Disclaimer: These characters belong to Marvel, not the author.
In Sickness
By John Duffin (poet@sharecom.ca)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind blows on a barren plain, stirring dust that would have lain for
millenia, but for the technological wizardry that maintains an
atmosphere in this place. Footprints are slowly eaten by the hunger of
this wind, and other such marks of the passage of a score of beings.
Immortality fades when the evidence of our lives is gone.
One set of footprints is too new, too deep to be swept away by unquiet
air. These marks tread their winding way from a futuristic fortress to
the heels of the creature who stands solemnly, staring at the blue-green
orb below him. His bearing is noble, but apart from his patrician robes
and penetrating gaze, his features are undistinguished. A hairless pate
tops a broad head that descends in full roundness around small ears and
nose, where underneath lies a small, but expressive mouth atop a weak
chin.
The presence of observers does not escape the attention of the creature,
who would appear human apart from his great height. Very little indeed
escapes his attention.
'I am the Watcher. Though I have a great fondness for the planet and
people that I observe, I am pledged not to interfere. Tragedy and
triumph unfold in their turn before me, but my pleasure and pain must be
vicarious. This is my curse.
'When the toll of inaction becomes too heavy, yet still I may not pause
in my vigil, but it is open to me to watch other realities. These
realities may be very different from the familiar one below. Sometimes
they are more hopeful, sometimes more tragic, but all serve to ease my
burden when the need comes upon me.
'One such shall I visit now. In the world we know, mutants became more
common in the twentieth century- partly because of nuclear
experimentation, but mostly due to certain medical advances in the
relief of pain, which had the unpredicted and unremarked effect of
activating the X-factor in the genes of children developing in the womb.
'The section of DNA that governs benevolent mutancy of this particular
kind in humans is called the X-factor after its supposed discoverer,
Charles Xavier, but it has an older name still. It was originally
proposed by an English scientist who was more than a century ahead of
his time when he predicted the existence of mutants. He was the Earl of
East Saxony, a scientist by the name of Nathaniel Milbury. Chiefly, he
affected the name of his demesne, the name of Essex.
'In the world you know, Apocalypse would approach Essex in the
nineteenth century, and offer him immortality. Essex, in grief over his
decaying family and slain son, would accept his offer and become the
creature who calls himself Mr. Sinister. It was Sinister, you see, that
was so influential in the discovery of that unremarkable agent in the
treatment of pain.
'That is the world you know. In this world, Adam Milbury did not die in
his youth, and his father was not driven to become Mr. Sinister. He
died at his naturally appointed hour, his theories little regarded by
his peers. Without his influence, the child Cable would never be born,
and thus Apocalypse would not awaken in the twentieth century.
'In this world, many mutants who would have powers to shake the world
have lifestyles that seem mundane by comparison. But heroism does not
spring from power, and they are also noble who do not wear a costume.
Watch...'
* * * * *
The home stood on a plot of green lawn that was, perhaps, unnecessarily
large. Trees of comforting aspect stood in silent vigilance on the
lawn, like manicured and foppish guards.
There were other guards, not nearly so well-heeled, that walked their
pace outside the house. These were dressed in the costume of the Legion
Etrangere, and carried automatic weapons. They were surely less than
comfortable in the heat, but showed no sign of it.
The house itself was built in French colonial style, with a covered
porch that encircled it, and relatively few windows, though these were
of some quality. There was a fresh coat of eggshell paint on the costly
pepper timber that made up the facing on the home, and the shingles were
in excellent repair. A double door presented its closed maw to the
outside world, exuding from itself a fine, yet careworn green carpet
that ostensibly welcomed visitors up the porch steps. This same carpet
yielded to the firm presence of the driveway, which led, in winding
fashion, to the front gates. These were sternly closed against
interlopers.
Inside the spacious home were fittings no less costly and tasteful than
was implied by the exterior. The floors were hewn of mahogany, in lines
that extended straight from corner to corner. They were largely free of
rugs, but the house lacked no other tasteful ornament. There were many
bookshelves, and these contained books that were obviously kept by a
bibliophile, so well were they preserved. Lamps tended to corners.
