The Healer, page 1
Cover images: Norwegian Viking Runes, Traena Island © Cloud Mine Amsterdam, coutesy shutterstock.com; Roman wall background in sepia, Rome Italy © ROMAOSLO, courtesy istockphoto.com
Cover design copyright © 2015 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2015 by Gregg Luke
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: February 2015
ISBN 978-1-68047-123-6
To Traci Levinson Luke and Jared Luke, sister-in-law and nephew. Two people who have endured so much and who still believe.
Acknowledgements
This book is the brainchild of my good friend, author Daron Fraley. A while back he came up with the idea to novelize the Jewish legend of the Lamed Vovniks. He began the series by recruiting fellow authors to write stories that linked a relic from the Old Testament with one of the gifts of the Spirit. His pilot book, Thirty-Six, was released in 2012. He asked me to tackle the gift of healing (go figure), and the story quickly came to life from there. To find out more about the series, go to www.lamed-vav.com.
My heartfelt thanks also goes out to fellow author Sian Ann Bessey, a native Welshwoman who aided in correcting the dialect, scenery, and accents in this book. Her contributions were invaluable. If there are errors as to anything Welsh, they are the result of brandishing my artistic license with mindless abandon.
I would also like to thank my beta readers Melissa Duce, Brooke Ballard, Dawn Bergeson, David Dickson, and Daron Fraley, and Dr. Janelle Wells and Ben Boyer, FNP, who gave great medical information and suggestions along the way.
Finally, I would sincerely like to thank my editor, Stacey Owen, and everyone at Covenant Communications who believed this book was not too speculative to produce.
To the reader: Although I am a man of science, I truly believe in the gifts of the Spirit. I hope this tale helps you believe too.
Chapter 1
It was one of those surreal moments when everything moved in slow-motion. Christian Pendragon was driving along A484 through the Welsh countryside, just outside Cardigan, when he felt a curious sense of premonition. He slowed his speed, just to be on the safe side. After a week in Wales, he was used to driving on the left side of the narrow roads, but the drizzly weather wasn’t making navigation any easier.
The ubiquitous, midmorning haze was low and disorienting. As he passed through a particularly dense veil of mist, an old four-door sedan zipped recklessly by. His breath caught as the sedan skidded past a sharp bend and flipped several times on the moor. Time slowed as he watched the car’s windshield crack and explode from its casing. The driver—a woman in a skirt—was tossed out of the opening like a discarded rag doll. The car finally came to rest upside down, some thirty yards off the road. Thick smoke hissed from the engine compartment, churning with the mist in spectral apparitions of gray and white.
A small flock of woolly sheep fled, bleating in panic. Chris pulled onto the shoulder where the sedan’s skid marks left the road and sprinted to the woman. She lay face-up with one arm pinned behind her and both legs folded unnaturally to one side. She looked about thirty-something. Her short, dark hair was matted with blood; her eyes drooped half-open.
“Ma’am, can you hear me? Are you okay?” Chris asked urgently, fearing the worst.
The woman did not reply, did not move or blink.
“Ma’am, I’m going to check your vital signs.” Pressing his fingertips against her carotid artery, he watched for the rise and fall of her chest. Neither reference indicated any sign of life.
Stay calm, Chris, he thought as his heart thumped forcefully in his chest.
He looked up when he heard tires crunching on the gravel shoulder. A car stopped behind his rental, and a man and a woman stepped out, looking in his direction.
“She’s not breathing,” Chris yelled. “I can’t feel a pulse! Call for help! I’m starting CPR.”
He began a series of thirty chest compressions, followed by two breaths into her mouth, then repeated.
“Come—on—lady,” he huffed in sync with his thrusts. “Don’t—
die—on—me.”
The other man joined him. “Is she responding?”
“No. Did you—call for—help?”
“My wife is on the horn with 999 presently,” the British man said. “Would you like me to have a go?”
Chris nodded, remembering the UK’s emergency services code differed from the US’s 911. He moved to her head to perform resuscitation while the British man began compressions.
Before long, two more cars had stopped. One contained elderly motorists, who stayed by their car, watching from the shoulder. The other couple joined the effort to revive the woman.
Chris stepped back to catch his breath. Flames now flickered from the inverted sedan’s engine, adding thick black smoke to the sorcerous dance above. A siren wailed mournfully across the moor.
Without warning, a woman standing near the back of the sedan screamed. She stood with her hands pressed against the sides of her head. Chris jogged over to her as another man—probably her husband—put an arm around her, trying to console her. Trembling, she buried her face against the man’s chest. Chris assumed she was in shock from the hopelessness of the scene.
“Is she all right?” Chris asked.
The man kissed the top of her head. “She’s jus’ upset is all.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
With her face still pressed against her husband’s chest, the woman pointed to the rear of the upside-down vehicle. The roof was partially collapsed; the safety glass was fractured but intact. Chris moved to the back of the car—and drew a sharp breath. With all the attention on the engine fire and the unresponsive driver, no one had noticed the small hand pressed against the cracked rear window.
