Page 40 of Night in a Waste Land

“Like a fucking old school cyrtid or some shit,” Gavin said.

“Gavin,” Lance warned.

“No, no, that’s not right.” Bixby sighed, and deflated; Rose’s first impression felt a little ungenerous now, as she watched the firelight play in the deep grooves that worry had carved into his small face. “Let’s eat – I’ve asked Mrs. Avery to make up some sandwiches – and I’ll fill you in.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Mayor,” Lance started.

Bixby stepped forward. “Please. I know this isn’t – well, it’s not like the old days, is it? No one entertains people and they don’t talk about things in a civilized way.” He attempted a smile that looked like more of a grimace. “But the situation’s a little more delicate than the usual sort of stuff you encounter, I think.”

Lance traded looks with all of them.

Rose shrugged.

“Alright.”

The dining room boasted a long table that sagged in the middle. Chairs sat clustered around one end, and the five of them took seats to either side of the chair at the head, where Bixby settled like a puppet with cut strings, sighing deeply. A woman only slightly cleaner than their chauffer – Mrs. Avery, apparently – brought out a tray of sandwiches, a mix of near-colorless ham and cheese, and plain butter. Rose wasn’t hungry, but she ate a butter sandwich to keep the food from going to waste.

“After the First Rift,” Bixby began, “our town was revived. I wasn’t mayor, then, but thinking of throwing my hat in the ring. The town was alive again – people moving back toward us instead of away. I know it sounds awful to be glad about sending men back into the mines again, especially after everything the world had been through. But they were desperate times, and there was demand for coal, and we were – well, we were booming, frankly. The people here could afford to buy livestock, and to import goods and groceries. Even if it was always raining, and there was ash, the air wasn’t fit to breathe, we were warm, and clothed, and fed, and that was worth so much, in a time when we all had so little.

“But things started to change about seven years ago.”

Before the Second Rift. Before Beck died.

“We were taking in refugees from surrounding cities,” Bixby continued. “We had enough miners, but we needed schoolteachers, and other sorts of tradesmen. Everyone was welcome.

“That was whenheshowed up.”

“The conduit?” Lance asked.

“We didn’t realize that’s what he was, at the time.” Bixby’s food sat untouched on his plate. He scrubbed a hand across his bristled chin. “He seemed so normal: tired, dirty, hurting for work, same as everyone. He said he was a carpenter.” He offered a grim smile, and Rose felt a lurch in her stomach that had her setting her sandwich down. “I think you can guess where this is going.”

“I think so,” Lance said, “but why don’t you tell us.”

The other three sat forward in their chairs, expressions hardened for readiness. No one looked anxious to dismiss the mayor and go charging into the fray, now.

“It started slowly,” Bixby said. “We found him a cottage, and he started working with one of the roofing crews – you can’t keep a roof on a house in all this damn rain. I spoke with his foreman; he was kind, and obliging, and he got along well with everyone.

“Then the first miracle happened.”

“Miracle?” Rose asked, thinking of Gallo’s arm. A darted glance proved that Gallo himself was thinking of it, his gaze on his gloved left hand – Tris was looking, too, mouth set in a flat, unreadable line.

“A little boy – one of our metalworker’s sons – took a fall. Climbed up on one of the water towers and then fell. His leg was broken, and he was unconscious. A crowd gathered – by the time I got there, it was nothing but a sea of umbrellas and crying – and John – the conduit – was there at the center. He had the boy in his arms. He touched his forehead, and then his leg. There was this – it was a flash. And I thought I was being pushed down, for a second there. But when I could see again, the boy was awake, and his leg was healed.”

Rose traded glances with Lance, saw the grim set of his eyebrows.

“Maybe he wasn’t hurt as badly as you thought,” Tris suggested.

“No. The angle.” Bixby swallowed and shook his head. “You could see that it was, but that then it wasn’t. Not anymore. He stood up, and hugged John. The boy’s mother shoved through the crowd, and then she hugged John. She thanked him for saving her son’s life.”

“I imagine he was pretty popular after that,” Lance said.

“He all but put the local clinic out of business. People went to him for everything from papercuts to dysentery. If he put his hands on you, and you started to glow, you were better. They really were miracles. That was when I realized.” Bixby sighed heavily. “Miracles weren’t impossible anymore, not like they were when I was a little boy. Conduits could do things that mortals couldn’t. I knew it, the whole town council knew it. We called him in to ask him some questions.”

“Was he honest?”

“Yes, actually. He wouldn’t give us his true name, but he said he didn’t agree with his fellow – higher beings.” He stumbled, and didn’t sayangels, Rose noted. “He said he only wanted to live as one of us. To be helpful and to be accepted. The miracles continued.” He sounded bereft, and not like a man who’d benefitted from said miracles.

“But something changed,” Lance said. “I’m sorry, but: at least from the air, it doesn’t look like a prosperous town.”

---