Paint the Wind

  "How very Christian of him," Fancy said bitterly. She sat stone-still for a minute, then stood up, as if she'd made up her mind about something major.

  "Then we just can't let her die, can we?" she said. Before Ford could answer, she was gone.

  Ford Jameson laid his head on Julia's breast and cried for only the second time in his life.

  Magda listened to Fancy's story with alarm; Jewel sounded so gravely ill, she might well be beyond their reach.

  "Death is a transformation, Fancy," she said carefully. "A process that goes through stages before the separation of soul and body are complete." She could see clearly the guilt that Fancy carried and the love she bore Jewel. "Once the seed atoms which connect spirit and matter have been reabsorbed by the Oversoul, no one on this side of the Veil can halt the transformation. If she is as ill as you say, child, what you ask may be impossible. It would take immense strength and fortitude even to try to call her back."

  "But I'll help you, Magda," Fancy pleaded, swiping at her tears. "Maybe Wu will, too. Please say you'll try to save her—I'll never forgive myself if Jewel dies because of me. And think of Ford... oh, Magda, he'll have no one left in this whole damned world to love."

  Magda glanced at Wes, and his compassionate smile gave her courage. "If we are to wage battle for her life, we will require four healers," she said thoughtfully. "Four stalwart souls can generate a great deal of energy—you and Wu and I will need one more person who is willing to storm heaven on Jewel's behalf. But I must warn you, Fancy, this task will require courage and brutal self-honesty—one cannot seek to do God's work with a sullied soul." She turned her gaze upon the dwarf, who watched them from the far corner of the room.

  "Will you help us, old friend?" she asked him gently; her eyes seemed to grip Gitalis, so that he felt transparent beneath her gaze. "Understand that to do so you must confess your most secret sins to your God and beg of Him forgiveness."

  Gitalis stared at Magda, wondering greatly that she should have chosen him for such an effort. Could it be she knew how desperately he needed absolution?

  "I am a sinful man, Magda," he said quietly. "But who knows my imperfections better than you, unless it be God? I will do my best for you, if you show me the way."

  The three friends collected Wu from Chinatown, and headed for the doctor's office, praying they were not already too late.

  The room where Jewel lay seemed silent as the grave; the color of her skin matched the muslin sheet that covered her.

  "If you have an object you hold sacred, place it in your hand," Magda told the three would-be healers. "We must connect our souls to the Unseen with unshakable intensity." Self-consciously, Gitalis tugged a silver rosary from his pocket and Wu brought forth a small gold amulet from beneath his robe. Fancy searched her mind for something she might hold, but she had no such talisman.

  "I have nothing sacred to bring, Magda," she said worriedly, and the Gypsy handed her a clear quartz crystal from the pouch she always carried at her belt.

  "Your friendship is the sacred gift you bring, Fancy," Magda said reassuringly—she moved swiftly to the table on which Jewel lay near death.

  Magda examined the festering wound with the gravity of a practiced physician; it was easy to read in her face that Jewel was in terrible danger. The Gypsy stood for a moment above the body of the injured woman, eyes closed, sensing with her hands and intuition.... She spoke to the doctor in measured tones.

  "Dr. Philmore, I must ask you not to interfere with what we strive to accomplish this night. I believe you already know there is little more that a mortal doctor can do here. We must petition the Great Physician for this woman's life."

  The doctor shook his silvery head in firm agreement. "I Wouldn't give you a plug nickel for her chances, as things stand now. If you've got some miracle up your sleeve, madam, you just go about your business with my blessing. I hope I never get so old I cain't learn somethin' new."

  Magda nodded her acknowledgment and turned to the small worried band of helpers, hovering nearby.

  "My friends," she said gently. "We seek to call Jewel back from a journey of transformation. You must understand that she may not wish to return with us... if this is so, you must find the courage to send her forth in love. All healing is God's work... we wish only to act as channels for His infinite mercy—but to do this we must be as pure as we are able, within the boundaries of our own human frailty.

