He walked along the rocky undulating path, stopping every once in a while to peer carefully into the distance. Surely, they would take the same route and not the roundabout one. He watched for signs of movement but apart from rolling dust, there was nothing. The sun had burnt the rocks white, thorny scrub straggled in the dry heat.
He stopped for a swig of drink and waited. His nostrils burnt as heat cascaded inside with his very breath, he coughed involuntarily. Heat does things to us, plays with our vision. Was that a carriage in the distance? It had been there one moment, now nothing. There was no sound of approaching hooves or ambient disturbance. He wiped his brow and shut his eyes for a moment.
His mouth was parched, he took another swig. Though he wore only a rough cloth, he had fashioned a sturdy belt and a pouch out of skin, it kept the drink well. His priorities were clear.
Why had he come this far, taking all this trouble, oh yes, he wanted to tell his friend the plight of the people. He wanted to ask for money, some help if possible. He must not stutter when speaking, he must explain clearly. It was imperative that he do this before they reached the village and its people.
Too many wagging tongues tipped with poison waited back there.
But as he stood on this barren rocky path a wave of doubt overcame him. Would his friend listen or even agree? Will he doubt my words?
He saw movement, yes, it was a carriage, the slopes were higher than he had realized. Was somebody else inside, an unknown stranger or some trader? What if the information had been wrong, he panicked. Should he turn and walk back?
The carriage showed up again, taking a turn around a ridge. ‘Ah, is that a sign? That must be him.’ He made to go forward so he could stop the carriage but decided against it. He would wait right here until the carriage reached him. He would wave beforehand so that the driver would stop. He turned his attention idly to the horizon as he thought about the coming conversation. There was a shaded outcrop in the middle of the flatland. He sat there and waited.
He thought about the situation. Would they all have to move away from that place? It seemed cursed. What of the children? He had seen them, all burning with fever, a fever that would not subside. Frightened parents came to him. They believed he had magic in his hands. Why, one cool touch of his hand and the sickest of patients felt better immediately. They missed that the dying died anyway. The crying child continued to cry. He explained, there was no magic in his palms merely temporary relief. They were frantic, too frantic to care. Besides, who else would help them?
Yes, his hands had always been cool. Even when the weather was hot and dry, his hands were cool. When eyes were weary with the day’s labour, they came by asking that he cup their eyes with his hands. And he willingly did it. When someone was grieving or distressed, they would sit with him. He would wash his hands and pray silently as he covered their eyes. His hands were blessed they said. It made their pains melt away, gave temporary reprieve. His hands had the touch of goodness. They swore by it.
But there were those who spoke ill of him. They did not like his ways, why do you go to him for help, they asked. He gives no food, no hope, does little work but partakes of our meagre quantities. They forbade his entry to their homes even if the dying called for his presence. He would wait outside, who knew someone may let him hold the dying hand and sometimes they did. But those who believed came to him anyway.
He was no saint, no healer. He had no promise to make and that was what they did not like. If someone received strength from his presence, he was happy to let them.
His friend had asked him to take care of his trade when he was away. He was glad for it and did his job willingly. But all that had been before...
A message had reached him, his friend was cutting short his travels and returning now.
The carriage was closer and he got up waving at the driver to stop once they were closer. The driver turned to speak with someone within and after some conversation, waved back to indicate that he would.
He stood up and noticed a group of people were standing at the far end, why, he had been looking in that direction all this time. The horizon had been devoid of movement. Had they appeared out of nowhere?
The carriage was close by, the driver was slowing down with much clatter. He looked within; it was his friend all right. He thanked his stars.
‘Come in,’ his friend beckoned, beaming in delight. He’d had a successful visit to the nearby towns. He had left with some trepidation and felt happy about the ready acceptance he had received. There had been some murmurs no doubt, secret groups that did not like his presence but they wielded no power.
‘Tell me, friend, why have you come all this way to meet me? Surely, we could have met at my home,’ the friend spoke. He was a rich and successful tradesman. The soft cloth that he wore belied a tough heart and a keen mind. His eyes narrowed as he continued, ‘I had left you in charge of my warehouse, is all well?’ The beaming mask was gone. Hard suspicion took its place.
‘That’s part of the reason I needed to speak with you before you arrived at your home,’ the words came tumbling out. ‘I had to use some of the money to care for the children.’
‘Some or all? I have heard that you barely stopped short of opening up the place to marauders. I would have stayed for longer but returned as soon as I heard about…’ there seemed to be a disturbance outside. The friend’s voice was low, he could barely be heard.
‘I-I’m sorry, I had to give away some of the money it was an emergency,’ he tried to explain and raised his voice as the disturbance grew louder. ‘There is a sickness, a terrible sickness, children, they are dying. They cry for days burning with fever, then their crying stops and they are lifeless. I am tending to seven children in my home, I do not know what to do, we needed milk, some bread, but...’
The tone was cold, ‘One month, you were in charge for one month and in that time you have wiped me out, is that what you are trying to tell me?’
‘No, you are not wiped out,’ he would understand when he reached the village. Maybe their meeting had been premature. He wanted to explain the horror back home but…
The rattling of the coach had stopped. ‘Hey!’ his friend exclaimed as he looked out of the window.
‘Get down now! You get out now!’ the sound came from a distance. Some people were hurrying towards them. They held long sticks of the type one would use to walk afar.
His friend fell back in his seat and looked around wide-eyed. An angry crowd!
‘You have killed our children,’ someone screamed.
‘But, I am returning only now,’ the friend replied. 'How could I do anything to your...'
‘Not YOU! HE, he came here to escape from us, we saw him leave and knew something was amiss. We went to his house. All our children have died. All! He promised to cure them, he promised, we trusted him with our children’s lives!’
‘NO! Please I understand your distress, let me explain...'
But they would not listen, ‘We came to you for help and you stood by. You did not help, just waited for our children to die, come out!’ they screamed.
He turned to his cowering friend, ‘I will get down and explain it to them. I am sure they will understand. You go ahead.’
The friend shook his head, as though to dissuade him but no words came out. He opened the carriage door and stood at the top stair above the crowd, how many were they, almost 30 or 60. He looked closely at them. None of the fathers of the dead children was here, they would have vouched for him. He had never promised a cure. All along, he had wanted them to find medicine.
‘I am sorry about the death of the children.’
‘No, come down, you cannot get away.’
‘Wait!' he commanded, ' I am not trying to get away, I am returning to our village,’ and the crowd stopped speaking. ‘It is a sickness, a sickness like we have never seen before. We must leave this place for some darkness is upon it, a darkness we do not comprehend. If we are to save our children, our very selves, we must leave. But before we do that, some of us must travel ahead and get help. There are doctors who may be able to save us, save our children.’
A lull descended on the crowd, the horse shifted slightly, the carriage shook and he descended the stairs.
The sun was in his eyes as he looked into the surrounding sea of faces. He saw fear, grief, anger, ‘I have not caused the sickness or death, my abilities are inadequate. Just a soft touch that is all I have.'
The crowd was undecided, it stepped back in understanding that their heartbreak was greater than this man could help them with.
He relaxed now, ‘I take your leave my friends,’ a flash of steel or was it silver that lit the air. He bowed in respect, as though to say, goodbye for now, we shall meet again.
When it hit his neck, he felt a shock but knew no pain. Maybe he felt the scurry and cries that ensued, the shouting and chaos, the quiet trundle of the carriage. Maybe he was dead when it happened. What did it matter?
It was brilliant gold. No discomfort, no heat. Pure peace, only peace.
It waited now as it had many times before.
