Son of Mercy, by Kurt Kirchmeier

Methia knelt beside the bed, the stench of sickness assailing his nostrils. The elderly gentleman beneath the sheets was gaunt, his skin like parchment.
     “He’s suffered long,” Methia said, despite having never met the man before - not in the physical sense of the word, at least.
     Mrs. Corrin, the man’s wife, nodded from the opposite side of the bed.
     “Too long,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
     For the first time since Methia’s arrival, she stopped wringing her wrinkled hands, and joined them as though in preparation to pray.
     “Will there be any pain?” she asked.
     “No pain,” Methia assured her. His tattooed palm began to tingle. “Have you any final words?”
     She shook her head. “Too many goodbyes already.”
     Methia nodded, grateful for the woman’s composure. Most refused to let go until the very last breath had been drawn, sometimes not even then. More than once he’d been forced to calm a grieving soul who, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of guilt, changed his or her mind immediately afterwards. Those were the days Methia cursed his calling. Mercy he could grant, but never absolution.
     “May I hold his hand throughout?” Mrs. Corrin asked.
     “Of course,” Methia replied. “Of course.”
     She leaned over the bed and kissed her unconscious husband’s brow, then sighed deeply as she took his weathered fingers in her own. She signaled her readiness with a nod.
     Methia raised his hand, exposing the tattoo on his palm: a pointed black cross in a circle of white rope, meant to symbolize the connection between this world and the next. Every Son of Mercy bore such a mark, although few had invoked its power as often as Methia.
     “In the name of mercy,” he whispered, “I grant you release.” He pressed his palm to the man’s forehead, the tingling sensation around his tattoo spreading out to his fingers and up his arm, washing across his skin like an avalanche of pins.
     Mrs. Corrin smiled, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “Go with God, my love,” she said. “Go with God.”
     And so he did. Momentarily, at least.
     “He’s passed over,” Methia said, his knees trembling as he pushed himself up from the floor.
     It was then that the deceased opened his eyes and began to cough. Mrs. Corrin backed away from the bed, her hands over her mouth.
     Methia, too, stepped back. “What the...?”
     The man sat up, his eyes wide, like he’d just awoken from a nightmare. He looked around the room, his expression relaxing by degrees as he did so. “Mary?” he said as his gaze came to rest on his wife, who was now standing directly in front of the window, sunlight at her back. “Mary, what’s going on?”
     Though panicked, the man’s voice sounded hale, nothing like the pained whisperings Methia had heard during his spiritual visitation two weeks prior.
     Mary stepped forward, her face a mask of uncertainty. “Nolan?” she said. “Nolan, is that you?”
     “Well of course it’s me!” he growled. “Just what in the heck is going on here? And who the hell are you?” He turned his gaze on Methia, his once rheumy eyes now clear and alert.
     Methia continued to stare wordlessly. Mary was sobbing loudly now, thanking the Lord above as she took her husband’s hands in her own. He tried to shrug her off, clearly angered at being left in the dark, and seemingly oblivious to the fact he’d just returned from it.
     With a deep breath, Methia approached. The man’s face looked much younger than it had only moments before, like he’d somehow shed five year’s worth of wrinkles on his trip back from the other side.
     “For the love of God!” the man continued. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

     A short time later, after the chaos finally settled, Methia found himself sipping tea in the couple’s kitchen, directly across the table from the man he’d come to kill.
     Miraculously, Nolan had no recollection of even being sick, much less passing on. His last memory was of a day a few months prior, just before the diagnosis. Of course, convincing him that such an inordinate amount of time had passed without his knowledge was no easy task. In the end, nature had been the swaying factor. Words could be dismissed, but the change of season was impossible to ignore.
     Nolan said little after that, just stood there at the window, staring out at the russet leaves. Methia attempted to make his exit at that juncture, but Nolan turned and pleaded with him to stay. Understandably, he wanted some answers, though Methia had little light to shed on the matter. In all his years as a Son of Mercy, he’d never heard of such an occurrence.
     After promising the resurrected man that he’d speak to his brothers and return if he heard anything of consequence, Methia finished his tea and departed with all haste, his mind still reeling from the ordeal.

     Haydon, Methia’s long time friend and former teacher, shook his head. “Impossible,” he said.
     They sat in Haydon’s study, a large room with cherry-wood bookshelves against three of four walls. The solitary window was ajar, the smell of rain wafting in to join with the scent of a thousand leather-bound texts. Methia had warned his friend on numerous occasions about exposing the works - irreplaceable, many of them - to sunlight and humidity, but Haydon had always brushed the comments aside, as if to say that nothing lasts forever.
