Page 18 of Following Their Heart

“No time like the present,” I say.

Doc grumbles, but then he says, “I suppose you’re right.” And he holds out his hand, like he’s asking to shake hands with Bernard. “Hey, there, buddy. I think I can fix what ails ya. If you’ll let me. You need some healing? You gonna let old Doc pet ya?” While he coos to the bird, he turns his hand sideways and slowly inserts it through the bars.

Bernard eyes it warily. A tension comes over him, and I know he doesn’t have enough trust for us to allow petting.

“Stop,” I say.

Doc yanks his hand back.

“He was going to bite.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can, I guess, feel what he feels.”

“Well, maybe it works both ways,” Doc says. “Try explaining to him that I’m a healer and I can fix up whatever’s wrong with him.”

“He doesn’t use words. It’s more like emotions. And I don’t know if it works both ways.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Doc says with that ribbing tone of his. I want to flip him off, but I also want to keep the mood in the cave calm for Bernard.

“Do you think this is why Cora’s dream sent us here? To heal the bird?”

Doc shrugs. “I mean, probably. My Gift is healing, and you’re good with the animals. If I came alone, I wouldn’t be able to get near him, and since I need to touch him to heal him, I need you to work your magic so he lets me.”

I think that over. It makes sense. But there’s one thing I don’t understand—well, there are many things I don’t understand about this situation, but one thing is most prominent. “He doesn’t look sick. I can tell he’s old and he misses his home, but I don’t get any sense that he is ill.”

“I do,” Doc says quietly.

“You do?”

“I get the sense there are black spots inside him.”

“Cancer, you think?”

Doc shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so.” He closes his eyes, and a look of concentration pinches his brow. “It’s weird. With people I see the injuries. Or they can tell me about them. I know where to focus my Gift. But with this bird, I just kind offeelthat he has these spots inside him. It’s like my Gift is diagnosing him. It’s weird. It’s never done that before.”

“Ja.My Gift is different, too. I’ve never known what an animal is feeling before. I mean, I can read their body language, but this is different. It’s like some kind of emotional telepathy. What do you think it all means? Why do you think the Working wants us here?”

“Let’s find out. Do your thing. Calm him down, or whatever, so I can do my thing.”

“I’ll try.” I look into the one beady eye Bernard has fixed on me, and I think about that time I sliced my hand open while coring an apple in a hurry. Doc heard my curse and came running. First, he told me I was an idiot for being careless with the knife, then he took my hand in both of his and healed it. All that was left was a bunch of slick, red blood that, when rinsed away, seemed to have come from nowhere. The flesh was whole, as if it had never been sliced open.

I remember the relief I felt because I still had much to do that day. There was no time to be injured. Not when seven men, myself included, required sustenance. Doc helped me. I hope I am somehow communicating to Bernard the gratefulness I felt then. The wonder I experienced at how miraculous Doc’s Gift is. You see him healing others, and you think,ja,that is neat. But when it’s you, it’s like, wow. It’s awesome. Like the true definition of awe-some.

As I think these things, I become aware of an uncoiling of tension in Bernard. “He is beginning to trust,” I say.

“Try to show him he has black spots inside him. Show him I need to pet him to heal them.”

I don’t know what Doc is seeing, but I compose a picture in my head of Bernard with black spots on his insides. It’s strange, because I don’t know what the inside of a pelican looks like, but I imagine it’s not unlike the quail and wild turkeys I’ve cleaned and prepped for dinners.

Oops! Don’t want to think about that right now! Sorry, Bernard. No one is going to make dinner out of you. I promise.

I concentrate on the mental image of black spots inside of Bernard, and I think the bird can see it or sense it, somehow. Because he sends me back an image, or at least, I think he does. It’s of a man with a mass of black hair dressed all in black. He’s standing on the roof of a building with storm clouds behind him, and he looks massive, as if I’m looking at him from only knee-height. For some reason, he’s wearing a cape of black feathers, and the thing is rippling in the breeze as if a hundred crows are flapping at his back. His shoulder-length hair tangles in the breeze, as well. His face is angular, his nose sharp and hooked, as if it thought about becoming a beak but decided, no, that is too far.

I realize I’m seeing Raptor, the leader of the New Orleans settlement. And I’m seeing him from Bernard’s perspective. That is why I feel so short compared to Raptor as he approaches me with his rippling cape. A feeling of doom comes over me, but I can’t fly away. Raptor holds me captive with his Gift. Little darts of it seep inside me and bite into my flesh like fishhooks.

He commands me. I must go north. I don’t want to go north. It’s cold there. I will miss my mate. I will lose my territory on the docks to my rivals. I don’t want to go. But I must. Raptor’s will overrides my own.

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