscious now,” Jovan said in the measured tone of someone trying very hard to sound grown-up. Saints, he was so young. Too young to carry pain that wasn’t his. “Do we need to wake him?”

My stomach twisted, but I shook my head. “Don’t wake him. I can do it while he’s asleep.”

We moved into the back bedroom, small but cosy. Paintings of flowers hung on the walls, some painted on wood, others on squares of cotton. By the bed, Jovan’s twin brother sat on a yellow stool, his unhappy face pale and tight. Their little sister sat on the floor at his feet. Her blonde head rested on his knee and her arms were wrapped around his shin. Neither looked up.

“That’s Bahari, and Halima there on the floor.”

I backed away. No bed was worth this. I wasn’t healing, I was deciding who suffered. Saints did that, not me. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. So can they.” Danello squeezed my hand, pulled me forward. “What do we do?”

“Change your mind. Find a pain merchant who’s buying and drag him here by his hair if you have to. Just please don’t make me do this.”

He took both my hands, held them tight. They were warm and for one irrational moment I felt safe. “What do we do?” he asked again.

What we had to, even if we didn’t like it. Hadn’t I always wanted to be a Healer? It might not be what Tali did, but I could help them. The shift was only for a few days, until the pain merchants were buying again. It wasn’t as if I were permanently hurting them. I gulped down air and reluctantly pulled my hands away.

“Nothing yet.” I whispered. “I have to see how badly he’s hurt first.”

His da’s forearm bent the wrong way, so that was broken for sure. The thigh was bloody and gouged, but the leg was straight. I glanced at Jovan and my stomach rolled. Just think about their father. I went to the opposite side of the bed and placed my hand on his forehead. Cold, wet strands of the same pale hair as his children’s stuck to my fingers.