Chapter 12: Healing and Ceremony

The helo crew had no time to clean Michael. They focused on treating his wounds and supplying plasma to replace his blood loss. He showed no serious signs of shock or cardiac difficulties. A single wound may not be life threatening, but a combination of three could overcome the strongest victim. Michael seemed to be unusually resilient.

"My God!" were the first words from the ER surgeon when they rolled Michael in. "Nurse! Orderly! Get this man cleaned up. I can't deal with all this filth in an operating theater!"

A crew surrounded Michael to swab him down with towels and basins of warm water. Two orderlies cleaned his arms and hands, a third tried to get the mixture of blood and mud off his face and neck and his matted hair. A nurse secured the pads and bandages that covered his wounds; another held his air-splinted leg from being jostled.

Unspoken among all of them was the horror and surreal aspect of the scene. One of them had combat experience and she saw that this man had just arrived from a battlefield.

Back on the operating table, the ER surgeon and his team began the long process of dealing with three bullet wounds and a leg fracture.

"For one unlucky s.o.b., he's an incredibly lucky man," the surgeon blurted out to his surgical nurse as he dropped a probe into the discard pan. "Six inches to the left and he'd have been shredded like a rag doll. The lower slug might have passed between his legs, but the upper two would have taken him in the kidney and the heart. Two inches to the left and he'd be dead, hit in the intestines and lung.

"And that leg wound! The slug clipped and chipped the femur, and the impact caused a simple facture. There's a few bone chips to remove. We'll clean it out, stitch it up, set it, and he'll be good as new. Well, as good as that older wound taken together with this new one will allow. Our man's going to be real sick of physical therapy if he hopes to walk again without a serious limp."

The slug that pierced his side did clip the lower rib, but that was a fortunate thing. It deflected the path of the slug just enough to avoid damage to the lower lobe of the lung. It was a damned nasty flesh wound and part of his rib had to be removed along with a few bone fragments, but he'd gotten off easy for a body cavity wound.

The shoulder wound was even luckier. He suffered a big hole in the fleshy, muscular portion just above the scapula. He'd probably never again wear a heavy bag slung from that shoulder without experiencing discomfort, but the bone underneath was untouched.

"I wonder how someone could get hit with three slugs and come out as lucky as you," the surgeon mumbled, his fingers busy with forceps, needle and thread. Everything had been swabbed, probed, cleaned, stitched and bandaged.

"Roll him out of here. Full monitoring in ICU overnight, and we'll see what needs to be done in the morning." The surgeon stretched his tired muscles, rotated his stiff neck to ease the fatigue, and walked to the door, stripping his mask and gloves into the waste bin. "I'm going home. Call me if there's any change in his condition."

Michael never sensed pain or treatment from the moment he slipped into darkness and felt himself pulled along that long, long tunnel. He frantically began to protest the distant light, growing larger and closer.

Oh, please, don't tell me ... that damned light! Light at the end of the tunnel?

It was not light at the end of the tunnel. It was Dee'rah, in her angelic form, reaching for Michael, extending her arms to enfold him in her aura, to share her life energy with his ebbing life force. She cradled him, there in the void, and he rejoiced at their bonding. He was not alone. He felt no pain, only the warmth and joy of her presence.

She murmured to him and he became aware, his inner vision opening, seeing, looking into her gentle face to see concern in her eyes.

Michael-mine, your body suffers. I feel its pain; your life-force is stressed, weakened. Your body is struggling against its injuries. Attend me! Your spirit will not yield. You have great strength remaining. Meld with my seeing, bring your sight along with mine. We will seek along the energy lines from your aura to your physical self. We will follow the chi that ancient healers of your race have discerned. Come in with me! We will hasten your body to heal.

So he melded his thoughts, his inner vision, with hers and together they traced out the disturbed and broken energy field that flowed within and throughout his body. His leg was a painful mass of confusion and disruption. Together they probed its damaged cells, fibers, and nerves. They rallied and hastened growth and repair. They channeled energy up the lifelines of his vascular system, hastening the white celled defenders to come, to attack foreign bodies. They called more oxygen, more nourishment, and encouraged nerves and fibers to regenerate and grow and strengthen. Time hardly mattered in the realm of spirit during their work to overcome the trauma of his wounds. Each wound—leg, ribcage, and shoulder—all responded to their healing focus.

Michael-mine, your body heals beautifully. You are strong and resilient despite the punishment you have endured. But there is another, much deeper injury. I fear it could be a crippling wound if it is not healed. Your soul, your being bears a grave hurt. You have buried it within yourself, concealed under layers of scars and denial. But now you have torn it open, most terribly. I hear it shrieking in anger to me. Do you not hear it, my love? Is it not calling its rage to you?

They stood in the nameless place into which he'd been called. Her arms about him loosened slightly but did not release him. He regarded her gentle face, saddened, her eyes looking to him for his truthful answer.

