I am not long for this world.
But Alrik won’t accept it. “There are other ways,” he insists. “I have money. Lots and lots of money. You can have my entire fortune, whatever you want—just bring her back to me. I’ve heard the rumors, I know about the elixirs, the secret potions and tonics—the special brew that cures al il s, extending life
for an indefinite amount of time…”
“I know nothing about that,” the doctor insists, his tone sharp, resolute. “And, I assure you that even if I did, that is nothing you want to play with. I am sorry for your loss, truly I am. But this is the natural order of things and you must find a way to make peace with it.”
“I wil not!” Alrik shouts. And if I could see him, wel I’m sure I’d find his face as stony and cold as his voice just resonated. “Where there is life, there is hope, and you know it! What kind of doctor are you if you do not believe that to be true? I wil never make my peace with futility when there are other options stil left to explore. I have money, no expense wil be spared—do you hear me? You cannot say no to me! Don’t you know who I am?”
It goes on like that, Alrik eliciting a long stream of threats I’m sure he has no plans to make good on. It’s the ramblings of a man driven mad with grief, and fortunately the doctor recognizes that.
His words compassionate, forgiving yet firm when he says, “Alrik, m’lord, while I am truly sorry for your loss, I have done al that I can.
Now I beg of you to keep her comfortable, to say your good-byes, and to let her pass easily, painlessly, with no further outbursts from you. Please, Alrik. If you love her as much as you claim, then let her go in peace.”
“Out! OUT! ” is Alrik’s only reply. Fol owed by the press of his lips on my cheek, a rush of words whispered into my flesh. Our palms pressed together as he utters a string of prayers, pleas, questions, recriminations, and threats, then returning to prayers and beginning al over again.
The litany broken only by Heath’s quiet voice saying, “Sir, m’lord, I know someone who may offer the sort of assistance you seek.”
Alrik stops, stil s, and asks, “Who?”
“A woman who lives just outside the vil age. I’ve heard rumors. Can’t say for sure if they’re true. Though it might be worth a try…”
“Bring her,” Alrik says, burying his face into the hol ow where my neck meets my shoulder. “Go. Fetch her. Bring her to me.”
twenty
I must’ve fal en into an even deeper state of unconsciousness because the next thing I know more people have joined me. And from the sound of their voices I’m guessing them to be Alrik, Heath, an older female whom I assume is the one Heath was sent to fetch, and two younger female voices that probably belong to her daughters, or apprentices, or both.
“You must know right up front that there is no guarantee. This is only to be tried as an absolute last resort,” the older female voice says.
“Does it look like I have other options?” Alrik cries, teetering on the edge of hysteria.
“It worked on a cat. Brought him right back. He went on to live for another ful year,” one of the younger female voices cuts in. “But the last human who drank, wel , it didn’t go over so wel .”
“What does that mean? What does she mean?” Alrik is frantic.
“It means he died in spite of it,” the older woman says. “He could not be saved. Not everyone can.”
“Adelina’s not just anyone. She’s young, beautiful, in good health. It wil work for her—you wil make sure that it does!” Alrik demands.
“I wil try. That is al I can promise. I’ve recently used it on myself—just six months ago when I fel il the drink cured me, brought me back from the brink so quickly it was as if it never happened. Stil , like I said, there are no guarantees.”
“So what are you waiting for? Give it to her already! Hurry, before it’s too late!”
She moves toward me. I feel the warmth of her body sidling up beside me. Her fingers sliding under my neck, cupping the back of my head, bringing me to her as she presses something hard and cold to my mouth. Urging a cool bitter liquid to slip past my lips and over my tongue, until it sinks down my throat and I do what I can to struggle against it. But it’s no use, I can’t fight it. I’m immobile, paralyzed, my thoughts locked inside, and I’ve no way to tel them to stop—it’s a waste of their effort.
It’s too late.
It won’t work.
My energy is gathering, compressing, shrinking down into a smal vibrating sphere of color and light. Preparing to rise and lift—to drift right out of the center-most part of my scalp, what’s cal ed the crown, and merge into whatever it is that lies just beyond.
They continue to fuss al around me, voices clamoring, hands prodding—making it clear that I’m the only one aware of the fact that I’m close to being gone.
This life is ending.
I won’t be returning—or at least not in this form.