There were a variety of paintings on the walls, kept well back from the
ravaging windows to preserve their colours. The walls ware otherwise
clad in paint of light pastel tones, pleasing to the eye and inoffensive
to the mind.
Everywhere, the well-preserved things of quality stoked the memories of
the ruined old men who dwelt among them. None of these men could have
been called well-preserved themselves, but that was more the fault of
violence than wrinkles. Some of these old men had horrible scars that
ruined otherwise handsome faces. Some of their number were missing an
arm, or leg. None were entirely whole.
One such man sat in a wheelchair, and stared fixedly out of a window
that faced the back lawn. His hair was iron grey, and his skin was
stretched as thin as parchment. Still, his gaze was even, his back
straight, and his grip on the arm of the wheelchair was strong, even
though his left hand missed three of its fingers. The man had a faint
smile on his craggy face, but his eyes did not agree with the smile.
They were both sorrowful and angry.
The man affected to ignore everything that transpired in the house
around him. Here, other old men were playing at cards. There, a more
vigorous fellow regaled a guard with a war story that he had told a
hundred times. In an adjoining room, a sleeping codger's snores were
drawing glances of irritation from his neighbours, who were playing at
chess.
The sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor drew the glances of
the other old men, but the window-gazer ignored them until they came
to a halt behind his chair. He felt the tiny shock when hands came
to rest on the handles.
He licked his lips, and croaked in a voice that was gravelly, perhaps
from disuse. 'Sandalwood. You must be new.'
'Pardon, monsieur?'
'Votre parfum. C'est bois de santal. Je prete l'attention aux parfums.
Ils peuvent on dire beaucoup au sujet d'une personne.'
'En effet? Et que vous indique-t-il au sujet de moi?'
'Vous pensez que vous etes belle. Oh, and French ain't your first
language. How's your English?'
The old man found his chair lifted on its back wheels, and spun around
quickly. He came to a halt facing the woman.
'My English is better than yours. There is nothing wrong with my
French.' The woman was staring him in the eye from a distance of about
four inches. Her long, slender arms were braced on the back of the
wheelchair, on either side of his neck. Unexpectedly in an African
woman, she had a great mass of snowy white hair, which was pulled back
in a loose coil around the crown of her head. She also had a rather
exotic pair of blue eyes, which were angry in aspect. She was clad in
the white outfit of a doctor.
The old man smirked and leaned in closer. He glanced downward with
impish eyes. 'That's a pretty bold neckline for a doc, girl. Not that
you don't carry it off, mind.'
'I am no girl, and you are very rude.'
'No girl, eh? Take it from me, darlin'. I got a trained eye. They
don't build boys like you.'
The woman knelt on the floor, so that she could look the codger in the
eye. She favored him with a sympathetic smile. 'I understand, Mr.
Logan. You wish to alienate me to prevent closeness. You do not have
to worry. I will not be leaving soon.'
The old man sputtered. 'What makes you think I want you to be close?'
She smiled sweetly as she stood. 'You could hardly make good on your
innuendo without getting close, Mr. Logan.'
He snorted. 'No danger o' that. You got my chart right there.'
'So I do. However, I do not see any mention of reduced sexual function,
or of prostate problems.'
There was some chuckling from the chess room, which Mr. Logan silenced
with a glare. 'A man knows. Time was, a girl looking like you couldn't
walk in here without an armed escort. You're pretty safe, now.'
'Perhaps I am. It does not matter. Right now, it is time for your
medication.'
'Huh. You better get that notion out of your head right now, darlin'.
I ain't taking meds.'
'They are my orders.' she said firmly. 'I am your new doctor, and in
matters of your health, I am your master.'
The old man grinned ferally at her. 'You know how old I am, girl?'
'Doctor. No, I do not.'