     “I know how it sounds,” Methia replied, “but it’s true. I’m telling you, he rose from that bed like a man reborn.”
     “And you’re sure he’d already passed?” Haydon asked.
     Methia raised an eyebrow, surprised that his friend would even ask such a question. “Of course I’m sure.”
     Haydon nodded thoughtfully. “It was a cancer, was it not?”
     “Yes,” said Methia. “Of the liver and lung.”
     “And has this cancer...left his body?”
     “I’ve yet to check,” Methia replied. “I came straight here.”
     “Well, then,” Haydon said, “perhaps you and I should take a trip. You still have the letter?”
     Spiritual visitations were impossible without some sort of connection to the dying. A letter from the family member petitioning for mercy was usually sufficient, although they generally asked that a personal effect be sent along with the missive: the stronger the connection, the easier the journey.
     Methia nodded. “In my saddlebag,” he said, and pushed himself up from his chair with a groan. He’d not slept in almost a full day, and was more than a little fatigued from so many hours on the road. Were it not for his desire to get to the bottom of things, his thoughts might well have turned to the notion of settling down - retirement was ever in his mind, as of late - but as it was, such considerations had been pushed to the bottom of his list of priorities.
     He returned to the study a few minutes later, holding both a letter, written in Mrs. Corrin’s hand, and a small hand-carved figurine that her husband had fashioned from a block of mahogany.
     Haydon had already brought in a large basin of water, and was now rolling up his sleeve in preparation for the jaunt. “Long time since we traveled in tandem,” he remarked.
     Methia smiled. “A long time indeed,” he agreed. He set his articles on the table beside a tall candle, and then proceeded to roll up his own sleeve as his former mentor closed the drapes and extinguished the lantern.
     Their shadows were soon dancing along the bookshelves, slaves to the whim of the single candle sputtering before them, its flame bouncing like a buoy in the bay.
     Methia reached out to rest his palm on the letter, two fingers on the corner of the figurine. The other he held above the water. Haydon did likewise, and then joined in reciting the words that would enable them to make the jump.
     “In the name of mercy,” they said, “show me the way.”
     An image began to form on the surface of the water, indistinct at first, but becoming clearer with each passing second. Soon, a flat, mirror-like depiction of the Corrin’s living room had spread out from one edge of the basin to the other.
     Methia leaned in and blew out the candle, water sloshing out from the oversized bowl as they both submerged their arms and closed their eyes.
     As always, Methia felt a pulling sensation, like his entire body was being stretched from one location to the other, league after league. And then came the disorienting snap, like an oar slapping a wave.
     He opened his eyes and turned to confirm that Haydon was present as well. With a smile, the older man stepped to the side, his hand raised as if to say, “after you.”
     Mr. Corrin was perched on a wicker chair near the hearth, looking even healthier - if that were possible - than he had just one day before.
     He shuddered a little as Methia and Haydon reached into him, and then barked at his wife, who was apparently in the kitchen. “You got that window open again?” he said. “It’s damn drafty in here!”
     The two of them quickly moved from organ to organ, never really touching, just sensing and searching. For a second, Methia lost his concentration, his thoughts interrupted by a sudden flash, almost like a memory, but much too fleeting to be examined to any degree. All he knew for certain was that it belonged not to him, but to Nolan. Unsettling as it was, he ignored it and continued.
     After a thorough sweep they backed away, Haydon’s eyebrows rising in bemusement. The cancer was gone.
     Moments later, they were back in the dark study, their arms wet to their elbows. Haydon got up and threw open the drapes. “Amazing!” he said.
     Had Methia not already half expected just such an outcome, he might have echoed the statement. As it was, he just sat there and nodded. He looked down at his tattooed palm for probably the twentieth time since he’d pressed it to the dying man’s brow. Unlike the previous occasions, however, he noticed something different. Perhaps it was just the lighting, but the pointed cross seemed faded, like the ink had begun to rub off.
     Haydon must have seen his expression, for he immediately moved to Methia’s side. “What is it?” he asked.
     “My cross,” Methia said. “Does it look lighter to you?”
     The old man squinted, his thick gray eyebrows almost meeting above his nose. “It does at that,” he agreed. He turned his own hand so they could draw a comparison. There was no doubt about it - the color was fading.
     “What do you think it means?” asked Methia.
     Haydon sat down on the corner of his desk and shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said, his face creased with worry.
     Worry for what, Methia didn’t know, but he suddenly found himself growing anxious, as well. “I need another trip,” he said at length. “I need to find out.”