No, Dee'rah-mine. I hear nothing. Other than my love and gratitude to you for who you are, for what you have given me, I feel nothing. I feel no anger, no rage.

You have walled it away, Michael-mine. You have learned not to hear, not to listen. But this time, in your killing—she visibly shuddered, her aura dimmed in a paroxysm of revulsion—I fear for you.

It has grown too big, too raw to contain. It will burst and fill you. It is a malignant thing of guilt and condemnation. It will destroy you as it grows and overcomes your inner self, Michael-mine. It has festered within you since your days of horror past. We must stop it, Michael-mine. Together. We save your body, yet this malignant thing will consume everything good within you! We must overcome it, cast it out, Michael-mine!

Michael felt the stirrings of real fear within himself. It had not been his fear of dying, or the horrors of men dying beside him, or the death of innocents beyond his saving. Not that. He accepted all that. When the pressure of containing it grew too strong, nightmares vented it during his cruel sleeps without rest. Before, with Dee'rah's help, he judged himself and found himself absolved as a protector.

But this other thing, aroused within him during the fight at the cabin, it was different. He feared himself. He killed too well, too skillfully, too artfully. He killed with precise, deadly strikes rising from a primal force within him. It focused his intent and deadly skills without hesitation. He saw an enemy and struck him down. In another age, in other lands he could be samurai or gladiator. In America with its senseless, endless wars he had become warrior. He despised it. He abhorred it. In a dark corner of his mind the black self-hatred, a suppressed evil, grew impatient to smite him down as anathema.

Michael-mine, we have faced this once. You judged yourself: the verdict was forgiveness. You are a protector. You are a high spirit, a laudable being. But this other thing is a darkness you have never faced in yourself. On this terrible day you have fed it! Oh, how it has feasted! It grows and rages within you.

The ICU nurse jumped up when every sensor patched into her panel sounded alarms and flashed red lights. She punched her call button for help and raced to fling open the door to his room. There he struggled, their multiple gunshot victim, thrashing and heaving wordlessly on his bed. His IV lines and monitors pulled loose; his splinted leg jerked wildly in its sling, threatening to tear free. Two orderlies arrived at her side.

"Quickly, get the restraints, he will hurt himself. Quickly, now. Careful ... don't pull on that arm; his shoulder was shot through. Yes! Gently now ... let me get this into his arm; it should calm him."

The sedative acted fast. Moments later she had reconnected the monitor leads, repaired the IV needle insertion, and watched his physical responses stabilize. She saw his pulse racing, his breath coming in irregular gasps, with wild movements of his eyes under his closed eyelids. I better make a chart record of this. It's too late to call Doctor Jeffers, but he'll want to know first thing when he comes in.

A very worried nurse returned to her station, profoundly disturbed at what she'd seen. She'd heard the stories, gossip, snatches of conversation from the medevac crew, from the others who helped bring him in. He's a hero, they say. He crawled out under heavy fire and hunted them down. He saved two federal agents, his friend, and himself. But that is no hero in that bed. That is a terribly haunted soul.

She crossed herself and tried to put it out of her mind. She would talk to her priest when she saw him next. She was thankful for one thing: he hadn't opened his eyes. She was afraid to guess what she might have seen.

Michael and Dee'rah stood, touching, their hands clasped tightly together. She rose up on her delicate feet to her full height, her wings fully extended behind them. She fed her strength to Michael as he stood tall, strong, feeling himself filled with strength and resolve.

Together they walked to the wall to confront a black door centered there. They sensed great turmoil within, a seething, angry mass.

I command you to heed and come forth. Face me, malignant spirit! Michael shouted, his voice deep and resonant. The wall wavered and shook. The tumult behind it stilled, fell silent.

I command you, vile spirit! Come forth and face me. Your time of concealment is ended. Hide yourself no longer. Come forth!

A thunderous booming roar erupted behind the door and the wall shuddered, bulging forward as if it would explode upon them. The door remained sealed.

Once, twice, now again I command and exhort thee! Come forth! You cannot deny me. Come hence!

The door cracked open and a tendril snaked out, the black antithesis of light. No illumination could survive its suffocating touch. It oozed forth; it tentatively approached them. It reared up as it drew near but stopped a few paces short. More tendrils slithered forward to mingle with it, swelling to a grotesque, obese shape, a swaying, self-aware black mass of malignancy.

Who are you that dares disturb me in the place where you sealed me? You who conceived me and exiled me from your conscious mind? Now you dare confront me? NOW? In the very hour when I would emerge and claim my reckoning upon you? YOU WHO CREATED ME?

Michael recoiled, shamed and disgusted. Fear and revulsion chilled the pit of his belly. My God! That thing is me, that which I most despised, hated in myself...

Dee'rah grasped his hand more tightly and her aura increased its golden glow around them. He felt her strength increase, surging into him. He heard her soft voice: I love you. Face this demon and banish it. It has no hold over you. It will not come between us!

