Angel-Seeker (57 page)

Mary shook her head. “I don't know. She hasn't regained consciousness. She hasn't spoken or indicated that she—that her mind is engaged. In times of great trauma, I have sometimes seen this. A person withdraws into himself, hides inside his own head, or so it seems. As if the pain he suffered was so great that he cannot bear the idea of opening his eyes and enduring it again. Pain of the body,” she explained, “or pain of the heart.”

“How can we get her back?” Obadiah asked.

“Sometimes it's just a matter of time—a few days—the body begins to heal and sends its signals of safety on to the brain. Sometimes it takes more, as if you have to push that person out of the closed door of his mind and into the crowded hallway of common life. Sometimes that requires that you talk to the sick person, draw him back to you by the power of your voice, by the memories you evoke. I have seen recoveries prompted by the scent of flowers brought into the
room. You don't always know what will fire a person's desire to reenter the world. Or what will show him the way back. Sometimes I think it is not so much the will to return as the way. Someone like this woman, who has been hurt so deeply and gotten lost so completely inside herself, might not remember the path back out.”

“Then what can I do?”

“For now, let her sleep. A day or two. I will be back as often as I can. Give her the medicines I leave with you. Make sure she takes in food and water. And talk to her. Remind her of who she is. Who you are. Reassure her that she is safe.”

“What about her baby?” Magdalena asked, rocking her own.

“As far as I can tell, the baby is strong. If she lives, her child should live as well.”

Rachel leaned over and took Obadiah's hand. “Then they will both survive,” the angelica said.

Pain and darkness. Pain and darkness. Fear. Pain and darkness.
Terror.
Pain and darkness.

Color. Voices. Light. Nothing sensible, nothing tangible.

Pain and darkness.

Swirls of light and motion. A cool hand against the skin. Words, incomprehensible. The sounds of stress and worry. Tones of reassurance. Water held to the mouth, a chemical taste against the tongue.

Sleep. Nothing.

More light, more motion. Whispers, questions, emphatic replies. Nothing that made any sense.

Where was this place? Who were these people? A struggle to sit, to think, to remember, to care. Then a swift, indifferent submission. Too hard to try. No energy. No volition.

Darkness. Sleep. No thought, no remembrance. No self.

“Nothing? No word? No response? None at all?”

“I told you. Sometimes it takes days.”

“It's been days!”

“Or longer.”

“But she is better? Her body is better? And the baby?”

“She is healing. Just be patient.”

“I do not have this much patience.”

“There is nothing you can do.”

“But I love her. . . .”

Words again, sentences that went on an on. Stories told, pictures painted of a world, a place that had no meaning. People that could not be remembered. Names, over and over, until they were just syllables, a collection of sounds, something a bird might chirp or a cricket might rasp out.

Rebekah . . . Rebekah . . . Rebekah . . .

Hands on her face, her forehead. Damp cloth against her skin. Again and again, the cup lifted to her mouth, the water eased down her throat, or the juice, or the broth. Trying, now and then truly trying, to open her eyes, to focus, to see who ministered to her, who repeated those meaningless words. But the strain was too great. The muscles went slack, the brain grew too lazy to try.

Obadiah . . . Obadiah . . . Obadiah . . .

 

Light and darkness, sound and silence. Nothing else.

“She's still no better?”

“Mary says she is almost healed. It is just—”

“She hasn't woken up.”

“She's awake. I know she is. Her eyelids flutter and sometimes—sometimes—it seems as if she's focusing on me. Or trying to. And then she loses interest. As if it's not worth the effort. I don't know how to reach her. I don't know how to draw her back out.”

“Maga is worried about you.”

“I can't help that.”

“I'm worried about you, too. I think you have to spend a day somewhere outside of this room.”

“I'm not leaving her alone!”

“I'll stay with her.”

“You? Of all the people I picture sitting at a sickbed—”

“Don't be rude. I can take care of her.”

“I can't. I can't leave her.”

“Gabriel's here.”

“What can he do?”

“He wants to talk to you. Go visit with him. Then go spend some time somewhere else—alone, or with Nathan, or anywhere but here. You look dreadful.”

“But I'm so worried.”

“What can happen to her while I'm at her side? Now go.”