     Haydon narrowed his eyes. He’d just picked up his pipe, and was now tamping the tobacco. “Find out what?”
     Methia shrugged. “What if it’s not just a one time occurrence?”
     Haydon struck a match and took three puffs before replying. “You honestly believe you healed that man?”
     Methia sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”
     But he believed.
     The two sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the implications of such a thing. Though Methia couldn’t say for certain what thoughts were running through his friend’s mind, he suspected they were probably parallel to his own. From an agent of mercy to a healer - could it be possible?
     “So do you have one for me?” Methia finally continued. “Another trip?”
     “Ask me tomorrow,” he said. “After you’ve had some rest. Your own health comes first.”  
     “Fine,” Methia agreed. “Tomorrow.”

     Methia slept fitfully, the same dream, or nightmare rather, waking him every few hours: a tunnel of light that seemed to stretch to infinity; a thousand tattooed hands reaching out from the walls on either side.
     He’d had many such dreams over the years, but had always managed to relegate them to the back of his mind upon waking. It was said by many that the Sons of Mercy were sons of Satan, and that they violated God’s will with every forehead they touched. Methia had always assumed his dreams were a subconscious result of this controversy, rather than meaningful entities in their own right. But now that he’d healed someone, or at least thought that he had, he could no longer be sure.
     Why else would the Lord grant him the ability to give, if not to stop him from taking? Methia was not accustomed to such fluctuations in his resolve. In all his years of service - he’d always believed that’s what it was - doubt had rarely raised its ugly head. Now that it had, he couldn’t help but stare it in the face. 
     The thousand hands were still reaching as he mounted his horse and headed for Haydon’s, three days worth of supplies secured in his saddlebag.   
     Despite the early hour, Lenosha’s streets were already bustling with activity. Methia weaved between children and carts, his dappled mare voicing her displeasure at every stray dog that happened across her path.
     Haydon had already consumed half a pot of coffee by the time he arrived, and was just about to sit down to break his fast. He invited Methia to join him.
     Despite his impatience for answers, Methia agreed to the offer, and ended up exchanging a few pleasantries before finally getting down to the business at hand.   
     “Well?” he said.
     “You’ve thought about this?” Haydon asked.
     Methia nodded. “I have.”
     Haydon paused to take a sip of coffee. “And you still believe you healed the man?”
     “I said I didn’t know.”
     “Yes, but your eyes said otherwise,” Haydon replied. “You mustn’t go with the notion of healing, Methia. You’re a Son of Mercy.”
     “I know what I am,” Methia replied, perhaps a little too harshly.
     Haydon seemed unperturbed by the outburst. “I only mention this because I’m worried,” he said. “How’s that hand of yours?”
     “Worse,” Methia admitted. He held it out for his friend to see. The ink had continued to fade throughout the night, on both the cross, as well as the circle of rope.  
     Haydon stared at it for long seconds, and then shook his head in wonder. “Methia, I don’t even know if you have the power for one more. Perhaps you should reconsider.”
     Methia shook his adamantly. “There’s still time,” he said.
     After a long sigh, Haydon reached into a pocket in his robe. “Here,” he said, passing an envelope across the table. “She’s close. Just four leagues east of here.”
     Methia squinted to read the letter, and then sat back in his chair to absorb the information therein. The “she” Haydon had referred to was only six years old and, according to the missive, which had been accompanied by a small lock of hair, had been suffering from painful seizures for well over two years. She could neither see nor walk, nor even feed herself, for that matter.  
     “Have you seen this girl?” Methia asked, meaning in a spiritual sense.
     Haydon nodded. “Last night,” he said, “and it is as the letter implies. She has three tumors in her brain, one the size of a plum.” He shook his head. “She’s in a world of anguish, Methia.”
     Methia looked down at his rapidly deteriorating tattoo, the reality of the situation giving him second thoughts. Normally, he would never grant mercy without first confirming for himself that it was warranted, but he didn’t dare waste any more time now that his power might be on the wane. Conversely, he didn’t dare let someone go in his stead for fear that he might have been able to heal her. Haydon must have been secretly hoping for the latter himself, Methia decided; otherwise he’d have passed the task on to someone else, someone with an uncorrupted tattoo.
     Methia drank back his last bit of coffee and thanked his elder for the meal.
     Haydon nodded in return. “Good luck, my friend,” he said.

     Methia was emotionally exhausted by the time he arrived at the farmhouse. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Corrin, how the man had sat up in his bed, his eyes wild, his life restored. It shouldn’t have happened. There were no second chances; it wasn’t God’s way. And yet it continued to gnaw at him, the notion that there could be.
