Chapter Fifteen
Neither Mind nor Body
Elizabeth Cutler
I've had a good day at the clinic.
Yeah, it's frustrating that I'm stuck mostly with clerical duties and only the most routine care services that would, in former times, have been considered beneath my skills, though I often happily helped whenever and wherever I was needed. Even worse, is when I think back to all the drugs and treatments that were there for the asking when I was Head Nurse at Jupiter Station. Sure, there are still diseases we can't cure and with the Empire perpetually at war there's always a stream of maimed and sometimes terminally-injured ship's crew coming in off their vessels, but short of cases where nothing less than a miracle would do, we could achieve a lot. Especially – I'll always be proud of that – after the new protocols I devised with Jeremy Lucas's help were implemented. They helped with short-term treatments that made long-term outlooks that much more positive, and even though we're now wanted criminals and I never even had time to say goodbye to Jeremy before we fled, I know he and all the other medics know what my contribution was, even if it would probably now be High Treason to remind anyone of it.
But even short of all the things that back then I regarded as just part and parcel of any medical facility, I can still make a difference. Antibiotics and most everything else are always in short supply, but Grandmother's experience with herbs and Opie's willingness to learn (and insistence that the staff participate as well) helps to fill so many gaps. I've learned so much from Grandmother already that has allowed me to help where ordinarily I'd have been completely adrift, and in a community that has so little of anything, the charity clinic out in the middle of the desert is a godsend. Practically the last thing I did today was to help deliver a baby, and that's one thing that always spreads joy, regardless of the questions about feeding, clothing and schooling. People chip in and things get done, and that's the way it's always been, regardless of the churning of the outside world, which to be honest nobody here seems to care much about one way or the other.
Well, yes. There's always a bit of a shadow at the back of my mind when I help a baby into the world; I can't help but think of poor little Matthew, conceived to be a weapon, implanted in an act of unimaginable cruelty and carried in helpless hate. The transporter protocol ensured he didn't live to be what he was intended to be, though nobody deliberately arranged for that to happen, and now everything that he was has long been dispersed through Jupiter's turbulent atmosphere; but for those few minutes of his life, he was – as Trip said in the funeral oration – all possibility. Regardless of his DNA and the intentions of those who created him, he was just a baby, who recognized the tone of my voice and responded to it with innocent pleasure. I think even Malcolm, whose life was ruined by his creation, had at least some shadow of feeling for him by the end.
So though of course I'm buoyed up by the safe arrival of a beautiful little boy who I'm sure is wanted and will be cherished by both his parents, the memory of Matthew is with me again as I walk home in the fading light. I wonder, every now and then, if there might have been a chance for him if we'd somehow have managed to keep him alive in spite of all his deformities; if the damage hadn't been as great as it was, if we'd had proper medical facilities, even if the whole power of the Empire's medical capability had been available to repair and nurture him.
Malcolm said not, and absolutely believed it. He's in a position to know best, I suppose, having gone through what he did and having had the most intimate knowledge of Alpha. Odd to think that by creating a child supposedly destined to dominate Humanity if not effectively end it altogether, Alpha was essentially writing his own death warrant; sooner or later there would have been a power struggle, which he would have lost. Maybe he thought that seeding his DNA throughout the galaxy would have been worth it. After all, there are enough examples of creatures that die to produce the next generation, and many will die to ensure their offspring's survival if needs be. But for a person with a calculating mammalian brain to foresee that future and still act to make it happen – well, as logical as it is, it still speaks of a brutally analytical nature that makes my flesh crawl.
I suppose, to a lesser degree, that's exactly the system the Pack operates. By helping and promoting those beneath them, the higher-ranking individuals foster the ones who will one day challenge, defeat and kill them. They know it and still do it, and apparently accept the price. I can't understand it myself but I've had to accept it, especially for Malcolm, who accepted it for himself; though I'm more grateful than I can say that we're no longer in the same environment as Austin Burnell, who at any moment could have put in his bid for power. Even now I simply can't imagine how it could be possible to work quite equably with the man who sooner or later is almost certainly going to try to kill you, but Malcolm not only did it on a regular basis but never even seemed to feel any resentment towards the guy.
Pack. I'll never understand it, but now we're down here, pretty well as low as you can get when it comes to power, hopefully Malcolm won't be in nearly so much danger as he was when he was constantly in the forefront of the spotlight. True, he'll still have a price on his head – just like I have, but many hundreds of times higher – but who would ever imagine the great General Reed would consent to live this hand-to-mouth existence in the ass-end of nowhere?
So between one thing and another I'm kind of thoughtful as I come to the cabin door. Tired, too, of course – the walk doesn't get any shorter, though now the sun's declining the air is brisk and bracing – but I have the sense of a good job well done, and I'm looking forward to relaxing and getting something to eat. I hope that Malcolm's had a good day too. I'm very much the expert when it comes to interpreting his moods, and this morning he was in a bad way. I know, because I know him, that he was trying to control it; but I could sense his grip of himself was fracturing. It was best on all counts for him to get away by himself. It's an old tradition, people going into the wilderness to 'wrestle with angels' (or demons for that matter) and maybe if even someone who loves them can't help, that's the best thing they can do.
I'd have expected him to be looking out for me, as he usually does. But there's no sign. Perhaps he stayed out later, had to go further than normal, or maybe he's just doing something that's taking all his attention – he's incurably restless, and will always find something to keep him busy. I try not to feel anxious, but I can't help a twinge of it as I pull the door open and look around for him.
