Chapter 9: Adversity

Cathy started her new course of chemotherapy. The new, experimental drugs were actually not very toxic, so she was able to come home after every treatment. They basically consisted of her sitting in a chair for a bit over an hour while getting a slow IV drip. They were boring more than anything, and Cathy usually read.

I visited her once during treatment, picking up Pamela, but the treatments were usually happening when both of us worked, so it was easier to visit at home. Mrs. Gilman took time off work in the afternoons, so there was no hanky-panky. There were heartfelt hugs and kisses with both sisters, even when their mother was around, but nobody commented on anything.

I was horny a lot, but somehow making love, even when Mrs. Gilman was not around, did not seem appropriate. Both Pamela and I spent a lot of time with Cathy, sometimes reading together. Pamela often worked on her summer reading assignments, something that both Cathy and I teased her about.

"You are the only student I know who actually works on summer reading. You know there are no grades or tests for this stuff." I said.

"I know. But it will be easier for me during the year. Even if we don't actually use these books, I can use them as extra sources in my papers."

"You are unnatural, sis. I could understand if they were, like, novels. Or even popular science books. But you are reading history books! I tried one of them and fell asleep after three pages."

"Well, Cathy, I laugh reading one of your astrophysics books. I got as far as Massive Compact Halo Objects, and decided that if I wanted to read a macho story, I'd read a Western or a war novel."

"Very funny, Pam." The sisters continued kidding each other, with me alternating sides. Sometimes they teamed up on me, but generally they were gentle with me.

Much of the rivalry was for show. Actually, Pamela did very well in science; it was just that her favorite subjects were history, literature and philosophy. But she saw little value in the science fiction and speculative science that was Cathy's love.

Often, while they were reading or joking, one or both sisters held my hand. I sometimes had to blink to avoid tearing up. Despite humorous jabs, I could feel the fear. When Cathy was deeply involved in her books, I've seen Pamela more than once stare deeply at her younger sister, as thought committing her face to memory.

It was a slow morning at the drugstore where I worked, and the small television in the corner was providing a soft background noise. My fellow on the shift was the day manager – an older woman called Margaret. Nobody was in the store, and she turned up the volume on the set, attracting my attention. The face of a distraught woman filled the screen.

It was a local story, and I caught her address – she lived on a street a few blocks away. The commenter was talking about her son: the child was missing since yesterday, and the police and rescue services were canvassing the area. The woman was clutching a blown-up photo of a small boy with light-brown hair and a wide smile. For a few seconds at the end of the story they let the mother speak into the microphone.

"Please. Please, if you have seen Nathan, please call me. He is a good boy. He never did anything wrong. Please, I beg you..."

It was heartrending. The narrator took over, explaining that Nathan Keremough was three years and six months old. The camera zoomed out, showing the reporter and a man with pinched features holding the woman around her waist. The mother's microphone was pulled away, but she never stopped holding up the picture of her boy as close to the camera as possible.

For some reason, her pleading eyes next to the wide smile of little Nathan stuck in my memory. I normally could not scry anybody I have not met before. There was a different method to use something used or worn by a person to find them, but I had no hair or threads to try that spell. Still, my teachers never had access to photographic images. And although it was distorted twice, once by the photograph, and the second time by the television camera, Nathan's image came through remarkably clear. In her desperation, the mother held up the picture long enough that it was now sharp in my memory.

I told Margaret that I was taking a restroom break and locked myself in the small bathroom in the back. I had little time and privacy, but I decided to try scrying. There was not enough space to sit on the floor, so I leaned forward, gripping the sink. For weeks now I've been scrying nearly every night, and I was able to slip into the trance in less than a minute, despite the awkward and unfamiliar posture.

Little force was needed for scrying, but the image of the boy was too flat to trigger the vision. Despite the trance, I knew that time was passing; I did not want Margaret to start knocking on the door. I tried to imagine Nathan laughing, sleeping, afraid, in pain, angry. One of the images pulled my attention, and I cycled again, trying to find the image that worked well. It was the one in pain that was the closest, and as I tried to vary his face slightly in my imagination the spell finally took hold. I could see his face clearly, very different from my imagination. He looked older, and his hair was dark and slicked back. He was wincing or scowling, and his mouth was half-open. Once I had his face, I widened the field of the spell, and saw him lying, in the dirt, apparently alone. He was not fully stretched, but in an awkward position that implied some sort of injury.

I had a general feeling of direction and distance, and it was more than a few miles. I didn't know how he got that far, but I feared the searchers were not looking in the right area. Now that I had seen him I'd be able to scry him again, but in the meantime, I needed to exit the trance and talk to my manager.

"Hi, Margaret. I need to take an hour off."

"That's very inconvenient, Martin. When I hired you, you promised to be a reliable worker. You know that you have to notify us in advance if you are going to miss a shift."

"You are absolutely right, Margaret, and I apologize. You can dock my pay for the whole day. I just saw that newscast – the missing boy – and had an idea of where he might be." I considered not saying anything about it, but if I found Nathan, there was no way for me to get help quickly without revealing my name. So I decided I might as well have a consistent story just in case.

