Book of Water

Chapter 16

16

Michaela felt the call. Soft, barely perceptible, like a feather lightly touching her skin.

Something breathed outside the tent. A gentle sound, not human. She tried to sleep past it, like a child trying to sleep past the dawn.

The urge in her stirred. Michaela opened her eyes. Gray light entered the tent. Rinaldo crouched at the entrance and quietly called her name.

It was not him she answered. He was nothing to her. Healed, he had no hold on her, no more than any of the others did.

But the breathing. And the pull of the wound. Michaela’s pulse quickened.

She could see the horse standing just outside the tent. His leg tantalized her. Even when she closed her eyes again, she felt every nuance of the cut: how deep, how long, the debris trapped deep in the crevice of it, the infected tissue swelling around it.

The body was a magnificent thing. People cursed it for hurting. Hated it for being weak.

But Michaela always saw the true nature. How it fought and fought, defended itself, built up armies inside it to combat assaults from the outside. How it healed itself with layers of scars and fresh skin. The way bones mended. How the body always longed to be whole and would claw its way back, even when others saw the healing as hopeless.

Rinaldo was talking, filling the air with sound. Michaela held up her hand to silence him. She didn’t need him, didn’t want him here, only cared about the wound.

She crawled out of the tent. The stallion was beautiful. A dark bay color with a thick black mane and tail, but his head hung wearily and there was terrible pain in the horse’s eyes.

Michaela stepped closer and breathed in the horse’s earthy smell. “Altala,” she murmured gently, stroking her hand down the horse’s strong neck. She felt him shiver beneath her touch. His body was hot with fever. “Altala,” she said again, and the horse trembled once more, but this time she felt him relax. The stallion dipped his head toward her and Michaela closed her eyes.

She smoothed her hands down his shoulder until she reached the top of his tender, swollen leg. Then she wrapped her hands firmly around it. The horse shuddered. She knew she hurt him. But his pain would soon be hers.

Fire erupted inside her fingers. Contained, underneath her skin. It coursed upward through her arms and across her chest, scorching her heart and her lungs.

The flames inside her burned higher and brighter as she held tightly to the horse’s leg. She leaned her head back as the fire reached her face. Then came the agony as it seared through her mind.

To anyone watching it might seem but a moment. Inside the fire, time stretched on and on. The pain was blinding, beyond endurance. It filled and consumed Michaela from head to feet. She wanted to cry out, to stop, to let go, but the healing had a will of its own. It didn’t care how it used her and hurt her. It didn’t care that she might barely survive. It would keep burning through her, down to her bones. The healing only cared about the wound.

Michaela wrapped her arms around the pillar of fire and held on.