Dropping to his belly, Chris peered inside. The hand and arm disappeared behind the seat, and they weren’t moving. It looked like they belonged to a child about seven or eight years old. Chris quickly scooted to a missing side window. A gap of about twelve inches allowed minimal vision into the backseat. He could barely see a pair of sneakers boasting Captain America graphics. The child’s body and head were hidden by the crumpled seat.
Putting his face to the opening, Chris smelled gasoline. “Hey, buddy. Can you hear me?” he said, trying to keep his tone light.
There was a muffled whimper in reply. It sounded like a boy.
“My name is Chris. I’m gonna help you, okay? Can you breathe in there?”
“I want me mum,” was the boy’s plaintive answer.
“Your mom can’t help right now, so it’s up to you and me. We need to get you out of the car right away. Are you hurt?”
“I want me mum,” the boy repeated with more urgency.
“I know, buddy. There are some good people taking care of her right now. You’ll see her soon. Is there anyone else in there with you?”
A muted unh-unh was the answer. The boy’s legs fidgeted a bit, and he cried out. It was then Chris noticed that both ankles were twisted at extreme angles—undoubtedly broken.
To keep the boy distracted, Chris said, “Hey, I see you like Captain America, is that right?”
“Yeah.” The reply was weak and laced with fear. Even so, Chris sensed the boy was trying to be brave.
“Well, I’m not Captain America, but I am from the United States. Listen, buddy, I can see you’re pretty squished in there. I can try and shift your car, but you’re gonna have to help get yourself free, okay?”
A stuttering breath. “Okay.”
“Before I try, I need to ask you two things. First, what’s your name?”
“Nigel. Nigel Madsen.”
“Wow, that’s a cool name. Okay, Nigel, can you tell me if you’re in any pain?”
“My ankles hurt something terrible, but I . . . I can’t feel me feet.”
Probably the initial numbness that comes from severe trauma, Chris reasoned. “I see. Well, that’s okay for now. Can you move your arms?”
“Yeah.”
“Excellent. Now listen, when you feel the car move, you try wriggling backwards, okay? Hold on a sec.” Chris stood and pushed against the car. It rocked only slightly. It was a small car; he was sure if someone helped they could right it.
“I need a few men to help me here,” he called to the people helping the driver.
Most of them averted their eyes; some shook their heads. Chris couldn’t believe it. Their hesitation caused anger to surge within him.
The engine flames grew, hissing and spitting into the air. He turned his back to the heat and pushed against the car a second time, trying to get it into a rocking motion.
The two-toned wail of a siren died as a police car pulled off the road.
“Let the constable handle it, mate,” one man said.
“Back away before you get hurt, ay?” another added.
Two more sirens now droned in the distance. Chris hoped at least one was an ambulance.
He watched the constable kneel beside the mother. No one was continuing CPR. Someone had draped a coat over her face. Chris’s heart sank.
Dropping to his knees, he took a steadying breath and stuck his face in the window. The smell of gasoline was stronger now; it stung his nostrils. “Sorry, sport. I can’t seem to budge the car. I guess I’m not very strong.”
“Is me mum all right?”
Chris swallowed hard. “I don’t know. But there’s an ambulance on the way just in case.” He scrunched his eyes against the caustic fumes concentrating in the confined space.
“My nose burns,” the boy complained. “It smells like petrol.”
“I know. I smell it too. Listen, Nigel, a moment ago I saw you move your legs. Maybe I can pull you out of there. Can you shift your feet to your right?”
The boy’s legs squirmed a few inches, but his feet dragged behind. He cried out loudly.
Just then, a loud pop came from the engine compartment. The smell of gas intensified. Chris felt strong hands grab his legs and pull him away from the car.
“Move away from there, sir. This thing’s likely to blow.”
Chris looked up at the hard face of the constable. “Wait! There’s a small boy in there,” he gasped. “He’s still alive.”
As the officer bent to look inside, a fierce explosion rocked the vehicle. Several women screamed. The engine was fully ablaze now, belching acrid smoke into the murky air. The flames quickly spread across the bottom of the car, igniting freshly leaked oil and gas.
“No,” Chris yelled. He tried to crawl back to the car, but the constable grabbed his feet, stopping him.
“It’s no use, sir. That fire’s already at the boot. It’s done for.”
“That’s why we have to get him out now!”
When he tried crawling again, the officer once more grabbed his feet. Chris rolled, dislodging the man’s grip, and kicked him in the chest, dropping him flat on his rump with a grunt of shock. Chris then soldier-crawled back to the missing window. Forcing an arm and shoulder in, he said, “Nigel, can you hear me?”
“What’s happening? It’s hot in here.”
“The car’s in trouble, buddy. We have to get you out in a hurry. Scoot backward as much as you can.”
The young boy complied, again crying loudly as he did. His ankles folded at grotesque angles.
Reaching for Nigel’s legs, Chris’s arm scraped across a jagged shard of glass. It cut deeply into his flesh. He hissed in pain. Another crackling pop sounded directly above him. Searing heat and flaming drops of oil rained down.
Nigel yelled, “Get me out of here!”
Chris grabbed the boy’s legs and pulled with all his might, praying he wasn’t further damaging the ruined ankles. Nigel slid a fraction toward him—then caught.