 

Light, fading slowly from gold to gray. Silk against the fingertips, droplets of liquid against the lips. Simple pleasures, easy and undemanding. Luxurious. No pain, no fear.

A woman's voice.
Is it that you don't want to come back or that you don't know the way?
No sensible words. Drowsing, eyes half shut against the slanting sunlight. Dark soon, emptiness to follow. There was no difference.

And then there was a sound.

It caught her wandering attention, it burrowed into her brain. It made the disorganized cloud drifts of her mind cohere around a central point. A sound—a note—a melody.

Someone singing.

The voice moved gradually from the lowest register to a higher octave, gorgeous and insistent. No escaping it, nothing to do but follow after it, stumbling in the half-dark of consciousness. It crooned and beckoned, drawing her forward, luring her into a place of shape and substance. Just when she thought she had grown used to it, just when she thought she could fall back into her waking sleep, the voice sharpened, grew more importunate, coiled around her like an iridescent cord and yanked her on. She was climbing steps, flat, shallow golden stairs, tugged upward by that relentless song.

Now her breath grew labored and swift; now she was afraid, as if she approached a magical doorway at the head of that broad stair. The voice soared with ecstasy, a hummingbird of grace and delight, and Rebekah felt herself gaze after it, lift her hands toward it, want to follow it. Another step up, another, chasing that elusive, alluring creature, hearing that sublime invitation chanted into her ear.

Rebekah. My name is Rebekah.

Glorious now, that voice, exploding with trills and impossible
leaps of melody. Intoxicating and irresistible, it summoned her on, and Rebekah ran after it, flung herself up those steps, and through that insubstantial door that closed off the world of dreams.

Gasping, she looked around. She was in a room of stone and windows. On a high bed such as she had never seen before. Staring straight into the face of a golden-haired stranger. Who did not look as if she had been singing, or talking, or doing anything except waiting for Rebekah's appearance through that ensorceled gate.

“I knew you were in there,” the golden-haired woman said with a certain satisfaction. “Hello, Rebekah. I'm Rachel.”

T
hey arrived in Cedar Hills late in the afternoon in a sleeting rain. They had been miserable for the past thirty hours, making a cold, wet camp the night before, not even trying to build a fire in the downpour. They had not had a fire their last two nights in the desert, either, since they had burned all their fuel in an attempt to keep their battered patient alive. The trip back from the Gathering had been far less enjoyable and far more eventful than the trip out.

Nonetheless, the three Edori men remained cheerful, making jokes about the cold and the bad weather, and putting together edible meals despite the handicaps. It was Elizabeth who was tense and edgy, thrown into a near frenzy whenever something delayed them on the road. All she could think about was that girl, carried off so suddenly by the angel. All she could do was worry about her, and hope she had survived, and wonder if she would ever know the full story.

Faith would know. The women in the dorm knew every bit of gossip that pertained to any citizen of the town. Faith would know if the angel had arrived in time and if the girl had lived. That was why, when they arrived in the muddy streets of Cedar Hills, Elizabeth almost could not bear their slow progress down the crowded roadways. She wanted to leap from the wagon and dash down the alley to the dorm, pelting pedestrians with questions as she ran.

“Patience,” Rufus counseled, laughing at her. “A few more minutes and you'll be home. Out of this rain very shortly.”

“It's just—I want to know what happened to her.”

“See? I am so certain that she is fine that I cannot bring myself to fret.”

“Nothing makes you fret! You Edori—”

He shook his head and ruffled her damp hair. They had rigged a tarp over the back of the wagon, but it hadn't been particularly effective in keeping out the angled rain. “I would fret if you were hurt or missing. I would fret if I came by your door and you would not let me in. There are many things, most of them involving you, that would make me pace across my floor at night.”

Elizabeth's face softened and she caught his hand in hers. “You can sleep well at night, then, because I'm not likely to turn you away—
or
go missing for any reason.”

“So, see? I cannot be too concerned. Besides, I know our injured traveler has recovered nicely. You have the gift of healing in your hands. Yovah guided her when he put her in your path.”

“Yes, but I want to be
sure,
you understand? I am so worried.”

And he did understand; a kiss on her cheek signified that. It was another twenty minutes, though, before Paul pulled the wagon to the side of the road so that Rufus could haul Elizabeth's luggage from the back.

