Chapter 7: For a long time, he drifted (rated T); open his eyes, and see

Brooklyn, 2015

Instantly, Reese was thrown down to the street, and his body bounced hard on the pavement. Two sets of arms yanked him up and jammed him into a wall of the old crumbling building. Brick tore at him and his head bounced, again and again, on the brick until he was down again, flat on his back on the sidewalk.

Blindly, Reese thrashed out around him and connected with someone, just able to grab an arm. He yanked the arm over the top of him, whipping the body against the brick. The arm went limp and legs collapsed onto his chest. He was pinned underneath, struggling to get free, throwing the legs to one side. And then he could hear the other set of feet running off down the street.

Reese dragged himself fully upright, unsteady, leaning in against the wall. Blood streamed down his face from a cut through his brow, the split in his lip and wounds on the side of his head. The sleeve on his white shirt had ripped away, exposing more bloody scrapes underneath; his hands were cut and stinging from gravel and glass on the street. Something was wrong with his leg, but he couldn't focus on that now.

Reese heard scuffling nearby and he reached out with an arm to protect himself. Then there was a thud, like a body landing on cement. Then:

"It's me, Reese – I'm here." Shaw's voice was next to him, and he felt her wrap an arm around his waist, guiding him. She half-carried him a dozen steps and he could hear a car door open. Shaw lowered him down across the back seat and he felt her pull at his leather belt, sliding it out of the belt loops. She circled it around his right thigh, and then cinched it tightly. Reese grimaced from the pressure and reached down to the belt.

Shaw's hands and arms were covered with his blood. She quickly shoved his legs inside the car and slammed the door.

Reese was conscious, but barely so. He couldn't see, but he could hear the car engine accelerating. The ride was jolting and each heave over the broken pavement bounced his head against the seat. Finally, Reese slipped over the edge into welcome darkness.

For a long time, he drifted just like that.

When he was aware again, Reese could hear before he could see. There were voices speaking in hushed tones. He heard clicking noises, felt sharp pricking on his head. He could smell blood and taste it, too. Reese tried to sit up, but immediately the voices warned him to stay still. A bright light was shining through blue paper on his head.

Shaw was speaking to him while she cleaned and stapled the lacerations on the side of his scalp. The room was spinning and Reese tried to open his eyes to stop it, but his right eye wouldn't open. The left eye was blocked by a towel under his head. He'd just have to wait; so he slid back into darkness and another memory much further back.

Colorado, 1988

Two figures stood on a wide river bank, next to the water's edge. A boy lifted a string of fish to show the man and they both smiled at the catch. They set about cleaning the fish and slid them onto long straight, freshly-cut skewers, leaning them against rocks around the edges of a smokeless fire. They kept a close watch on the fish, turning them to cook evenly. The fish steamed and bubbled hotly as they pulled the skewers off the rocks. They blew on their fingers as they stripped the meat and ate the juicy bites. Reese saw the look in his father's face as they shared their catch together, remembering the rare joy of that moment.

He looked like his father except for the short soldier haircut and stocky body. Reese was lankier with finer features from his mother's side, and wore his hair long. He caught hell for it from his father, but not worse than a cuff on the head. Reese didn't see his father much–he was deployed somewhere overseas, and had left him with his grandfather who lived alone, too, and needed help around the place.

His father had told Reese it was his duty to look after the old man, who was sick with some kind of breathing problem and couldn't walk far without running out of breath. As Reese remembered it, he had spent much of his youth alone, out in the woods and streams, hunting and fishing. He'd had little use for people.

Manhattan, 2015

Shaw was calling his name. It took a while for him to realize what it was. He opened his eyes, but the right one wasn't working. He saw her sitting in front of him.

"John," she said again.

"Okay," he said back, and she shook her head no.

"You're a mess, John."

"I saw you putting me back together, Shaw," he said.

"If you'd just waited five more minutes for me, none of this would have happened," she said, annoyed.

"They were on the move. No time left. I got one–what happened to the other one?"

"John, don't you remember? You took on five of 'em. Two are in the morgue, one is in the ICU, and the other two are in custody. I went back for your sorry ass." She feigned contempt, then broke into a weak smile for him.

"Thanks for the back-up, Shaw."

He could see another face in the background. Harold was standing behind Shaw, peering at him through his glasses. He looked upset–a little angry, but more worried.

"John, Miss Shaw is right. You put yourself in unnecessary danger by taking on five armed men by yourself." Reese didn't say anything. And he didn't want to move right now.

"I thought we had agreed to work more as a team. Yet you seem even more intent to work alone – I'm very happy to see you alive, John, though Miss Shaw tells me you'll need weeks to recover from your injuries."

