Read Online The Healer by Michael Blumlein - Free Book Online

see their breaths condense and cloud the air. Together, as though scripted, each man reached into his pocket and pulled out a clear glass jar and some sort of wooden scraper, comb-shaped but without teeth. The scraper went in the jar, and the jar was then placed upright in the snow. Then, to Payne's astonishment, the men disrobed.
    Hats and mittens were followed by coats and shirts. Using these to stand on, boots and socks came next, then pants and long underwear. Some of the men went so far as to remove everything.
    Payne pressed himself against the back wall of the shed, quite certain that he shouldn't be seen but equally certain that he wasn't going to miss this. Such tender bodies! Fat and thin, hairy and hairless, all pink and mottled and glistening with sweat from their run. Within a minute the sweat froze, coating their skins in a layer of rime. It had a faintlygreenish tint to it, which was odd, for frozen sweat was ice and should have been a frosty white. Or better still, thought Payne, no color at all, no frost to begin with, for to be naked in this cold was madness.
    But this madness seemed to have a purpose, for as soon as they were covered in their coats of ice, the men bent down and picked up their toothless combs and began to scrape it off, building up little piles on the edge of the scraper, which they then carefully scraped into the jars. They were thorough and meticulous in their collection: not a single inch of their suits of frost was left untouched. For areas they couldn't reach, a partner helped them.
    It was over quickly. The men obviously had done this many times before. And what exactly was it they were doing? Payne wondered. Some sort of bonding ritual? A rite of passage? A bizarre new sport? By now he knew a thing or two about humans, but he'd never seen or heard of this. It was a mystery, as baffling as no doubt it was profound.
    Once they had their clothes back on, they slowly left the field, carrying their jars with great care, some in their pockets, some in the crooks of their arms. Most of the jars were about half-filled with the pale green ice. There was no running now, no jostling in the line, no jogging. They were more like weary monks, plodding homeward. At one point the sun happened to strike a number of the jars, kindling them with an emerald glow, and then it seemed that they were carrying lanterns.
    Their path from the field took them by the shed, and it didn't take long for Payne to realize his danger. He'd read stories of what happened to people who stumbled onto secret rituals or rites. How they were flayed alive and had their tongues cut out and were hung from trees and disemboweled, and not necessarily in that order.
    Unfortunately, there was nowhere to hide, so he did the only thing he could think of, quickly retracing his steps up the snowbound road, then turning around and pretending to be just arriving. Whether it fooled anyone, he never knew. The men didn't seem to care about him one way or the other. All save one.
    Covert halted in his tracks when he saw him.
    Payne responded with a timid smile. This was a man he liked, more courteous than most, a man whom he'd done well for. His smile, however, was not returned. Covert waited for the other men to pass, then made his way over.
    Payne welcomed him. “It's good to see you. You look better.”
    But Covert's face was dark with anger. He shook his jar in Payne's face. “Look at this! Look at what you done!”
    Like the other jars his was half-filled, but the contents, instead of being a pale green, were opalescent. As they should have been, thought Payne.
    â€œI don't understand.”
    â€œYou said you'd do me right. That's what you said. But look. Look.” Covert could barely control himself. “Three years. Three long years, that's what it took me. Now look what you done.”
    â€œYou were sick,” said Payne. “I healed you.”
    â€œYou took what was mine is what you did. You robbed