'I was born in 1892. That makes me ninety-nine.'
The doctor was taken aback. 'I should never have guessed. Seventy,
perhaps.'
'I fought in the Spanish Civil War, and in the second war. I've been in
Korea and Afghanistan.'
'Surely not Afghanistan. You must have been too old', she said.
He chuckled. 'I like you, doc. What's your name?'
'I am Dr. Munroe.'
'Nah, yer first name.'
The doctor gave him a look, but complied. 'My first name is Ororo.'
'Ha! "Beauty", hey? Fits you, sure enough. Your mother must o' been a
looker if they tagged that one on you.'
Ororo smiled at him. 'I thought that we were through with flirtation,
Mr. Logan.'
'Ah, call me Logan. Just Logan.'
She frowned. 'Is that your first name?'
'After years in the Legion, sweetheart, it's the only name I've got.'
'Very well, Logan. Now, please take your medicine, and then you should
probably rest for a while. You have been awake since five.'
'Perhaps you weren't listening, Ororo. I don't take meds.'
'You did not get to be this age by neglecting your health, did you?'
She pulled his chair forward, and then took her place again behind it,
pushing it toward the dispensary.
'I don't neglect anything, doc. I just don't take meds. Look at me.
I'm older than your grandpa, and I never so much as popped a Tylenol.
Taking pills, I'd just be arguing with success. Only a jackass does
that.'
'I am a doctor, Logan. Health is my business, and pills are my argument
against your ailments. Now, please, allow me to do my job.' She pushed
the wheelchair forward with new vigor, wheeling it around to face the
door to the dispensary.
He jammed his hands on the wheels. Ororo came to an unexpected and
precipitous halt, and flopped halfway over the chair before righting
herself angrily.
'You're doing your job,' he said evenly, 'if I ain't dead in the morning
and I'm satisfied with the state my body's in.'
Ororo tried to push the chair forward again, but his grip was too firm.
She set her jaw and crouched down, and then leapt lightly over the
chair. She spun on her heel to face him.
'Do not tell me my job, little man. I am here to keep you well. I will
do my job, and you will live a while yet.'
He levered himself from the wheelchair to stand before her. 'It's my
frigging body. You take _my_ orders where my body's concerned. You
keep yelling in my face, girl, and I'll teach you some respect.'
Her eyes widened. 'Your knees cannot support your weight. Sit down at
once!'
He shuffled forward, clearly in pain, and took her about the waist. 'My
body.'
'Sit down!'
With a grunt, he picked her up, and with great care turned around and
placed her rump in the wheelchair. 'You in love with other people being
helpless? You sit there for a while and think about that.'
She watched him shuffle painfully into the dispensary and out the other
side. Nor did she move for a while when he was out of sight.
A nurse found her sitting there a short while later, and laid a thick
hand on her shoulder.
'Pay him no mind, doctor. He means no offense.'
Ororo favoured her with a tight smile of gratitude, and the nurse made
her way past the chair and into the dispensary.
Ororo stood up, finally, and pushed the chair into the dispensary. The
nurse smiled up at her from the desk and made a little mark on a
clipboard. She sighed, and opened Logan's clipboard again. His file
implied a number of conditions which should be medicated, most
dangerously a likely case of diabetes. It was impossible to know
anything about his health with certainty, what with the quality of
doctors willing to work in rest homes.
If she were to save his life, she would have to be cunning. The old vet
would not be easy to fool.
She came to the window that Logan had been staring out of, and smiled to
see a pair of boys playing on the lawn of the adjacent property. They
seemed so happy and careless of their surroundings. Of course, it was
their wealth that allowed them such security. They were probably French
boys, no doubt part of a powerful colonial family here in Algeria.
The sun was setting in the west, casting a soft effulgent glow across
the sky. In Cairo, the sunsets had been more spectacular, but that, of
course, was due to the pollution. This land may have been groaning
under the weight of European rule, long overdue to be shed, but it was
still mostly a pure land, and beautiful.