  "I ask each of you to search your own soul with unflinching honesty. Whatever blemishes you find there, you must purge without compunction if you wish to save her. This honesty will be your sacrifice to lay before the Throne... you need not speak your confessions aloud, but you must ask forgiveness nonetheless, with your whole strength and with your unstinting intent."

  Gitalis stepped forward and knelt reverently beside the sheet-draped table.

  "I will say the words aloud," he said resolutely. "I wish to make certain heaven hears my confession." He took a long, deep breath and spoke again.

  "I killed my father," he said. "It was very long ago."

  Startled eyes turned toward the dwarf's stricken face.

  "He hated me because my small stature demeaned him. He tormented my mother because of her failure to produce the proper heir to his fortune.

  "I studied night and day, in an effort to please him and to protect her from his wrath. I learned eight languages, but none spoke to his granite heart. I rode like a centaur, I fenced, I learned marksmanship. I honed my intellect as if by doing so I could debate him into loving me... force him to logic or ethic or morality. Instead, he struck me from his will.

  "I went to bid my mother farewell and found her at the madman's feet, bloodied and beaten.

  "He screamed unholy things at me... called me names I shall carry to my grave. We grappled and he pulled a sword from a display of arms near the bed and cut me to the bone... but in the end I was the better swordsman, for his hatred had driven me to excellence."

  "Your father chose his own death, Gitalis," Magda said firmly. "We all choose our own death."

  "We all do not have a son to help us do the deed," he replied sardonically. "I beg forgiveness for my sin with my whole heart."

  Wu raised his eyes to each of the members of the group in turn, as if deciding... the only sound in the hushed room seemed that of Jewel's labored breathing.

  "Long ago," he said finally, "in another lifetime... I escaped a hideous death by leaving my comrades behind me to die in my stead. Perhaps it was their destiny to die... but their cries are shrill and unrelenting in my dreams, and I fear I must carry my own cowardice and their torment to the seat of Judgment."

  Fancy could see that there were tears glistening in his dark eyes, before he averted them.

  She stepped forward uncertainly and clasped Jewel's hand tightly in her own; her voice wavered with emotion as she spoke her ancient secrets.

  "I pushed Atticus to go on when he was too old to travel," she said humbly. "I didn't listen when Chance came to me for understanding... I forced Hart away, when I could have made him happy with my love. I hurt Aurora without even knowing how much she suffered." She shut her eyes and took a breath, then hurried on.

  "I got Jewel into this mess... if she gets out of it, I swear I'll never do another headstrong, selfish thing 'til the day I die."

  Magda made an arcane sign with her hands as she, too, stepped forward to Jewel's side.

  "My sins are legion," she said, gravely. "But arrogance and lust must lead the list. Forgive me, Father... forgive me, Mother. Give me the strength to deliver this kind woman back to those who love her enough to humble themselves before You... they sacrifice their pride to help a friend. I ask this boon not as a priestess, but as the humblest supplicant before Your Eternal Throne."

  The words seemed to echo in the ears of those assembled— Fancy saw Ford and Hart had entered the small room and wondered how much they'd heard.

  Magda waited for Fancy to finish, then stepped forward to speak.


  "Jewel's energy system has been disrupted by the bullet wound and her heart chakra ebbs life-force," she said. "We must share our strength with Jewel to keep her soul from leaving the body— we must lend her our life force for whatever time it takes to call her back. I will attempt to channel healing to the wound, but while I work, you must give of yourselves, more than you know you can give. If we are successful, her body's own resources will take charge and she will remain on this side of the Veil."

  Magda instructed Wu to clasp Jewel's feet, with his thumbs pressed to the center of each sole, and she positioned Fancy and Gitalis on either side of their patient, with their hands on a spot just above her hipbones. The Gypsy then moved her own strong hands to the top of Jewel's head, and as she did so a current of electric energy seemed to radiate from her touch.