“I can carry it myself the rest of the way,” she said, and he nodded and didn't try to hold her back. He merely kissed her again, promised to see her the following night, and let her run down the alley toward the dorm without another word of good-bye.

Once inside the door, Elizabeth hurried through the house, shaking her wet hair impatiently back from her eyes and wondering where she might locate Faith. It was still early enough in the day that the other girls could be at work—or in the parlor—or in the kitchen. Elizabeth poked her head into the various common rooms, made brief hellos to the residents who called out a welcome, promised to come back later and tell her stories, and headed up to her bedroom. If Faith wasn't there, Elizabeth would unpack her clothes and take a
real
bath in the water room and then pace up and down till her roommate returned. She could get stories from some of
the other girls who lived here, but the best ones would be from Faith.

Who, most conveniently, was propped up in her bed, blanket drawn to her chin and a look of petulance on her face. Felled by a winter ailment, no doubt, and not very happy about it.

“Good, you're sick,” Elizabeth said, striding into the room and dumping her possessions on the floor.

“Elizabeth!” Faith squealed, her face transformed. “You're back!”

Elizabeth came straight over to Faith's bed and made herself comfortable sitting at the patient's feet. “Tell me everything that's happened,” she commanded.

“Magdalena had her baby. Angel. Boy. They're calling him Jeremiah after Nathan's father—”

“Tell me about that girl,” Elizabeth interrupted. “The one that Obadiah brought back.”

“I was just getting to that! She . . .” Faith's voice trailed off and she stared at Elizabeth. “How did you know about her?”

“We were the ones who found her in the desert. But she was unconscious—almost dead—I never even learned her name.”

“Then you don't know about—sweet Jovah singing, you don't
know!
” Faith exclaimed, nearly bouncing in the bed. She seemed to have completely forgotten her illness, whatever it was. “The most romantic thing! That girl—her name is Rebekah—she's a Jansai—”

“Yes, we figured that out.”

“And she'd been secretly meeting with Obadiah for
months.
”

Elizabeth stared at her.

Faith nodded emphatically. “Yes! Really! They were lovers! But he didn't know that she was pregnant—”

“With his—that girl is carrying an angel's child? That girl who almost died in the desert?”

“Yes! That girl who would have died except for you!”

Elizabeth just continued staring, unable to marshal her thoughts. If that were true—but how had it happened? What would have brought an angel and a Jansai together? How could they have met? How could they have courted? And, once having taken an angel for a lover, how had this girl gotten into a situation so desperate? And then, by what unimaginable stroke of coincidence, how had it been
Obadiah who responded to their plague flag, Obadiah who landed just in time to save his lover's life?

“What an impossible tale,” Elizabeth said at last. “But has she survived? What's her condition?”

“I think it's still pretty serious. They say Obadiah won't leave her room and that Mary is there every day. Her body is healing but her mind—” Faith shook her head. “It hasn't recovered yet.”

“But if her body heals—”

“Mary says she's sure eventually she'll come back to herself.”

“And the baby?”

“The baby seems to be healthy. Of course, we don't know if it's an angel baby or not.”

Elizabeth nodded. Of course they didn't. But given the other fantastical parts to this tale, Elizabeth was ready to bet that it was. She remembered the sight of that glowing Kiss on the Jansai woman's arm. The god was celebrating some aspect of this woman's life; why not the conception of an angel child?

“How strange,” she said slowly, sinking back so her spine rested against the wall. “For so long I wanted to conceive my own angel baby. And now I know I never will. But I may have helped bring one into the world after all.”

“You might,” Faith argued. “You might still meet an angel who desires you—”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don't think so. I don't think—I don't want to be with anybody but Rufus.”

Faith clasped her hands together under her chin. “So it was good? Your time with Rufus? Did you—was it—all that time together—”

Elizabeth looked over at her and laughed. “Yes, we did. It was. He's wonderful. He's just—” She spread her hands, unable to explain. “It's so much different. It's never felt this way.”

“Does he love you?”

“Oh, he loves me.”

