Esar, Age 14

23 Years Ago

Esar walked through the garden every morning, and every morning, he looked for the boy with the curly hair. He never approached him, never said a word to him, but each time he saw him he felt a surge of . . . what? Satisfaction? Relief? The fourth day he found the boy lying in the middle of a field of grass, knees bent, staring up at the sky. When he drew up enough courage to circle back and venture a few steps closer, he saw that the boy had fallen asleep.

The day after that, it had become a routine, but even after he covered all the usual paths Esar saw no sign of the boy. Logically, there was no reason to worry. It wasn't like he actually knew this boy, or his schedule, and any number of things might keep someone from coming to the garden early in the morning. It was time for Esar to head for school. But that lost, forlorn look, combined with his unexpected absence started up a drumbeat in Esar's head of something's wrong, something's wrong, something's wrong.

At the eastern edge of the garden was a wooded area that was too well curated to be called wilderness. The paths were always muddy, so Esar hadn't done much exploration there, but today he continued further down the forest paths, his shoes squelching through the mud. Before long he reached the waist-high remnant of an ancient wall, overgrown with moss and lichen. The ruins piqued his curiosity but he could ponder what once had been here another time. Wind rustled the leaves, a pair of squirrels barreled across his path and up a tree, and Esar heard a sound that was decidedly human, and it was not a pleasant one.

At first he wasn't sure where it was coming from, until he realized that someone was on the other side of another wall. Almost three walls of this particular building—a house, probably—were still standing in such a way that he couldn't see who was inside from the path, but someone had already left footprints in the damp, squishy ground. Esar flinched as he heard the awful retching sound again, followed by a painful moan. He stepped off the path onto a thick blanket of decaying leaves, maneuvering around the brush and saplings to follow the wall around the corner.

There was the boy with the curly hair, doubled over, breathing heavily, his hair damp with sweat. The stench of vomit struck Esar and he paused, hesitating before stepping over the boundary where the last wall had been, unsure if his approach had even been noticed.

"I'm fine!" the boy shouted without looking up, voice wavering. "Don't worry about me!"

Vertigo rushed through Esar as if he were standing on a precipice. He had to help this boy, somehow. The need to help consumed him, and he forgot about school, forgot about the smell, forgot about the thousand other worries that followed him constantly, and stepped into the ruined house.

"I don't know what you're going through, but you're obviously not fine," he said, finding that his voice sounded much calmer than he actually felt. "You've been struggling all week, haven't you?"

The boy faced him, no obvious sign of recognition in his red-rimmed eyes. "I'll get over it. It's hard for everyone at first. I'll be fine . . . eventually."

Esar waited, holding his gaze. The boy looked aside and spat, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He leaned forward as if he were going to vomit again, but instead, he began to sob.

"What's wrong with me?" he moaned, stepping backwards to lean against one of the old walls for support. "Why can't I be okay?"

Esar took a step closer. He extended his hand, then drew it back before the boy noticed. "What happened?" he asked softly.

"He died."

"Who died?"

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"I don't know what his name was. An old man. They brought him in when my shift was about to end. He . . . they said he . . . took a bad fall." He drew in a gasping breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before continuing. "If he hadn't had the Blight, we could've saved him, but he was bleeding on the inside and we couldn't—we couldn't do anything. He was in so much pain and we couldn't help. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. It was just a stupid accident and he died. And his family was so shocked and . . . I can't do this!"

Esar let him cry, wondering if he should offer the boy a hug. But was that because he wanted to comfort him, or because he wanted to get closer? Esar didn't even know his name. Better to keep his distance.

"You're right, this whole week has been hell. Though I don't know how you'd know that—unless it was one of your visions or something. Is that how you knew I was here?"

Esar didn't answer. So the boy did know who he was. It was better to let him think Esar was here because of a dream. That was far less creepy than the truth. Why hadn't he realized until now that he'd been acting like a stalker?

"But working overnight is hard for everyone. Seeing people hurt and die is hard for everybody. So what's wrong with me, then, that I can't handle it? What's wrong with me that I can't just let it all go and go home and rest?"

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you," Esar said.

"Then why can't I handle it?" the boy demanded.

"Why do you have to?"

It took the boy a minute to come up with an answer. "Because . . . that's what healers do."

"Is that what you want? To become a healer?"

"Yes!" the boy said, then, "Maybe? I don't know." He paced to the other side of the ruined house and back, stepping around the spot where he'd emptied his stomach, and let out an agonized groan. "I don't know! If I can heal, I should, right? I can heal. Just because it's hard on me . . . it's just an excuse."

"It's not an excuse. You shouldn't have to put yourself through this. Not sure if you've noticed, but there's not exactly a shortage of healers around here."

The boy looked puzzled. "Are you saying I should just . . . quit?"

"Yeah!" Esar said. On that level, it was such a trivial problem to have, no worse than any of the other things students complained about. "You have a choice. If doing a thing is making you miserable, you should stop doing that thing. I'd quit in a second if I cou—if I were you."

"But I want to help people." He sounded thoughtful now, which was a big improvement over desperate. Was he actually listening to what Esar said?

"There's more than one way to help people. You can find a way that doesn't tear you up inside. You won't do anybody any good if you destroy yourself trying to be selfless."

Esar met the boy's eyes again, marveling inside at the sort of kindness and self-sacrifice that would drive him to this crisis. Esar was too selfish, too lazy, and too dishonest to aspire to that level of altruism, but he could recognize and appreciate a pure heart when he saw one. If only he had that sort of goodness in his life . . . I don't even know his name, he reminded himself.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Great!" Esar said quickly. "Wait . . . you will?"

"If your dreams told you to talk to me, it must be important, right?" the boy said.

"Oh! Uh, yes. Right. Probably?" Yes, totally here because of a vision, and not because I've been spying on you for a week like some kind of stalker. A creep like he was would never deserve someone like this.

"Although I don't know why you're talking to me," the boy went on. "I mean, couldn't you have stopped that man from falling? Wouldn't that have been more important? To save his life?"

"I . . . don't know why I have the dreams I do," Esar admitted. It was true enough, even if it didn't apply to this particular situation.

"Oh."

An awkward silence hung between them for a moment.

"So um, thanks?" the boy said.

"You're welcome! I'm late for school, I should go, good-bye." The words tumbled out of his mouth. He didn't quite run out of there, but he beat a hasty retreat, and didn't look back.

***

Esar didn't have school the next day, so he went down to the cathedral archives with his mother first thing in the morning to read another volume written by his ancestor. He opened the handwritten journal and read a sentence that carried a chill across the centuries.

"By the time I found out my mother was alive, she was already dead."