  Fancy caught Gitalis' eyes across Jewel's body, for the flesh that had been cold beneath her hands had suddenly begun to pulsate with some unseen force. She could see by his astonished expression that he, too, could feel the energy surging from Magda to Jewel; it seemed to have filled each of them with a quivering fire... each face around the table was alive with an unaccustomed light.

  Magda leaned forward and placed her face close to Jewel's heart—Fancy could see she held a crystal in each hand. An indescribable sound arose in the Gypsy's throat, a shriek, a keen, a note of such intensive clarity, it was unlike any the watchers had ever heard from a human throat.

  "She recharges the heart with its own eternal sound," Wu murmured as Magda raised herself, and all could see by her rapt expression that she was in a healing trance of some profound kind. She placed one hand beneath Jewel's back and laid the other one atop the ugly chest wound. All three around the table felt a surge of energy so staggering, they could barely keep their hands in place; the electricity pulsed and sizzled around them like ice-cold fire. Jewel's body on the table bounced and jerked between Magda's unrelenting hands, and Fancy felt afraid. She thought her knees would buckle with the effort to stay upright, but she held on doggedly and prayed for all she was worth.

  Deep into the night, the four kept their shared vigil, exhaustion lapping at their reserves. Each prayed within his own soul for mercy, and Fancy knew in her heart that Jewel was not the only one whom Magda intended to be healed before morning. She marveled at the Gypsy's stamina, for she seemed to be pouring forth enough energy to power the whole of Leadville.

  It was nearly dawn when Jewel opened her eyes and tried hard to focus on the group around her. The deadly pallor of her skin had been replaced by the faintest flush of color, and the inflammation around the terrible wound had somehow been transmuted to a healthier hue.

  "I had a dream..." she murmured thickly. "There was a Light... Dakota touched my hand..." Fancy saw Magda close her eyes and lift her face to heaven and she knew the Gypsy thanked her gods.

  "Jewel wasn't the only one of us who needed to be healed, was she, Magda?" Fancy whispered as she saw her return to more normal consciousness; she seemed weary but at peace.

  "We are all pilgrims, Fancy," Magda replied gently. "When we strive to help a fellow wayfarer on the Path, we touch God's outstretched hand. By giving we receive... it is the Law."

  When Magda had released them from their places and Ford had taken up the vigil at Jewel's bedside, Wu instructed the doctor in what herbs he must use to continue the healing they had begun. Fancy felt dizzy with fatigue and wonder—and strangely at peace.

  "Doctors got no business bein' positive about livin' or dyin, I guess," Doc Philmore said with a smile. "Guess we ought to know more about miracles than anybody."

  "This was not a miracle, Doctor," Magda answered him. "This was merely the manifest power of love."

  "Well, now, I'd say love's about the biggest miracle of all, wouldn't you?" he replied.

  Chapter 134

  The letter from the War Office was waiting for Hart when he returned to Leadville. It had followed him to Europe and across country and had taken two years to catch up with him.

  Dear Mr. McAllister,

  It has come to my attention that a soldier under General Miles' command at Fort Henry removed a girl-child from the Apache encampment, thinking she was white.

  I have been told that after the surrender, you moved heaven and earth to find such a child and so I feel duty bound to let you know of this development. One of my troopers made a statement on his deathbed that leads me to believe this may be the child you sought.

  If you are still interested, contact me at this address. There are many wrongs I cannot right in this infernal war, but perhaps this is one that can be rectified.

  There is always more than one witness, Firehair.

  George Crook

  General, United States Army

  Hart reread the letter for the dozenth time, folded it back in his pocket, and watched the world speed by outside the train window.

  She was alive, and with her the knowledge that some part of Destarte hadn't perished; some evidence of the love they'd shared still lived. This child of his heart and loins was living in Pennsylvania. Hart checked his watch, for the City of Brotherly Love was only minutes away.

  Odds were the man who'd taken Sonseearay was the one who had killed Destarte and Charles. Ancient anger tightened Hart's stomach and flushed his brain with adrenaline. His daughter had lived eight years with a murdering bastard, but today would put an end to that.

