“We carry no metal,” Trevil turned his head and looked at me, searching for a sign that his words were true and when I blinked and nodded at him, he added, “We left it all in the truck.”
The man nodded. “Then you be follow me, wash and change ya wear before ya stand with da Healer.”
Trevil looked as if he was going to argue but thought better of it. We followed the man inside to a small brick building, where we removed our clothes and washed ourselves with a rough brush and a bucket of water. There was no separation between the sexes and we both had to change and wash together with only an oil lamp lighting the centre of the room. I got a glimpse of Trevil’s body. I am an older woman by any account, but I had to admit I was impressed. He was tall, lean, and muscular, not a gram of fat on him, the sort of body chiseled by harsh living. In Tarakan people only bought or medicined such a body.
He did not bother to glance at me, though, which was lucky because he would have noticed I had no markings of any kind on my skin. The man came back, removed his own clothes, and led us, naked, through a long steam room so hot it was hard to breathe. Trevil walked before me, too anxious and preoccupied to notice me at all.
At the end of the steam bath another bucket of cold water waited for us together with clothes made of blue canvas, which felt rough on my vessel’s skin. I only had a rope belt to tie around the waist. The clothes were the same size for myself and Trevil, so mine almost touched the floor and Trevil’s were almost indecently short.
“We stabilized da Patshin,” the man intoned. “He be ready, and you be too. Da Healer be coming to treat soon, and you be ready to pay.”
He led us out of the building, picking up a fresh torch from a designated holder. Even in the middle of the night, everything felt in order, like a well-run hospital. The main building was imposing even though it was only two floors high. I figured by the old, grand architecture that it was probably much bigger once, maybe used as a life centre, filled with gaming rooms, bars, and music clubs, which was what buildings like this usually turned into long ago, when shopping malls became obsolete. A lot of it was now patched up, though a bit more carefully than the outer wall.
The outer area was dotted with large huts, each clearly marked with a number painted in red on all walls. The ground itself was soft cut grass and there were even flowers and cultivated bushes everywhere. As the wind changed, my vessel’s heightened senses detected the noise and faint stench of livestock, and there was also what looked like a large greenhouse on one side of the grounds. It felt like civilisation here was desperately holding on to the corpse that was postwar humanity. Somehow it made me feel better.
When we reached the hut marked three, it was bustling with activity. Two women came out, one holding Brak’s torn clothes and another a pile of his bloodied bandages. Two torches were burning on each side of the door, and four seminaked men were busy lighting small candles on each side of the road, all the way back to the main building.
A man dressed in a white sheet, a cap, and a face mask came out of the hut. His attire was stained red as well. He took his face mask off, leaned over, and whispered something in our guide’s ear. The man nodded and turned to us.
“Da Patshin lives, but just so,” he said in the same accent as the torch-bearing man. “We stop da blood coming but bones are broken and blood seeps inside. He be weak now. Only Healer could help or he be gone to the great dark by morning, no later.”
So this was it? No modern medical treatment, emergency medifield equipment, or even real doctors, just voodoo nonsense. Brak was done for. I kept my mouth shut though, there was no point in commenting, criticizing or drawing attention to myself. Maybe I could convince Trevil to drive me to the City of Towers once Brak died. Worst case, I’d have to steal the truck, or kidnap and use Trevil as an unwilling guide.
The torch-bearing man nodded to his colleague, who bowed and departed quickly, then led us into the hut.
It was lit by several dozen thick candles. Brak was laid on a table and was covered by a canvas blanket. He looked no better than when we moved him out of the truck.
“Brak.” Trevil tried to walk towards the table, his hand outstretched, but the man grasped Trevil by the arm as two others moved quickly to block his way.
“No touching da Patshin,” he ordered. “You stand in da far place.” He pointed at the corner. “No touching da Healer too, understand?”
Trevil took a steadying breath and nodded, visibly controlling his frustration as we walked to our designated place. Excluding Brak and us, there were four other men and three women in the hut, which made it crowded. I touched Trevil’s arm for reassurance, and he looked down at me for the first time since we entered the premises. His face was flushed with anxiety. He loves him, I thought as I stroked his arm, a show of compassion meant to establish an emotional bond between us—or at least that was what my training told me was the right thing to do.
“Don’t worry.” I said the words that Trevil had said to me back in the truck. “Brak’s a warrior, he’ll pull through.”
Trevil smiled weakly and patted my hand gently.
Good. Trust will make things easier later.
A slow drum beat began, and everyone in the room went down on their knees and faced the door. Trevil and I quickly did the same. The sound of singing came from outside, male and female voices in beautiful harmony, changing chords with the slow beat. At first, it was just a hymn I recognised, an old melody with certain religious roots. If my vessel had a brain amp I could have known its exact origins. As the choir walked closer to the door, words were added and the volume of their singing gradually increased with every sentence.
Praise da Healer, Praise da Healer
Praise him so, for he is no darkness
Praise him so for he brings light
Pay the Healer with your love
Pay da Healer with your life
The chorus repeated the words several times, and the song crescendoed as the door opened. A dark-skinned man wearing a thin white robe stood at the door. Everyone in the hut bowed deeply, touching their foreheads to the floor, and we followed their example. When I rose back to my knees I saw that the man’s face and legs were covered in black spots, which on second glance proved to be something more than sunspots or some kind of skin disease. There was something a bit too orderly about them. The shapes were unnatural, almost geometrical, meaning this voodoo healer must have tattooed his entire body. Behind him, outside the hut, stood the choir, each man and woman holding a candle in both hands. Many of them bore the mark of long exposure to a contaminated environment. Some even had peeling skin, exposed raw flesh, the sort of damage that would normally cause excruciating pain, but they all stood there, singing.
The effect of the torches and candles was like a halo of light coming from behind the man, and that, I had to admit, was quite impressive. The man opened his robe and let it fall behind him, leaving him completely naked and unashamed. I noticed that his testicles were either missing or too small to detect. He was otherwise whole, with those strange black marks covering the entirety of his incredibly thin body.
Everyone rose to their feet and bowed again as the naked man walked to the table. Two men took the canvas covering off Brak’s body and I saw Trevil grimace. The wound, although clean, was ugly, and blood was dripping from it.
The naked man bowed his head and touched Brak’s body with both hands. He grimaced in a show of pain.
Nothing more than an act, I thought. What did I get myself involved in?
“Da man bears metal in his flesh and poison in his blood. He is close to darkness,” the naked man intoned in a croak. “Darkness wants him, he belongs to it now. Who wants me to bring this man to da light?”
“I wish so, Healer,” Trevil bowed stiffly as the naked man turned