I abjure thee, foul creation, Michael commanded, staring intently at the black mass seething now before his face. I abjure, release, and dispel thee. I disown, disavow, and detach thee! BEGONE!

With that command Michael's eyes changed into golden discs. A stream of flame as hot and intense as noon-day sun shot from his mouth, ripping the demon asunder.

Their surroundings exploded into fragments of light and dark. Michael clung to Dee'rah, fearing for her. She grasped his hands in the tumult and leaned forward to kiss him. She vanished. He fell from chaos; he plummeted down the long dark tunnel.

Ah, dammit, now where? Damn ... oh, DAMN! He fell into a world of pain and blinding light. Someone was poking him. Something, many things, were binding him, holding him down. His eyes were stuck shut, his lips dry and cracked, and his tongue felt swollen too big for his mouth. He tried to shout his pain and anger. He croaked a ragged gasp.

"Ah ha! There you are! You had us worried. We thought you'd gone over the far side, we did! Here, have a sip of water. Just a little pull on this straw..."

He felt the hard edge of a plastic straw forced between his lips. He tried to seal his dry, rough lips around it. He sucked air. He tried again and got a little moisture. He rolled it around on his tongue, feeling it loosen a little. He sucked again, got a bit more water, and used his tongue to wet his lips. Ahhhh ... much better. He tried to suck again but the straw was yanked away.

"Hey, crap! Come back with that!" he mumbled, forcing his eyes open. Fuzzy room, blurred face, dark face above a white fuzzy shape.

"Here now, hero! Mind your mouth or the next thing you'll taste will be soap! Now focus those eyes and pay attention. We'll get you back right in a minute, but now that you're awake and with me, you gotta mind, you hear?"

Michael struggled to blink and clear his vision. He tasted the delicious moisture in his mouth. He swallowed a huge wad of phlegm and he desperately wanted more of that water! He focused and saw a black face with a huge white, toothy smile, and an immaculate white nurse's uniform.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Hold the soap. I'll watch my mouth."

"That's a good hero! Here's some more of that water, but take it slow ... small sips, okay? Don't take any big swallows. Just let yourself get it back together and you'll be fine."

She held the plastic water cup under his chin until he'd had enough to feel satisfied. He tried to raise his hand to gesture a thank you, but he couldn't. He tried to turn his head to see what was holding him but his head was strapped down. He could feet the strap tight against his forehead when he tried to move.

"What the hell!" he cried. "Why am I tied down here?"

"Hey!" she scolded. "There goes that mouth of yours again. You're tied down because all night you was throwing somethin' of an awful fit! You like to tore yourself up, and we had to tie you down for your own sake. And shoot you full of sedative to get you to lay quietly. And did that end it? Lord, no. Mister, you groaned and mumbled and those eyes of yours rolled around like marbles in a blender. I never seen nothin' like it! You feeling okay now? You don't feel any fit comin' on or maybe a little jumpin' up and around?"

Michael vividly recalled his dream with Dee'rah, their long togetherness. He had a dim memory of struggling with some nameless, black horror ... but beyond that, nothing. He was there, his body here, what was happening? Was he okay now? He felt alright. Damn all the pain, but his mind was okay.

"No problem now. I hurt like hel ... I hurt everywhere. But I feel much calmer now. The water helped, thank you. Can you unstrap me, please? I promise I will be okay."

"Sure thing, hero. Let me get an orderly in here to do that. I've got to leave for a few minutes. Doctor Jeffers's orders, he wanted to see you just as soon as you came back to us. I'll be right back, don't worry."

She moved to her station, glanced over at the tired man sitting in the waiting area where she'd ordered him to go a few minutes ago, and waved him over to her.

"He's awake and back with us. I'm calling an orderly to release his straps, then I'm calling Doctor Jeffers like he wanted. You, Mr. Barringer, have been here all night in his room, and you look a lot worse than he does. Get out of here. We'll keep an eye on him, and we'll call you if there's anything to be concerned about. You do know, that if you didn't have that badge, I'd have had you thrown out of here on your skinny white ass, don't you?"

Nurse Alma Winston was not only the best and most formidable of all the capable nursing staff in the hospital, she was also the most protective and fearless when it came to caring for her patients. She had twelve years of service in the ICU. Most nurses would have quite in tears after a few years of high stress from losing too many trauma and disease patients, no matter how much they cared. Alma was fearless to the point of telling a federal agent when and how high to jump. She saw something in this one that she liked; he showed genuine concern for their hero in that bed and he had stayed all night.

"Sure, Nurse Winston, I'll do that. I stink, I'm hungry, and I'm falling asleep on my feet. You'll call me, right?"

"You Winston me again, sport, and I'll thump you up alongside your dumb head. I'm Alma to you, and if I said I'd call, you can take that to the bank. Now git, you hear? Git along with you, out of my hospital. Get some food in you. You're a skinny mess!"

Steve grinned at her foolishly, like a chastised son. He nodded his head and ducked away, glad for her strong presence.