The Spell-Bound Scholar

Chapter 12

Sister Paterna Testa led Gwen out across the courtyard into a long, low building with many windows, the last two of which were barred. Gwen wondered at that but was answered very quickly, for when they came into the hospital they passed directly by the rows of beds with straw mattresses, many filled by patients who were surprisingly cheerful—perhaps not surprising when the room itself, though spartan and with only a few religious pictures on the walls, was filled with light, reflecting off its cream-colored walls, and fragrant with flowers. They passed directly through it, though, to a stout oaken door, double-barred and guarded by two nuns who sat saying their rosaries, but with their eyes ever aware of what went on about them. They came to their feet as Mother Superior came up to them and ducked their heads in greeting. "Good day, Sister Paterna Testa!"

"Good day, Sisters. We must enter to see to the werewolf."

The women nodded, obviously expecting it, and turned to unbar the door. They went through into a short hallway with four doors opening off it. One of the nuns checked though the small barred window in the farthest door, then unlocked it and stepped aside. Inside the room, two stout peasants sat on either side of a narrow bed, sweating profusely. A third man was bound to that bed with many ropes—if you could call him a man. His face was covered with a wild, unkempt beard, his eyes were red-rimmed and furious, and saliva drooled from his mouth, foaming. The fury and hatred in his face were horrifying. His hands, bound to the sides of the bunk, bore cracked, chipped fingernails grown far too long, and his tunic was so ripped and filthy as to scarcely exist.

When he saw the women enter, he howled in rage, his whole body convulsing as he struggled to leap up and get at them. The men stiffened and stepped in, one swinging up a cudgel, but Sister Paterna waved them back and came closer to the bed. Gwen followed, amazed at the woman's courage.

"These two men and four others brought him in this morning, milady," Sister Paterna said, so calmly that she might have been discussing a joint of beef. "He was bound hand and foot with many ropes, and even then it took all six of them to bring him, for he has become monstrously strong."

"Is he not dangerous, Sister Paterna?"

"Most horribly dangerous, not only because he would rend us limb from limb if he could but also because he would delight in biting us and giving us this same disease that doth make him to seem to be half wolf."

"He was bitten by a wolf," one of the men contributed, "a hateful one, that did foam at the mouth."

"Did you see it?"

"Nay, Mother, but all do know that is how werewolves are made."

Mother Superior glanced at Gwen, and the look was as much as to say that she knew, as well as Gwen, that the villain could just as easily have been a hare or a squirrel; the germs did not restrict themselves to people and wolves.

"Yet we have some protection," Sister Paterna said and, stepping over to a little table at the side of the room, poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl. The man shrank away with a howl of rage. "He is half crazed with thirst," Mother explained, "but the mere sight of water induces such painful throat contractions that he dreads the sight of it."

"Hydrophobia!" Gwen breathed. She had learned enough of modern medicine to recognize rabies.

"So is it called," Mother Superior said, but not all have that fear—only some."

"How can you cure it?"

" 'Tis all due to seeds of illness, small, voracious creatures I have told thee of, likening them to wolves too small to see. We must transform them or slay them and aid the body in making watchdogs to harry them." Sister Paterna stepped around behind the man's head, drew up a straight wooden chair, and sat. Knowing she was there, he writhed against his ropes and howled, striving to reach her. " Tis to be regretted," she said, "but we must touch him, which he will loathe—and most carefully, too, so that he will not lunge and twist to bite us." Carefully, she laid a single fingertip against the man's forehead. He contorted his whole body, twisting his head to try to snap at her, but she moved with him, her face tightening in concentration. The patient's movements slowed; then his eyelids grew heavy and finally closed. Sister stayed intent, frowning in concentration, until his breathing eased and deepened. Then the nun relaxed with a smile. "I have but put him to sleep; 'tis a necessary precaution and will allow me greater room to mind what I must do inside his blood. Do you join with me, Lady Gwendylon, that you may study what I do."

Gwen was quite glad to accept the invitation. She came around behind the bed, and one of the men was quick to pull up the other chair for her. She thanked him with a smile, sat, placed one hand on the "werewolf's" head, and bent her mind toward observing what Sister Paterna did within him. The room grew dim, and the inside of the man's body seemed to appear through his flesh, growing larger. Sister Paterna directed her attention toward the festering wound near his ankle—far lower than was likely for a wolf—and made it seem to swell, filling all of their communal field of view. It kept on swelling till Gwen saw only the tube of an artery, then only the blood within it; then, without actually seeing them, she became aware of the microscopic organisms that thronged the infection and the vastly outnumbered crew of white blood cells that fought them.

