Ralph and the Pixie

They awoke with a start. Someone was in the room, watching them sleep. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Deborah took a better look.

It was Doc!

She was about to say something when he forestalled her with a gesture. Éha sat up, a question on her lips.

‘We’ll talk sometime after the poison is out of your systems,’ he said. ‘For now, just lay back and let me concentrate. I missed something the last time, Deborah, and I don’t intend to repeat my mistake.’ Instead of going into his black bag, as Deborah had expected, he seemed to be preparing himself in some manner. Noting her look with a knowing smile, he said, half to himself, ‘It’s odd, sometimes, how so many words have lost their meaning in our language over the years. Healing hands . . . how often had I heard those words without realising what they meant. Good with a knife is as close as I ever got. But I have learned at last that true healing means touching a life.’

Doc placed a hand on both their foreheads. The elderly physician’s hands were warm and reassuring; Deborah found that she trusted herself to his touch, as though it were something gentle, warm and familiar that she had always known. As he began to concentrate his efforts on their illness, Deborah began to see a blue light, as though from both the inside and outside of her mind. The light was curious and indirect, seeming to come from somewhere above; she could sense that it was blue without really seeing it.