"It's a good thought, Martin, but there are plenty of people, probably with dogs and rescue personnel, who are looking for him. You are only going to slow them down."

"I just had an idea for an area where a young boy can get lost. It's not where they are looking yet, so I might be the first to check it out."

"You can call in and let the police handle it." She still sounded dubious, but a bit less negative.

"Sorry, Margaret, I am not sure I can explain in detail the area by telephone, and by the time I do, and they are convinced to try, it may be hours. I apologize again but I have to go. Do what you have to do, I will understand." With that, I ran out of the store and into my car.

I've never before tried driving while scrying, so I didn't try now. Instead, I drove in the general direction for a couple of miles, taking whatever roads and turns seemed to lead me closer. Then I stopped, closed my eyes and scried again. Since the boy's image and position were unchanging, my trance became faster and faster. I could probably even close my eyes and perform a quick spell at red traffic lights, but I wasn't brave enough to try that.

In perhaps twenty minutes I was getting very close. It looked like a local town dump. It was actually a surprisingly pleasant area – it looked like a park with gates, and neat little signs directing me to different areas for various hazardous, glass, paper and other types of trash. There was a brief smell that I would have expected from a dump, but then the wind shifted and it disappeared. I finally parked as close to the boy's location as possible and got out of the car. The sign declared that I needed a town license to dump anything, but since I was planning to retrieve something instead I didn't worry.

I wasn't sure how Nathan had gotten to where he was, but my scrying showed only the direct path. I had to go down into a ditch and then up again. There were bushes and sharp thorns, but my physical shield blunted them and guided them away from my eyes and skin. The clothing got torn and scuffed, but it was a small price to pay.

By the time I got to a little depression where Nathan lay, I was out of breath, hot and sweaty, but at least not bleeding. Nathan was exactly as I pictured him, with his eyes mostly closed and his mouth open. He was breathing with a slight hitch, and curled up except for his legs. I could now see that both of his knees had crusted blood on them, as did his hands. The biggest injury was probably his left leg – now I could see that it was broken, although, to my relief, the bone was not poking out.

"Nathan?" I asked softly.

He opened his eyes slowly. They were red-rimmed and I could see tear tracks. "Help. I want mommy!" He would have yelled it, but his voice was weak and hoarse.

I touched him very gently on his shoulder. "Help is here. I will get an ambulance, and they will take you to your mommy. Just lie still for a bit."

"My leg hurts. Can you make it hurt less?"

"Soon, Nathan. Just a bit more. I will call an ambulance." I checked my cell phone. I had no signal. Darn! I hoped it was just the depression blocking the signal; I would have to climb up to check.

"Nathan, I am going up that wall to make a call. Don't worry, I will be back soon."

"No, don't go! I am sorry, I will never again hide in Mister Dolce's truck! Please don't leave!"

I wanted to reassure Nathan, but the quicker I called, the less he would suffer. I tried to sound as stern as I could – instead of crying in sympathy. "Nathan, you need to wait. I will be back soon, but you must behave like a big boy for a few more minutes."

His breathing, at least, was regular, and I did not want him to start crying. Climbing back up was more difficult, and I had to grab on to roots and rocks with my hands to make it up – I did not want to take the time to look for an easier route.

I was very relieved to see a signal bar on my phone. Not great, but it was far, far better than walking back to my car to call the cops. I would have hated to leave the boy here for another half hour or so, and would have hated even more trying to move him with a broken leg and who knows what else.

"Hello, this is the 911 operator. What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I found the boy, Nathan Keremough. There is a search for him now, but in the wrong area. I am at the town dump."

"What is your name, Sir? And where are you now?"

"You can get my info from the phone id. I am at the town dump, about twenty minutes walking through bushes and ditches from the paper recycle area, heading roughly north. There is a depression where the boy is lying. He has a broken leg. I don't think I will be able to call from there, but I will try leaving my telephone on. Please send an ambulance, and some people to carry him out."

"Sir, please stay where you are. I am contacting an ambulance now."

"Sorry, Lady. I have to go back to the boy – he is crying and in pain. If nobody's here in twenty minutes, I will climb up again and try calling."

She kept speaking, but I stuffed the phone into my pocket and climbed back down. As I feared, the call disconnected before I got to Nathan.

"Hi, Nathan, I am back." I checked my watch quickly, to know when to call back.

He was sobbing quietly but now perked up. "I am glad. Is mommy coming?"

"Yes. But first the ambulance men will probably be here. They will help get you out of this hole and check out your leg. My name is Martin. How old are you?"

"I am, three, and a half years old." His speech was still interrupted by the sobs, but my distraction worked and his crying diminished.

"How did you get here? I had to walk a long time to get to this hole."

His story was occasionally interrupted by sobs and apologies for misbehaving, but in essence he snuck into the pickup truck of his neighbor. The neighbor – Mr. Dolce – probably had something to dump here, it sounded like some rotten wood, and Nathan got out of the truck without anybody detecting his presence. He wandered around the dump, "looking for lizards", and fell into the hole, breaking his leg in the process.

Between my questions about his parents, his preschool, and his last birthday party, I managed to occupy him until I started hearing some engine noises in the distance.