The white blood cells began to increase in number.

Amazed, Gwen watched as Mother Superior caused them to split, grow, split again, and keep on multiplying till they outnumbered the rabies germs. Then, incredibly, the germs themselves began to change, withering and drying up. Sister Paterna was withdrawing the fluid from them, and the white blood cells swarmed in to absorb what was left.

It was only a beginning, of course. The germs had spread throughout the man's body, and Sister Paterna had to follow the main arteries to the heart, then sit in concentration while the blood circulated, killing the germs as they approached the ventricles.

Finally the germs were dead and the infection had ceased to fester. Mother Superior withdrew her concentration from the inside of the man's body with a sigh. Gwen followed suit, dazed by the magnitude of the woman's accomplishment. She looked up to see that the shadows had lengthened and the light in the room had taken on the ruddy glow of sunset. She turned to Mother Superior. "That was amazing, Sister Paterna!"

"Gramercy." Mother Superior gave her a weary smile. "Though 'twas more in the magnitude of the task than in the nature of it that the accomplishment lies."

The two peasants were staring at their fellow in disbelief. "Is he truly cured, Mother?"

"He will live," Mother Superior answered, "but his mind is still filled with hatred and rage. It will take a while for the poisons to ebb from it—and I must teach him how to think like a well man again."

"Like a man of any sort," the other peasant said, his voice low. " 'Twas a miracle, Mother."

" 'Twas nothing of the sort!" Mother Superior said indignantly. " 'Twas naught but the skill of one who can heal with the mind. There was no magic in it and certainly no miracle, for miracles come from God alone, and I am not saintly enough to serve as a channel of His grace!"

The looks the peasants gave her clearly denied the claim, but they didn't argue. Mother Superior sighed and gathered herself together. "They wait upon us for the evening meal. Lady Gallowglass, will you come?"

"Aye, Sister, and right gladly."

When they had gone out of the hospital, Gwen asked, "How is't you allowed those men to call you 'Mother' when you deny the title?"

"The poor folk would not understand the distinction. Lady Gallowglass, and would think there is no head to this Order. And, too, they have a need to look up to others who do not seek to oppress them. I would rather they called me only 'Sister Paterna,' as you do, but I am past arguing the matter with them—they will agree with all I say, then turn and call me 'Mother' again." She looked up at the crescent of the rising moon. "We should retire early this night. Tomorrow will be long."

It was an all-day process, starting early in the morning, dining and resting for two hours in the middle of the day, then laboring inside the man's mind till evening. Gwen followed Mother Superior's movements in silent wonder, watching as she stimulated production of new brain cells to replace those destroyed by the disease, increased resistance in a host of synapses, and lowered the neural blocks in others. In the afternoon, she moved inside the sleeping mind to banish memories of attack by opposing them with symbols of forgiveness and self-assurance—usually saints. Then, with images of other saints moving in the man's subconscious to show him the virtues of charity and compassion, she taught him to be human once again.

They returned to the refectory at sunset, Gwen still marvelling at the techniques Mother Superior had used. "Can you thus heal the minds of those who are mad, but not from disease, Sister Paterna?"

"Many of those we think to be 'mad' truly suffer from a disorder of the body, Lady Gallowglass. The body must be set to rights within before we can teach them to think again as they were before their illnesses manifested."

"The point is well taken." It helped confirm what Gwen had suspected. "Yet what of those in whom the body is not awry? Of those who are not truly mad in their own minds but whom others have twisted in their rearing, or who have suffered mightily at the hands of their fellows and cannot believe in goodness any longer?"

"We can aid, but only if the patient is willing—for in the end, look you, all we do is to teach them how they may heal their own minds."

Gwen nodded slowly. "I think that will suffice."

The "werewolf," no longer rabid, went home the next morning, albeit with considerable help from the other two peasants; he was very weak. Gwen left not long after, coming out of the refectory right after breakfast.

"I hope you will visit us again, Lady Gallowglass," Mother Superior said. "There are many questions I wish to ask, much that I believe you may teach me."

"I shall be delighted, Sister, when this current trouble is ended—though I think you may know more of healing than any in Gramarye."