     Six years old...
     He raised his fist to the door, which opened before he even had a chance to knock. A tiny, almond-haired woman, who couldn’t have been more than thirty, greeted him with a solemn hello, her eyes tearing up almost instantly.
     “You’re...you’re earlier than I expected,” she said. “Unless...” She trailed off, looking as though she were hoping he would prove to be somebody else, anybody else.
     He shattered her illusion with a sympathetic smile. “My name is Methia,” he said. “I’ve come to deliver mercy.”
     She bit her lip on “mercy,” as if to keep from crying aloud. Her husband appeared a few seconds later, wearing the face of a man who hadn’t slept in days, perhaps weeks. He stood tall, though, his shoulders squared. Would they bear the weight? Methia wondered.
     “Come in,” the man said, gently coaxing his wife from the door. He offered his hand a moment later. “Paul,” he said. “Paul Morris. This is my wife, Sarah.”
     Methia shook his hand, and then stood patiently through the silence that followed. Beyond introductions, folks were never sure how to proceed. What was the proper etiquette when dealing with a man who had come to take the life of a loved one? Methia did his best never to rush them. 
     Sarah left the room within moments, unable to deal with the hurt. Her husband watched her go, his chest heaving with a sigh. “Patricia’s down the hall,” he finally said. “Still sleeping. We’ve been giving her small doses of nightshade for the pain.”
     Methia nodded, doing his best to keep his composure, fighting the temptation to look down at his palm. More than anything he wanted to tell them that maybe, just maybe, he could save her; that she could wake to a new life, free of the chains that bound her. But it had happened only the once; what reason had he to believe it ever would again? To get their hopes up now would be cruel beyond measure.
     Paul’s gaze moved to the hall, and stayed there for the space of several breaths. “Could you...could you give us a moment?” he asked as he turned back. “So we can say goodbye?” 
     “Of course,” Methia replied. “Take all the time you need.” With his thoughts as clouded as they were, he was actually grateful for the delay. Paul nodded wordlessly, and then strode to the bedroom to be with his wife and daughter, his shoulders dropping with each and every step. 
     Alone now, Methia stared down at his palm in silent reflection. A film of nervous sweat glistened like lacquer over the pointed gray-and-black cross. What if nothing happened, he suddenly wondered, no death, no healing, just nothing? Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. Perhaps he should have left the task for another. The emotional investment was too great, and entirely unfair to both the parents and the girl. Had they not suffered enough?
     “We’re ready now.”
     He turned at the voice, balling his fist as though to squeeze away his doubt. He’d come this far already; what choice had he now? With a nod, he followed the grief-stricken father into the bedroom at the end of the hall.
     The girl was curled up beneath a soft pink sheet, her long auburn hair brushed back from her face. Her eyes were closed, her breaths long and even.
     Had she been awake, Methia might have seen what had prompted the letter in his pocket, but aside from a small spasm at the corner of her mouth, she looked almost healthy, like a normal little girl asleep in her bed.
     Sarah had stopped crying, and moved from her daughter’s side as Methia approached. She remained silent, but in her eyes Methia could see a single sentence being voiced over and over again: It’s for the best. It’s for the best. 
     She moved to her husband’s side and buried herself into his embrace.
     Methia felt a surge of relief as his palm began to tingle. His power, whatever power that might be, had not yet deserted him.
     Upon receiving his assurance that there wouldn’t be any pain, the couple nodded in unison, their eyes still on their daughter. Then, apparently sensing that Methia was waiting for final confirmation, Paul looked up and whispered a single word: “Please.”
     After one final breath, Methia turned his palm and focused his entire being on the cross. “In the name of mercy,” he said. “I grant you release.”
     A million colors exploded behind his eyes as he touched his palm to her brow. His fingers numbed almost instantly, the sensation of her passing rushing across his skin. He could feel her vitality depleting, her spirit detaching from her body. Six long and painful years, gone in the blink of an eye.
     Methia retreated a step, fighting to keep his balance against the vertigo. She’s passed over. He tried to say it, but his mouth refused to form the words. The girl’s parents stepped to the bed, their footsteps timid, as though worried they might wake her.
     Open your eyes, thought Methia, just open your eyes. But she didn’t.
     He swallowed hard, his heart thumping. He reached out to steady himself against the wall, but then paused, his hand hanging in the air. Movement. For a second he was almost certain it had been a trick of the mind, but then he saw it again, a corner of the bed sheet rising almost imperceptibly, as though poked by a single finger.
