The Magic Cottage

Kinsella seated me at a large oval table, its surface highly polished. Angled shafts of sunlight struck into the room in clear, delineated rays, like searchlights, and he went to each tall window to draw the curtains, leaving them open barely a fraction, so that the light was no more than narrow beams. The door we'd entered by had been left ajar and I could see and hear movement outside as though people were gathering. I was damp with perspiration, feverish almost, and I really wanted to scream out at the pain's growing intensity. It was as if nerves numbed by shock (or heat) were now awakening and absorbing the hurt more fully.

'We must do something!' Midge urged as I sucked in air between tight lips to stifle my own moans.

'Be patient a moment longer,' Kinsella replied calmly, which was easy for him to say. He sat beside me at the table and laid out my arm on the glossy surface, careful to guide me by the elbow only. Midge stood over me, hands on my shoulders.

'The car radiator burst, huh?' said Kinsella.

'No,' I answered between clenched teeth. 'I was stupid enough to unscrew the cap.'

'You were lucky your arm took the full blast. If your face had . . .'

'Yeah, I know. I was stupid and lucky at the same time.'

He was examining the blotchy scald marks on my face when the door opened all the way. A man stepped in and Kinsella said, 'Mycroft.'

I'm not sure what I'd expected, but the very name, coupled with the vicar's sinister warnings about the Synergists, had conjured up visions of someone tall and powerful, with leathery, wrinkled skin and piercing pale eyes that could shrivel another's soul at will. A cross between Vincent Price and George C. Scott, maybe, or even Basil Rathbone's older brother. This guy was medium height and paunchy, skin smoothly unblemished; almost, but not quite, characterless. He wore gray slacks and a maroon cardigan over a bright white shirt, a beige tie formalizing what otherwise might have been a relaxed effect (these observations were assembled as a whole afterward, you understand, when my suffering had eased—at the time, his appearance wasn't my prime concern). I suppose his eyes could have been described as penetrating, but there was a gentleness to them also. Sorry I can't make the man sound more insidious (sorry because of later events), but that's how he appeared then. He could have been anybody's favorite uncle.

Kinsella stood as Mycroft approached, standing aside and pulling back his chair so that the white-haired man could move in closer to me. Mycroft leaned forward, one hand resting on the tabletop, and I caught a faint whiff of spicy breath. He looked first at my face, then down at my injured hand and arm.

'You must be in great pain,' he surmised (quite unnecessarily, I thought). His voice was mild and oddly dry, and the American accent was more New England than further south. There was also a great deal of concern in his tone, almost as if he shared my pain.

'If you want the truth, it's not getting any better,' I confessed, growing a little weary of all this inspection and no action. The raw flesh of my arm was beginning to pull alarmingly.

He looked directly into my eyes once more, then at Midge. 'We'll waste no more time,' he said, more to her than me. He waved a hand and the door opened wide: in came Sandy, our friend Gillie with her;-between them they carried a clear, rectangular bowl containing a greenish liquid. They placed it on the table before Mycroft and myself.

'Call them in,' Mycroft said to Kinsella, who promptly went to the door and gave the order. I looked around, becoming quite nervous; Gillie smiled reassuringly at me, but didn't speak. I noticed Midge was also worried.

People began filing into the room, all silent and all watching me. Neil Joby was among them but, although he stared straight at me, he gave no acknowledgment.

I started to rise. 'Hey, wait a minute . . .'

Mycroft placed a firm but not forceful hand on my shoulder. 'Please sit down and don't be afraid. Your pain will be gone in a few moments.'

'No, I don't think so,' I began to say, and it was Midge who intervened.

'Mike, wait.'

I stared at her. She gave a brief shake of her head.

'I want you to trust me, Mike.' Mycroft's voice had altered subtly: it was both soothing and commanding—and very hard to resist. I sat down again and he drew up a chair so that he could be close. 'I want you to trust us all,' he said, pushing up his sleeves to the elbow. I wiped perspiration from my eyes, agog at what was going on and uncertain of how far I was prepared to let it go.

Mycroft smiled at me as though aware that I thought him crazy and he was quite prepared to enjoy the joke with me. His smile was knowing and encouraging at the same time. He then did something I hadn't expected: he put his own hands into the liquid.

The people around the room—they were of all ages and of more than one nationality—joined hands and closed their eyes. Mycroft, too, had closed his eyes, his lips moving slightly as though intoning a silent prayer. I thought the mob might start chanting 'Ommmm' at any moment.

I suppose I must have looked desperate, because Midge held on to me as if to prevent my escape.

'Midge . . .?'

There was a peaceful kind of excitement in her eyes, an inner shining that hinted she was beginning to believe in these nuts.

I felt my burned arm being lifted, and turned back to Mycroft, ready to pull away. His smile discouraged any such reaction and I allowed him to bring down my arm into the greenish liquid.

I got ready to scream, yet not once did I attempt to draw back—I was already learning that this mild-looking man had a hidden persuasiveness. He immersed my hand, then the rest of my arm up to the elbow, and although I couldn't feel the fluid I knew it had more substance than plain water. It looked oily smooth.

Immediately the terrible burning pain ceased, soothed by the cool liquid; I felt as though my arm had been frozen in ice.

Mycroft's fingers lightly stroked the skin, his eyes closed once more, lips moving only slightly. The relief was so immense that I nearly whooped with joy; instead I breathed a huge sigh. I was conscious, too, of the pressure from Midge's fingers on my shoulders and when I turned my head to look up at her, her eyes were also closed, her brow wrinkled in concentration.

'Midge,' I said, 'the pain's gone.'

She opened her eyes, looked at me, looked at my immersed arm. Her relief seemed as great as mine when she hugged my neck.

Mycroft still held me there, continuing to gently stroke my flesh; his fingertips somehow left a tingling trail in their wake. Glancing around the room, I saw that the others still had their eyes closed, one or two of the women swaying on their feet as though about to swoon; their hands were clenched tight in each other's and I had the impression of energy flowing through every individual, passing on to the next, then the next, going full circuit.

Insane, I voiced, strictly to myself. But I couldn't deny I was no longer hurting. Yeah, and what happens when the hand comes out of water? The liquid's obviously a pain-freezer, so how's the arm gonna feel without it? I was soon to find out.

Mycroft opened his eyes and lifted the hand clear. He held it there while liquid drained off, then turned to me and I was unsure if there wasn't just a trace of mockery in his smile. /

The swelling of my flesh had definitely subsided, although my fingers remained puffy; that awful glowing redness was still there, but no more blisters were forming. Best of all, I could feel no pain, only a numbed stiffness.

'I don't believe it,' I said incredulously.

'There's no need to,' he replied. 'Accept, that's all you have to do.'

Mycroft rose and the people began to open their eyes, some of them being held steady by those beside them. They released each other's hands to break into applause and I wondered if Mycroft was going to take a bow. Instead, he held up a hand and the clapping stopped.

'We must only be thankful that our young friend no longer suffers,' he told them. 'You've witnessed our mutual strength, now reflect upon that for a while on your own.' He was so casual, so matter-of-fact, his voice even and friendly; no tub-thumping or showing off as you might expect from some quasireligious leader who'd just pulled off a pretty good stunt.

His followers left the room, most of them smiling happily, the rest deep in thought. They were a mixed bag all