“Nigel. Can you push with your arms?”
“I want me mum!” the boy sobbed.
“You’ve gotta help me, buddy. Now, you push when I pull, okay?”
Chris pulled again, but the awkward angle made it impossible to gain any leverage. The hiss of a punctured line erupted to his right; a burning glob of oil landed inches from his face.
He cocked his head and yelled, “Help, please! I need some help here.”
This boy is too young to die, he silently pleaded, as if in prayer. Please, God. Help me help him!
At that moment, someone gripped Chris’s ankles, two men, perhaps. Someone tugged at his coat, helping pull him away from the car. One of the men said something: “Rwy’n pasio i chi y pŵer i gwella.” Maybe it was Gaelic or Welsh. It probably meant “hold on tight” or “try again.” Chris knew a little Welsh but not enough to translate—especially in this situation.
He again grabbed both of Nigel’s ankles. It would hurt the boy, but it was his best grappling point. When he felt a tug from the men behind him, he shouted, “Push, Nigel. Push with all your might!”
Chris felt like he was being stretched by some medieval torture device. There was no way he wasn’t causing further injury—he could feel Nigel’s flimsy ankle bones shifting unnaturally. But he had to get him out of the blazing car. Any injury was better than burning to death. He heard Nigel scream over the roar of the flames; the panicked shrieks of spectators filled the air. Chris’s prayers went from fervent to pleading to commanding. Finally, he felt something give from within the vehicle. He was dragged backward, bringing Nigel out with him.
As Chris clambered to pick up the boy, the gas tank exploded, rocking the scene. The concussive wave blew past, knocking him to the ground. The hot blast seared his neck and singed his hair. He hurriedly picked up Nigel, staggered a few more feet from the inferno, then collapsed, cradling the boy tightly.
Chris’s eyes burned from the pungent smoke and gasoline fumes. Someone wrapped a blanket around Nigel and gently pulled him from Chris’s arms. Although his vision was blurry, he could see people milling about on either side. Most were watching the burning car.
He then felt someone checking his vital signs. They were talking gently, asking him questions he couldn’t decipher.
“I’m okay,” he wheezed, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice.
Hands slid under his shoulders and carefully strapped him onto a litter. He felt himself carried away from the wreckage; then, for a moment, he was motionless. The sounds of the accident echoed in the back of his head. His body ached from stress and angst; he must have twisted his ankles because they were very sore.
Before long he heard someone addressing him. The voice was very close. He looked up, forcing his eyes to focus. Expecting an EMT or the constable, he was surprised to instead see an elderly man with a closely trimmed, gray beard.
The old man bent low and placed his face next to Chris’s ear. “Rydych dim ond un o triginta secs.”
Chris was still in a state of shock; he could swear the old man said something about ridding diamonds of trying sex. That couldn’t be right. “I don’t understand,” he croaked.
The old man switched to English. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you, young man. A lot of folk have.”
Chapter 2
Two emergency vehicles had shown up. Chris had some minor burns, but nothing serious. The EMTs suggested the gash on his arm be stitched, but they didn’t deem it worthy of an ambulance trip. They sealed the wound with Steri-strips and wrapped it in gauze and Coban. Chris’s ankles were still incredibly sore, but that would pass.
Finished with his triage, Chris sat on a collapsible camp chair in the lee of one ambulance to escape the numbing breeze. The drizzle had stopped, but chilled moisture still thickened the air. With a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he watched a fire truck drive onto the moor and quickly extinguish the blazing sedan. It was a total loss.
Nigel’s mother was an even bigger loss. Draped in a shroud, she’d been loaded onto the ambulance behind him. No one attended to her; she was already gone. Nigel was being treated inside the second ambulance. Chris wondered how they would break the terrible news to him.
Penetrating cold set in upon Chris—a mix of the biting, damp air and the deep remorse that follows human loss. He tried to fight it but knew it was a hopeless cause. So many things in his life felt like hopeless causes . . .
“You did your best, son,” a voice said, startling him.
He looked up at the old man with the gray beard. Standing slightly bent, he favored his weight on a sturdy wooden cane. The man was not tall—maybe five seven when standing erect—but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth. He was stocky, with wide shoulders, a solid torso, and thick, stout legs. His woolen trousers were secured at his waist with a length of chord. A patchwork tam sat low on his brow. He wore a natty sweater-vest over an Oxford-cloth shirt missing both collar buttons. His tweed sport coat bore work-worn, suede elbow patches with matching lapel points. Chris guessed the man was close to eighty.
“Wasn’t enough though, was it,” Chris mumbled bitterly, looking back at the scene of grief. “Two broken ankles, one death.”
“Takes a special kind of faith to raise someone from the dead,” the man said with a heavy Welsh accent and a trace of remorse. “Only man I know can do it died on a cross 2,000 years since.”
Continuing to gaze out across the lonely moor, Chris grumbled a soft acknowledgement. The black smoke had dissipated, but the patchy haze continued to scrabble across the bunch grass in ever-morphing patterns of white on white—as if nothing untoward had even happened.
