My Brother's Keeper
Ciaran kept his eyes glued to the dusty floor when he came into the bedroom. He didn't want to see the frailty that had taken over Father Owen in the last few days.
Ciaran knew the priest's white hair meant that he was old, and by that reasoning almost everyone in the monastery was old, but until recently Father Owen had never given him any reason to believe that old meant anything more than a little stiffness in the morning and an annoying habit of prattling on about the value of good hard work. Now old had become synonymous with sick.
He tried not to look the priest in the eyes as he let himself be coaxed over to the bedside, but obedience again won out over selfishness. One glance and he knew instantly that there would be more talk of leaving today. His heart sank. So it wasn't just a fever induced fantasy of the day before.
"It has to be you, my son." Even Father Owen's voice, once booming, sounded weak now. He went on, explaining the responsibility.
Ciaran tried not to listen, but the words seeped in anyway. "But Malik," he protested, picturing his brother, his twin. He knew there shouldn't be tears. There had been too many tears in the village that month. It wasn't good to add to them. And besides, fifteen years was far too old for a boy to be seen with wet eyes. But still, his voice wavered.
"Malik is a good boy," Father Owen said gently. "But you're more clever."
That was entirely not what Ciaran meant. His whole body slumped.
The priest's face softened. "We can't afford to send both of you."
Ciaran blinked at him, wondering not for the first time in the five years he and Malik had been living at the monastery if the priest could sense his thoughts the way he could sometimes sense Malik's. Father Owen laughed and shook his head, confirming the notion even more. "Would that we hadn't let it get so bad, but now..." He shrugged and trailed off into sadness.
Ciaran put on a brave front. "How far is it again, Father?"
"It'll take you two, maybe three weeks to reach the border." The old man struggled to sit up. Ciaran tucked an extra pillow behind his shoulders and then, at a gesture, moved the tray of stationery from the desk to the man's lap.
He meant walking, of course. They didn't have any horses. And even if they did, Ciaran didn't know how to ride. When he was nine, just before his parents died, his Da had promised to buy him a horse someday, like the ones they saw in the market. He thrust the memory away. Even if his parents had lived, they'd be dying now. The sickness was everywhere.
"There'll be just enough money to get you through the border and into the City. Our sister church, St. Magrathea is just inside the gate." Father Owen droned on, repeating all the same things he had said the day before. This time he wrote the details down.
"What if I can't find it?" The City had always been something of a legend to him. Ciaran didn't know anyone who'd actually been there except the merchants who came through from time to time with their fancy wares.
"Can't find it?"
"The gates."
Father Owen chuckled, "That will be the least of your problems."
Ciaran looked at him dubiously. It seemed like a very big problem to him.
"As you crest the final hill, you'll see a wall of shining blue, almost turquoise in the sun. That will be the ancient barrier protecting the gates. As you draw near, you'll hear it hum to you."
Blue walls that hum? Perhaps Father Owen did have a fever again. "Have you ever been there?"
"Yes," the priest nodded. "Once a long time ago, when I was just a boy, not much older than you and your brother are now." His eyes drifted away, seeing things long since past. Then he shook himself and began to scribble careful words on a thick piece of paper. "Now, this is a letter of introduction. You must not lose it, Ciaran."
Ciaran nodded and stared out the window, half-listening, forehead pressed to the glass. The length of the shadows and the color of the sky suggested it was almost four o'clock. Malik would be back any minute now.
As if on cue his brother's shaggy head appeared on the horizon, his face sullen as he concentrated on balancing the yoke over his shoulders. Hauling water was their least favorite chore. It was the only one they agreed on hating equally. Now the two of them were the only ones strong enough to do it. Ciaran frowned. With him gone, Malik was not going to be pleased about being stuck with the task.
Sister Elsbeth hobbled out into the square to meet Malik, no doubt cooing over what a wonderful job he was doing. The darkness fled from Malik's face as soon as he saw her, and Ciaran could feel the resulting smile from where he stood. Malik set the pails down and took her by the arm, helping her back into the building. As he crossed the threshold, he turned, eyes zeroing in on Ciaran's location, and winked.
"Will I feel him while I'm gone?" Ciaran wondered aloud, interrupting the priest's monologue.
"What?" The scratching of the pen paused.
"Malik," Ciaran said, "In my head. Will he still be there if I go away?" He had never been more than a few miles away from his brother before. But as long as he could still sense him, he knew he wouldn't really be alone.
"Of course, my son. The gifts God gives us know not the boundaries of space and time."
Ciaran nodded solemnly. He thought that must be true and he hoped it would make up a bit up for leaving Malik with all the chores. Well, that and not getting to see the blue humming walls.
*****
The next day Malik burst into their tiny bedroom and froze at the sight that greeted him. Ciaran didn't look up from his task of packing his few belongings into his bag, and Malik felt his eyes begin to sting with tears.
"I almost punched Steven Jacobi as a liar for telling me you were leaving." He stepped forward, eyes moving helplessly between the bag and his brother's expressionless face. "Ciaran? Tell me he was lying." Striding forward, he lay a hand on Ciaran's wrist, preventing him from adding another piece of clothing to the bag. "Please!"
Ciaran eyes were full of worry when he finally looked up, but his smile was in place. "Shh, now, Mal. It's all right." He drew Malik into his arms. "I have to go, just for awhile and then I'll be back with medicine for everyone."
"Can't I go with you?" Malik pressed his face into the crook of Ciaran's neck. "I need to go with you!"
"They need you here," Ciaran explained patiently. "You'll be okay, I promise."
Malik shook his head. First his parents, and then...if he lost Ciaran... "No, I'll be alone, I can't--" His voice broke and he grabbed fistfuls of Ciaran's shirt and jacket. "I don't want to be alone."
Ciaran shushed him despite his own eyes filling. "You won't. I'll be here." He lay his hand against the side of Malik's head where they each sensed their connection the strongest. "I'll be here, where I always am. Right?"
Malik nodded, tears streaming down his face.
Ciaran pulled him close, mouth pressing once to Malik's lips. He dug his fingers into his brother's temple. "You'll never be alone as long as you can feel me here."
Malik sniffled and nodded. What else could he do?
They stood solid in each other's embrace until a soft knock came at the door. Then they parted, Ciaran reaching for his bag and Malik moving over to the window, refusing to watch his brother leave their room.
"Just a few weeks, Mal. I promise." Ciaran whispered before he turned and closed the door shut behind him.