"Nay," Mother Superior said quite seriously. "There is thyself, and an holy hermit who doth dwell by the Northern Sea, and a witch in the West who doth dwell by a lake"—a shadow crossed her face—"though I am not certain I can approve the means by which she effects her cures. Still, she is the foremost in disorders of the mind that stem from the heart.. . . Well, God speed thy journey."

Gwen hesitated at the gate, then turned back. "One last favor, if I may."

"Ask it," said Mother Superior with the hint of a smile.

"May I see this cassette from which thine Order doth derive its name?"

The smile grew and broadened. "I feared you had forgot."

Mother Superior led Gwen to a small room adjacent to the solar. It was little more than a closet with a reproduction of the picture of Father Marco on the wall and a flat box with two indentations on its top and sitting on a small table.

"Place thine index and middle fingers in the hollows," Mother Superior said.

"Naught more?"

"Naught."

Gwen placed her fingers in the two indentations, guessing that the computer within the box would recognize human skin temperature and texture and would feed its signal through her neurons.

She was right; her head seemed to fill with a voice saying, "Introduction to Neurology: Lesson One." Then a schematic diagram of the human body appeared in front of her, superimposed over the walls of the room, and the voice began to describe the nervous system. As it enumerated each component, that element appeared in blue on the schematic—first the brain, then the spinal cord, then the nerve trunks and the plexi. Gwen stood entranced, forgetting the cassette itself and caught up in the wonder of new knowledge. She stood transfixed through all ten lessons until the voice finally said, "That is the end of this recording. Please insert Cassette Two."

Then the room was back and the voice was silent.

Fatigue hit, and Gwen swayed on her feet. A strong arm reached out to brace her and she found herself looking into the smiling face of a middle-aged nun. "I am Sister Cecilia," the woman informed her. "Mother saw that you did not wish to leave the cassette and asked that I watch over you, which I have been glad to do. Come, let us go to her."

Dazed, Gwen went where she was led. "I—remark that you do term the cassette only that, Sister, a cassette."

"What else should we call it—a relic?"

"I would not have been surprised," Gwen said slowly, "or at least 'holy' or 'blessed.' "

Sister Cecilia shook her head. "Mother Moira was most firm upon the point—that it is only an artifact, a thing made by human hands, and not holy in itself. Any holiness about it would attach only from our Benefactor, and we have no knowledge that he was a saint."

No, they hadn't—but Gwen was beginning to think a case could be made.

Sister Cecilia steered her into the solar, which was fortunately right next door, and Mother Superior looked up from several pages of parchment upon a table before her. "Ah! She is done, then. I thank you, Sister Cecilia."

"It was my honor, Sister Paterna." The nun inclined her head, then went out.

"Have you learned much, then?" asked Mother Superior with a twinkle in her eye.

"A great deal that I knew not. Are there . . . more of these cassettes, Sister Paterna?"

"Alas, no. The good monk gave us but the one, though the hint of a second will forever tantalize us."

Gwen knew then that she really was going to have to go to the monastery and that the trip could not be put off.

Geoffrey stood back and eyed his brother's near-naked form narrowly. "What think you, sister? Will he do?"

Cordelia looked Gregory up and down, trying to imagine him as a stranger come a-courting. The face was familiar, but from the neck down he might indeed have been someone she had never met. His body rippled with muscle now, shoulders, arms, and chest become baulks of beef, legs shapely pillars, not the sticks she had seen when last he went swimming with the family—though admittedly, that had been four years ago and more; he had not revealed his body since Magnus left home.

"Walk," she directed Gregory. "Walk over to Moraga."

Gregory gave a martyred sigh and turned, striding with feline grace to the sleeping woman. He looked down at her, and his face stilled with the effort of holding his emotions in check—not quite successfully, for something of the besotted moon calf still showed through. She had to admit, though, that he was quite restrained, and wondered how long he could hold the expression.

"Come back," she said.

Gregory returned, treading like a roebuck poised to leap.

"His body will do," she told Geoffrey. "Whether he has learned to court a lady, I cannot say."

"There, too, he must have exercise," Geoffrey sighed, "and I fear he shall have only this one damsel for practice."

"Scarcely a difficulty," Cordelia said dryly, "since she is so various in her appearances."

"A good point," Geoffrey said. "Who was she when last you knew her, Gregory?"

"A damsel named Peregrine," Gregory said, "who had been left as an offering to a troop of bandits because she had allowed herself to be seduced."

Cordelia made a sound of disgust, but Geoffrey frowned, considering. "That sort of censure has the ring of something from her own past."

"It is men laying the blame for their own lechery onto their victims!" Cordelia blazed.