"I don't remember what happened, " Reese said.

"Because you have a concussion from hitting a brick wall a couple of times." Shaw began to click off each item on her fingers. "And before that, it looks like you had a little gun battle. You took out two, but they hit you twice. Your vest stopped the kill shot, but you nearly bled out from the one in your thigh. Just missed the femoral artery, " she said with a half-smile, cocking her head at him.

His hands were bandaged and he held them up to her. She nodded and complained "– took me an hour to pick out all the glass and gravel in your hands. And, you had dirt tattoos and road rash from your shoulder to your ankle. They must have dragged you, and your right knee is ripped up pretty good."

"Okay, Shaw, I get it." He lifted his head to argue the point, but regretted it immediately as the room started to spin violently. He wanted to retch from the intense spinning. Shaw jumped up. She drew up some fluid into a syringe and injected it into the IV line in his arm.

"You're gonna feel tired again, but the dizziness and nausea will be better. Get some sleep. We'll talk later." He tried to protest, to fight the urge to succumb to the medication, but he couldn't resist it.

Upstate New York, late December, 2016

Memories, old memories from his past were racing through his brain, one after another. He couldn't stop them. It was a catalog of the damage he'd done: a lifetime of fighting, maiming, killing. His brain was on fire with it. The memories. All the faces, and the bodies, and the eyes. Staring at him.

"John," she said. "Open your eyes."

He felt the skin of his eyelids creaking as he opened his eyes. Water was dripping everywhere, down his face, his neck, onto his chest and back. It was as though every bit of moisture in his body was boiling off, pooling in little rivers flowing over his skin.

"Here. Drink this," she said. And she gave him a shallow bowl with a green liquid in it, strong and bitter in his mouth. He shook his head and held it out to her.

"All of it. Drink all of it." He grimaced and held it in front of him, fighting the urge to refuse.

But he brought it to his lips and tipped the bowl, draining the rest of it. Jules took the bowl from him.

He was trembling a little, the liquid coursing through him like a cool river in the heat. She turned and placed the bowl on the stone seat in front of the fire, and then she added more wood, fire blazing, and heat turning their skin hot and red.

She adjusted the leather hide draped around him, the supple leather drenched now with his sweat. And then in her hand, she lifted a wooden stick wrapped tightly with layers of dark gray-green leaves, the leaves bound together over the stick with a fine green cord. Jules held the end near some orange embers in the fireplace, and the leaves quickly caught fire at the tip. She blew out the flames, and let the smoke rise from the end of the stick. It drifted upward, and she moved the stick to the space between the two of them. At her side was a long white feather, and she lifted it in her right hand, holding the smoking stick in her left. First, she waved the feather on the other side of the stick, towards herself, and the little tendrils of smoke from the leaves turned her way. Again and again she used the feather to send the smoke to her. Sage. Cleansing smoke.

Then, with small soft strokes, she waved the feather the other way, and the smoke from the leaves began to surround Reese. As he breathed, he could smell the sharp smell of the burning leaves and their smoke. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, he was beginning to feel lighter inside, calmer. And the racing thoughts, the ugly memories, had quieted now.

Jules knelt at Reese's side next, and with the feather, aimed the streamers of smoke around him there, up and down for the whole height of him sitting there. And then, she moved again, kneeling behind him, smoking him with the sage stick all over his back. Then, she moved to the far side of him, bathing that side in gray smoke, too. When she returned to the front, she could see how he had changed.

His face was peaceful now, his eyes closed, and his brow un-furrowed. She could see his breathing, slow and deep, a comfortable rhythm in and out. She smoked the two of them again, with the stick held between them. And then, she placed the stick and the feather on the stone seat in front of the fireplace. She moved to Reese's right side, and sat down on the floor next to him. The fire bathed him in orange light.

Jules emptied herself, and breathed deeply, in and out, for three breaths. She recited a prayer in an ancient language, barely audible. And at the end, she breathed deeply for three breaths. Then she rose and moved to Reese's left side. Here was where all the trouble was.

She sat on the floor cross-legged at his left side. Three deep breaths, in and out, slowly. She could sense it, his energy on this side. Instead of a smooth, comfortable flow, his was prickly and agitated. Her lips moved in another prayer and Reese could barely hear the sound. Words he didn't recognize. Something about the sound. A low vibration. Nasal. He felt it inside.

The fire – heat – and light. The prayer – sound – vibration. It worked in him, rearranging and smoothing with his breath. And in a little while, it had ended. He could open his eyes, and see.