Faith sighed and sank back into her pillows. “You know, this just gives me hope. See, I met this man the other day—not an angel, and at first I didn't care to talk to him—but he was so funny. And then I saw him again the next day, and I really liked him—”

They talked for another hour, catching up. Shiloh was so sick with pregnancy nausea that she had convinced everyone her child was angelic, but Faith personally believed Shiloh was faking her symptoms. Ruth had had three dates with the angel Matthew but had said very little about them, leading Faith to suspect nothing of importance had occurred. The whole city was in a frenzy as the angels—and many of the residents of Cedar Hills—prepared to head north to the Plain of Sharon. The Gloria would be sung in a little over two weeks' time, and there was still much to be done to get ready.

They would have talked on past dinnertime except that Elizabeth was so grubby and so hungry. She hurried down the hall to take a bath and change her clothes. By the time she returned, Faith had decided she was well enough to join the others in the dining hall. Before leaving the room, they both spent a few minutes fixing their hair.

“But Obadiah,” Faith said suddenly, her eyes meeting Elizabeth's in the mirror. “What did he say to you when he found you on the roadside, tending his lover?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “He scarcely even saw me. I'm not sure he even had time to register my face. The minute he recognized her—”

“You mean, he didn't realize it was you? But he
knows
you! You're a friend of his!”

“I'm not his friend. I've seen him from time to time, and he's been kind to me. I'm glad I could do something to help someone he loved. But—” She shook her head again. “We're not friends.”

“I would be hurt,” Faith said.

Elizabeth smiled. “No, you'd feel like I do. Lucky to have played even a small part in such an amazing story.”

Three days later, they were all at breakfast when an urgent knock sounded on the door, and Tola's daughter ran to answer it. Elizabeth's first thought was that it was Mary, looking for Elizabeth's aid in some medical emergency. The healer's fill-in assistant had announced that she was going back to Gaza tomorrow, so Elizabeth had agreed to be ready to work as soon as Mary needed her. She had hoped for another day or two of rest, but that was perhaps greedy;
she had gotten more than she had bargained for already on this particular vacation.

Tola's daughter rushed into the dining room, her eyes wide with excitement. “Someone's come for you,” she said to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth came quickly to her feet, swallowing the last of her juice. “I thought that might happen.”

“It's an angel!”

A small murmur ran around the table at that, and all the other girls looked speculatively at Elizabeth. “Is it David?” Shiloh asked.

David had never come looking for Elizabeth before and was unlikely to start now. “I doubt it,” Elizabeth said shortly. “Probably someone who needs a healer.”

But she found, when she hurried down the hall and out the front door, that she had already done what healing she could for this particular angel. “Obadiah,” she said blankly when she recognized the fair-haired visitor waiting for her on the street.

He put his hands on her shoulders and stared down at her, his face a mix of pleasure and earnestness and remorse. “Elizabeth,” he said, pronouncing her name deliberately. “I am so sorry. It took me a week to remember who you were.”

She smiled, feeling a great pleasure wash over her. She had not expected him to remember at all. “You had others to be thinking of at just that moment.”

“So you've heard the story? I suppose there are no secrets in Cedar Hills.”

“The woman is the one you love, and her baby is yours.”

He nodded. “And you saved them. You saved them both.”

“She's better, then? They'll be fine?”

“Rebekah is almost healed. There are a few places where the bruises look like they'll never go away. But she's well. She's happy. She's a little nervous—her life in Breven was nothing like the life she sees here—but I think she's happy. She is—and, Elizabeth, I owe her life to you. What can I do to thank you? What can I say?”

“You've already done it,” she said. “Just by coming here.”

His fingers tightened a moment on her bones. “For the rest of my life, anywhere I am, in any hold in Samaria, you will have a place. You will be welcomed and considered a friend.”

What she had dreamed of for so long! Schemed of and sacrificed for! “I have a place somewhere else now,” she said quietly. “But to believe you think of me as a friend would make me very happy.”

He leaned in and took her in a careful, sweet embrace. She felt the brush of feathers along her back, against the skin of her neck. She could not help it; she shivered with the sheer physical delight of that delicate touch. “Come see her today,” he said into her hair. “Come be a friend to both of us.” He kissed the top of her head and stepped back, releasing her.

She was moved, but not so overcome that she couldn't smile up at him. “As soon as I can,” she promised. “First I have to see if Mary needs me.”