"As I say, a sign of her own past," Geoffrey said.

Gregory stared at him in surprise. "Such perception is rare in you, brother."

"Not in this regard; there are some aspects of women I do know and understand," Geoffrey told him. "I also see that her choice of name flaunts her deception in your face, for a peregrine is a kind of falcon, a bird of prey."

"The thought had occurred to me," Gregory admitted. "I kept my shields up almost long enough."

"You may need to keep them up a while longer," Cordelia said, eyeing the sleeping woman.

Gregory glanced at Finister, troubled. "Sooner or later, a lover must begin to trust."

"The question, though, is 'when?' " Cordelia said quickly.

"We shall leave that to Mother," Geoffrey said briskly. "She has not returned, though, and there is little more we can do to prepare Gregory to be a suitor."

"I had thought of that," Cordelia admitted, "and we should not leave Moraga asleep much longer, or her body will begin to lose muscle tone."

Geoffrey nodded. "The obvious course, then, is to wake her and let her test the new model Gregory."

Gregory looked suddenly nervous. "I am not ready!"

"You shall never be ready," Geoffrey agreed, "but you shall have to deal with her anyway. Do not think of yourself as a suitor, brother—only a most considerate jailor."

Cordelia looked up at him in surprise, then slowly nodded. "A good thought. You were her warden when she fell asleep; if she woke to find you a lover, she would suspect a ruse. Aye, do as Geoffrey says—be her jailor, and little by little, begin to compliment her, bring her the odd flower for her hair, find a gem to adorn her."

"After all, you may claim she should wear it to honor Their Majesties when she enters their presence," Geoffrey pointed out. "But never be the moon calf in her presence, never gaze upon her with fawnlike doting. Be the man of the world who becomes intrigued, who knows himself to be her equal in attraction and begins to enjoy the game of flirtation."

"Man of the world?" Gregory bleated. "Could any man be less of the world? I have no experience, no appeal, no faith in myself as a lover!"

"I have downloaded a thorough knowledge of the sport into your brain," Geoffrey said, but admitted, "though it is true you will need a round or two of play before you begin to believe you have the skill."

"I can only be what I am," Gregory protested.

"Then be so." Cordelia's eyes gleamed. "Be the scholar distracted bit by bit from his studies; let her think she teaches you the game for her own purposes."

"An excellent stroke!" Geoffrey cried. "Then when you are sure of your skill, you can turn the tables on her and outplay her with her own hand!"

Gregory still looked very nervous. "It is a pretty metaphor, but I am unsure what it means in practice."

"So shall you be until you have that practice," Geoffrey told him. "Come, you must essay it some time, little brother. Fear not that she might overwhelm you or slip a knife between your ribs, for Cordelia and I will stay within half a mile of you, and you have but to squawk to have me by you, and her with us only minutes later."

"You must essay it sooner or later, Gregory," Cordelia repeated gently, "or leave her asleep for the rest of her days, and that were as unkind as slaying."

Gregory turned away to pick up his robe and don it, then turned back, face frightened but resolute. "Well enough, then. Wake her."

"No, that you must do, brother," Cordelia said firmly, "for 'tis your spell that plunged her into sleep, and 'tis your face she must see when she wakes."

Gregory looked still more frightened. "Must I wake her with a kiss?"

"Definitely not!" Geoffrey exclaimed. "This must be a chase, brother, not an ambush!"

"Aye, but before it becomes a chase, it must be a tracking," Cordelia said. "After all, she has been raised to be a hunter, so pursuit itself may incline her to entangle her emotions in yours."

Geoffrey stepped backward toward the trees. "Let us retire, and when we have passed from sight, do you kneel by her and quicken her sleeping mind."

He and Cordelia disappeared into the greenery. Gregory raised a hand to call them back, but fear rose up to clog his throat and prevent him. Slowly he lowered his hand, turning to Moraga with resolution. He swallowed and forced himself to kneel by her side.

Even sleeping and with her erotic projections dormant, the woman's beauty hit him like a tidal wave, arousing awareness of his own sexuality all over again, a sexuality so intense that he froze, frightened by the strength of his own reactions. But as he knelt entranced, the fear receded and he began to grow accustomed to the stimulation. He could have sworn it to be more intense than it had been a week earlier, before his siblings had begun his crash course in romance.

The panic ebbed and he bent to his task, accelerating Moraga's pulse and metabolism slowly while he brought her mind up from the depths of sleep.