Healer of Romía

Healer of Romía by C.K. Brooke: Part 1

The alleyway is dark and the heat is sticky. The bottoms of my sandals scud over the grimy stone. A hiss of laughter wheezes from one corner, the stench of rotten fruit wafts from another. I hurry along, pressing my tatty loculus satchel to my navel at all times. The irony isn't lost on me, that I'm worried about having it snatched when I myself had taken it. Still, it contains the day's sustenance.

Reaching the familiar pozzolana cement wall, its lapis resin paint faded, I feel along the gritty surface for the ladder. Gripping it, I climb. A stiff breeze tousles my long black hair when I reach the solitary safety of the rooftop. I'm grateful for my woven blanket, however holey, to pick up and drape about my shoulders.

Up here, I can see the whole city, and even out to sea. The water sparkles peacefully beneath the setting sun. Kneeling down, I tuck my feet beneath me and rattle the cracked clay lucerna to gage how much oil it holds. It's running low, but I suppose I won't need it tonight.

I open my satchel and remove the flatbread. It's no longer hot enough to burn my fingers but it's fresh and soft. I shut my eyes, savoring a bite.

Then I hear a moan, not my own.

I swallow the bread. I rise, tiptoe to the edge of the roof, and peer down. All beneath me is darkening with the dusk. Studying the alley's depths, I think I see something twitch.

Another moan, and a fleck of flaxen catches a fading ray of sunlight. I back away. Before I realize what my fingers are doing, the flatbread is back in my loculus, the strap across my chest. I look down at my hands and shake my head. Not again, I remind myself. Never again.

But someone needs you, the urge returns stronger. That word, need, stokes my every fiber.

I rub my wrists, keeping my feet firmly planted. A spark from my thumb shocks my skin, like a tiny lightning bolt. I've no choice. Where there's a need, the power inside me—my blessing, my curse—will not rest.

Resigned, I shed the blanket, return to the ladder, and carefully descend each rung. My sandals slap the stone, letting me know when I've reached the bottom. Keeping to the rough cement walls, I weave in the direction where I heard the sound, saw the fleck of gold.

A dotted trail of crimson guides me to a large form lying coiled in a prone position. Blood splatters a white cape. Labored breathing puffs beneath it, hard and fast.

I ease into the gloom where he lies, so as not to startle him, and kneel at his side. He sputters upon noticing me—likely unable to speak.

"It's all right," I murmur. "I'm here to help you."

"Don't," he gasps. "Don't help...me."

His face is streaked with shadows and sweat. I can't make out his features, cannot discern whether he's old or young. Only that he must've been very strong before he was injured so badly. Either way, he's losing too much blood. He doesn't have much time.

"Why don't you want me to help you?" I whisper, preparing to do just that.

"You'll be...stoned." Each word seems to cause him great effort. "Or...cudgeled."

I sniff. "That's nothing new," I mumble. I lay a hand on his shoulder. It's rock solid and hot to touch. Probably with fever.

"I mean it." He strains to lift his head, regarding me in the scant light. Hardly any reaches us now. "I'll be...dead soon. Don't...get yourself...involved." He drops his head with a whimper of agony.

I've had enough of his warnings. He's done something wrong? Well, so have I. This man doesn't know me or what I've done. He doesn't know my capabilities. He'd be in about as much trouble to be seen with me as I would to be seen with him.

It doesn't matter anyway, because my hands won't heed either of us.

My left hand braces his shoulder while my right gently frames his abdomen. I shut my eyes, bowing my head. A surge courses through me. It emits through my fingertips and into his flesh.

He doesn't cry out. He doesn't make a sound, save for his ragged breaths. It takes longer than usual. His wounds must be severe. It's a miracle I found him when I did.

The blood recedes, dries up. My hands quiver, vibrate, as the open wounds in his stomach close and seal up. All that's left are three tears in his tunic, still stained. But the bleeding has stopped.

I wait until the surge finishes completely. Then I release him, lifting my tingling hands away from his skin.

His chest is heaving. Slowly, he sits up. He looks down at his intact stomach, then at me. Even in the settling darkness, I can see his bewilderment.

I keep both hands aloft, as if in a peace offering. My chest heaves just as deeply as his. It'd been one of the strongest surges ever to come through me. Truly, he must've been moments from dying to have required such a degree of healing.

His eyes are wide. "Who are you?" he croaks.