My first reaction is relief as I see him curled up on our bed. Then I realize it's far too early for him to have gone there and gone to sleep; something must be seriously wrong.
"Stuart?" I dart forward, but Grandmother is sitting in her armchair and shakes her head. "He won't hear you, child. Won't be hearin' anything for a few hours."
I feel at his forehead (cool – no detectable temperature – and dry) and take his pulse (slow, but not dangerously so). I ease one eyelid up and the pupil below is reactive, but slightly dilated. His breathing is slow and regular, but he doesn't even stir as I examine him.
I sit back on the bed and stare at Grandmother. "What happened?"
"No need to worry right now, child. He's just resting, which is what he needs most. But come the morning, we need to have a serious talk – all three of us."
Her face is rarely without at least some hint of a smile; most of the wrinkles are involved in it, which is why there are so many of them and they seem to be just waiting the command to form the pattern. Now, however, she looks completely grave, which makes my belly go flip-flop.
"But what happened?" I insist. Beans is curled up in the curve of Malcolm's body and I stroke her absent-mindedly; her motor-boat purr is absurdly reassuring, though the fact that she is where she is, is not. Most nights she makes herself comfortable on Grandmother's lap, happy on the old knitted blanket the old woman tucks around herself, though she never fails to welcome either of us when we come home. Just the realization that she didn't come to greet me is worrying. Clearly she thinks Malcolm's need is greater than mine, and it looks as though it is.
Grandmother sighs. "He didn't say much, though he's taken a little bit of a battering – his right leg might need some stitching, though I've put some salve on it and bandaged it up. But his problem's nothing to do with his body or his mind.
"His problem is that he's trying to live with a sick spirit. Sometimes he can cope with it, sometimes he can't. But he can't beat it on his own, and if he doesn't get help, sooner or later he'll give in. And I don't know what'll happen then, but it won't be good – not for him, not for anyone else who cares about him."
Physical issues I'm familiar with, and mental health I have some kind of a grasp of, though naturally nothing like the expertise of someone like Ginny. But talk of a 'sick spirit' just leaves me bewildered and a bit afraid, though I can't deny that there's something in Malcolm that's still suffering, intangible and unreachable. No matter how much I love him, I can't reach it, I can't heal it, and I don't even know if all the journey he's made and the revolution from his old self has done anything to help or may even have actually made it worse. He can't forget what he was or what he did, or what he suffered at the hands of so many people; Ginny may have been able to help him to deal with the emotional impact, but to come to terms with the events themselves, with the people who did such terrible things to him, may be a different thing altogether.
"So what do you suggest?" I ask. She speaks of 'getting help' and there's no way on earth we could entrust a job like this to a professional; Malcolm would be recognized before he opened his mouth, and reported the moment it was possible to do it. Besides which, I don't think there are that many professionals who claim to treat 'sick spirits', and those who do are hardly individuals whom any qualified profession would admit to. There have always been plenty of charlatans, ready to prey on the vulnerable, but I hardly think Grandmother would suggest consulting one of those. For one thing, anyone ruthless enough to carry on that kind of a trade would be more than ruthless enough to scoop up the reward for turning us into the authorities, so once again we'd be handing ourselves into the vengeful grip of the Empire.
"We can't go talking about him like he doesn't have a mind of his own or a right to make decisions," she replies firmly. "When he wakes up in the morning and he's had a bite to eat, we'll talk over the situation."
And she takes up the bowl of whatever it is she's been mixing, and determinedly turns the conversation into the subject of my day. All I can do is to lift the blanket from Malcolm, gently unwrap the bandage and check the wound on his right shin as I answer her questions a little distractedly; she was right, the cut could handle a couple of sutures to keep it together under stress, though it's stopped bleeding. He's already unconscious, undoubtedly drugged, but I have some local anesthetic so I administer just enough to make sure he doesn't feel anything before I put in the sutures. I already respect the efficacy of Grandmother's potions and poultices and she's certainly done an expert job of cleaning and dressing the wound, so I just replace the bandage and tie it off. Tomorrow, if there's any sign of heat or inflammation in the wound, I'll fetch some of those precious antibiotics from the clinic, but he'd be the first to tell me to save it for people who actually need it.
"How did he do this – did he say?" I break off to ask. "And was he – was he all right when he came home? How was he acting?"
"He didn't say, child. He wasn't himself, but you knew in the morning he wasn't right with the world. He turned up a little out of it, but I managed to talk him down."
"Talk him down?" Now I turn to stare at her. The idea of tiny, frail Grandmother tackling Malcolm in a rage is enough to make anyone stare. Exactly what kind of danger was she in?
She nods, unperturbed. "I've knowed ever since you turned up here that he had his problems, but this was the worst I've seen him. He may get worse, he definitely won't get better, but he needs help. Maybe now he'll admit it himself."
I pale. "What did he do?"
"Nothing I couldn't cope with. No-one got hurt," she says with the finality that means she's not going to talk about it. "But when something goes bad inside a body, sooner or later it'll come to the surface, and I believe that's what happened with young Stuart here. We can treat it while it's open and oozing, or leave it to scab over and go deep again.
"But like I said, that's something we'll talk about in the morning."
She folds her mouth in with the air of someone who's said absolutely all she means to say on the subject, and there's no earthly point in arguing. Instead I wash and change and get on with dinner, wishing that there was a point in setting out three plates instead of two.
The rest of the evening is uneventful, and almost as soon as the light fades I creep into bed beside Malcolm. He still hasn't moved, and I smooth my hand over his hair, wondering what his dreams are – hoping that at least some of them are happy.
And wondering what the morrow will bring.
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