  He glanced at the big beribboned box on the seat beside him. He'd bought every pretty article he could find that would clothe Sonseearay in the beauty she deserved. What would she be like, this lost angel who had never for an instant been out of his heart or mind? Some instinct had kept him from giving up hope; some part of him had known she was alive, somewhere, alive and waiting for him to find her and bring her home.

  The train pulled into Philadelphia station and Hart hurried to find a cab.

  "Sally, darling, give Mama your hand." Allison Murdock smiled as her daughter's fingers clasped her own. It's so hard on the child since I'm bedridden, she thought, but the eight-year-old never complained. Every day when school was done, she sat with her mother and recounted the day's events, or read her stories from Copeland's Treasury for Booklovers. Allison had taught her to read and write at three years of age and the precocious child read voraciously and with great sophistication.

  "It's so beautiful out today, my darling, why don't you play with your little friends, instead of staying here with me? You must get lonely for children, sitting here every day."

  Sally looked reproachfully at her mother; she would never leave her all alone in the bed she hadn't left for over a year now, especially not today. The hours she spent reading to her were some of her happiest; they recited poetry and sometimes sang songs or played games. Mostly they were just together—that was the important part. If the worst happened, and God summoned her sweet mother away forever, as the minister said He might, she would always have these shared times to remember. Or if Mr. McAllister really forced her to leave with him... No! She couldn't even think about that unbearable possibility. She must be brave for her mother's sake.

  Allison laid her blond head back against the pillows and wondered if she would ever again be well. She let her frail hand rest in Sally's on the counterpane; the pallor of the older one made sharp contrast to the tawny perfection of the younger. God had been so good to her in sending this beloved child, she only prayed she would live long enough to see her raised to womanhood. Already her beauty was noticed by the others, some with envy, some who merely praised God's perfect handiwork. A fine man like her John was what she wished for Sally when she was grown. He'd had so much to cope with since her illness and he'd done so lovingly and without complaint.

  Sally smiled reassuringly at her fragile mother. "You're going to get better soon, Mama. You'll see. You know I can see things other people can't."

  "Hush, darling. You mustn't say things like that. People might misunderstand."

  "But you understand, Mama. You always un
derstand." Sally picked up volume four and turned to the place she'd left off yesterday. The sound of children's laughter outside caught her attention for a wistful moment. Then she began to read aloud page eighteen hundred and thirty-two. They had started a year ago, at page one.

  The mother and child had cried for days, ever since the terrible letter had arrived from the War Office, but today they'd made a pact that each must be courageous for the other's sake. Allison Murdock could not let herself think about the horror of what this day could hold in store for them....

  Chapter 135

  Hart hammered on the Murdock door, emotions jostling each other for position in his mind. The blood hammered just as hard in his chest as his fist did on the door. He'd waited eight hungry years for this moment.

  A man with the bearing of a career soldier answered the knock. He was strongly built and Hart had to push down the rage that flooded him at the thought of Destarte in his grip, of Charles at the end of his saber.

  "Lieutenant Murdock?" he said with forced control. "You're McAllister," the man responded. "I remember you." Hart quelled the urge to throttle him where he stood. He, too, remembered the fort and the pleading for information, the stone wall of silence, and the grief....

  "Where is she?" he demanded; the muscles knotted in his neck stood out like ropes on a mast.

  "Upstairs. My wife is an invalid. I'd appreciate it if you'd go gently on her, McAllister. She loves the child. I'm afraid this could kill her."

  The man's voice nearly broke and he cleared his throat. Hart thought he looked haunted, as well he should.

  Hart climbed the stairs; at the top, a door stood open to a sunlit room. An ethereal-looking woman lay delicate as glass, on the high bed. An eight-year-old, straight and supple as a sapling, stood at her side like a sentinel. Protective, stalwart, unmoving. The mother and child had clasped their hands together on the bed in a knot so tight, it trembled.