     With a sudden cough, as though death itself needed to be expelled from her lungs, the child awoke, her crystal blue eyes lighting the room with a heavenly glow. The twitch was gone from the corner of her mouth.

     Methia left the farmhouse feeling lighter than air, the afternoon sun only adding to the unfamiliar warmth in his heart. His calling had always been just that: a calling, and not one that he’d ever taken pleasure in. As a Son of Mercy, he’d learned to live on purpose alone, and though that in itself had sustained him for the better portion of his days, he now felt himself longing for more. He only wished that he were younger, so that he might do for as many with life as he’d done for others with death.
     It wasn’t until home had risen from the horizon that he finally realized he’d been riding with only one hand on the reins, as though he’d subconsciously feared that his newfound gift might rub off if he weren’t careful.
     Eager to share his news, Methia made straight for the home of his mentor, who, as it turned out, was already standing at the door to greet him, as if he’d been awaiting his return.  
     “She is well, I trust?” Haydon said. He was smiling, not a hint of doubt in his expression.
     Methia narrowed his eyes. Could the news have traveled so fast? “She is indeed,” he replied. “How did you know?”
     “Come,” he said, motioning for Methia to follow.
     Curious now, Methia fell in behind him, and soon found himself in the study, surrounded by four of his brethren.
     Methia greeted them in turn, noting as he did so that each and every one bore a faded cross of their own. Good fortune, it seemed, had fallen to their hands as well.
     The stories came fast and furious, each as miraculous as the last: pneumonia, influenza, cancer, even a case of leprosy. It was dizzying and uplifting all at once.
     Not to be outdone, Haydon stepped forward and opened his hand. “It began just after you left,” he said, and then with a chuckle, “so much for my retirement.”

     Word spread quickly, and soon the letters began to pour in. Alone in his darkened study, six days later, Methia wondered how they could possibly get to them all. He held but the first in his hand, while seven more sat waiting on his desk.
     “One at a time,” Haydon had said with a shrug. “It’s the best we can do.”
     Still, Methia couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed as he sat there in the candle-lit room, staring down into the basin of water before him.
     According to the missive, the man had fallen from his horse, and spent the following three days lying prostrate in the mud before someone finally came to his rescue. He was paralyzed from the neck down, and fighting an infection to boot.
     Methia focused on the words, tracing the ink with his fingers. He had little doubt as to the validity of the story, but given that it was a full day’s ride, he wanted to be sure.
     “In the name of mercy, show me the way.”
     Mere seconds after the words had been spoken, the image began to form. It spread out over the surface of water like quicksilver, a mirror to another man’s world: rough-hewn logs, a window, and a man lying still beneath plaid sheets. Methia waited until each and every ripple had settled, and then leaned forward to blow out the candle.
     Eyes closed, he plunged his hand into the water and let it carry him away.  
     The man’s breathing was labored, his fevered brow covered with a sheen of sweat. Methia watched him for a moment before approaching the bed. There was something unsettling about the man’s eyes. That they’d been reddened by whiskey was obvious from the bottle beside the bed, and yet what Methia sensed seemed to go much deeper than mere drunkenness. No, there was something else in that glint, something feral.
     Nevertheless, he reached out to gauge the severity of stricken man’s health, only to discover that he couldn’t. Instead of an intuitive map of internal processes, he found himself inundated by a thousand fleeting images, few of them pleasant, most of them downright disturbing.
     He saw a boy in a cage, his tiny fingers wrapped around the honeycombed wire, and then a woman cowering in a corner, her dress torn, one of her eyes swelled shut, and finally a man in an alley, gripping the hilt of the blade that protruded from just below his sternum.
     One after another they flashed through his mind, each as sinister as the last. They were the man’s memories, Methia realized, and shuddered at the thought.
     Unable to bear it any longer, he pulled his trembling fingers away. The man groaned as he did so, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as though he, too, had relived the memories, and felt warmed by their embrace. The sick expression only added to the deluge. Overwhelmed, Methia severed the connection and returned to his body.
     For long minutes thereafter, he sat motionless in the dark, hands over his face, water running down his wrist. The tormented images continued to dance behind his eyes, polluting his thoughts with their depravity.
     His newfound gift, it seemed, had come with a price, and a choice he’d not anticipated. A man’s right to die was something he’d never questioned, but what of his right to live?
     Lest the shadows swallow him whole, he moved to the window and parted the curtains, allowing sunlight to spill into the gloom. He averted his eyes to his tattooed palm. Not a spec of black or white remained now, just so many shades of gray.

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©2006 Kurt Kirchmeier