Logan had been staring at these boys, and smiling. Obviously, she
thought, he could still take pleasure in life. He must not be ready to
give up yet. Why, then, would he refuse the means to live a longer
life?
* * * * *
Ororo awoke to a thick, familiar heat in her quarters. It was hot and
dry outside, but the closed shutters and her own breath had made the
small room muggy. She cast the shutters open and stared outside at the
morning sun. The gardeners were already outside, slaking the thirst of
the verdant lawn with water. In this, the driest part of the year, it
seemed wasteful.
'Should water it at night. Idiot stupid to water the lawn in the day
when it'll evaporate.'
Ororo started. The voice had come from right beside her window. She
stuck her head out of the window and regarded Logan, who was sitting in
a wheelchair on the porch.
She stared across the lawn. 'Better yet, they should not waste water on
grass at all. It was not meant to grow here at this time of year.'
Logan snorted. 'European strain anyway. Wasn't meant to grow here,
period.'
She smiled. 'On this, at least, we are in agreement.'
'I think you'll find we agree on a lot of things, darlin'. Just not on
everything.'
'How can you be sure that we will have such a close opinion on things?'
'Just a feeling. For one thing, by the way the gardeners are staring
this way, I'd say that you sleep the same way I do.'
Ororo closed the shutters. 'It is not something to be ashamed of.'
'Not hardly. I wasn't saying that you should close the shutters. Hell,
I'd walk around that way myself if I wouldn't get locked up for it.'
She chuckled. 'It would seem to be a sign of the onset of senility.'
'Ha! I got more sense in the hairs on my ass than the fools who run
this joint.'
'That', she said as she reopened the shutters, clad now in her doctor's
whites, 'is an image I would rather have avoided.'
He chuckled. 'You and me both, doc. Regretted it as soon as it was
out of my mouth.'
She climbed into the windowseat, and stepped down lightly onto the
porch. 'It is going to be a lovely day.'
'You bet. Most of 'em are like this. Nice place to retire, I guess.'
'Your voice tells me that you are not sure you would like to be here.'
'What, in a home for forgotten vets, or in Algeria?'
'Either.'
Logan smiled slightly. 'You ever seen northern Canada, doc?'
She shivered. 'Too cold for my taste.'
He nodded. 'You being from the tropics and all. Still, it's just
gorgeous country. You can step into the forests or the tundra up there
and not see another human for days.'
She smiled slowly, and sat back up on the windowsill, kicking out her
legs a bit. 'It sounds nice.'
'Nothing like it, doc. If you can get past the chill.'
'You must have to bundle up very warm for such country.'
The old man shook his head. 'Maybe now. I was raised up there. I
could walk around wearing shorts in December.'
'Is December in the cold season up there?'
'You bet. Gets cold enough to crack trees open, some nights.'
She smiled demurely. 'It has been many years since I was in North
America. I have not been there since I was a little girl.'
'Well, it ain't got class, but I think I'd like to die there.'
Ororo looked at him sideways. 'You are not going to die.' she said.
'Ha! Going to wrestle Hades for me, darlin'? Didn't think I'd made
that kind of impression.'
She glared at him. 'You will live to see me as an old woman.'
Logan leaned back and gazed out over the lawn. 'You're an old woman
now.'
'What? How dare you!'
'Doc, you're young enough to be my granddaughter. Hell, you're young
enough to be my great-granddaughter. But it seems to me like you got
more fear of death than any old woman.'
'I do not fear my death. Only yours.'
He put up his misshapen hands. 'Fair enough. Wasn't trying to make out
like it was otherwise. But what the hell is life worth if you ain't
doing anything? What good are you if you're sitting on your ass, never
changing, never contributing?'
She took his hands is hers. 'You have already made your contribution,
Logan. I am paying you back my share.'
'That's sweet, Ororo. I like that. But I got my grins in making the
effort, you know? That was my paycheque. Why don't you pay back them
as haven't been reimbursed for their efforts? I gotta do some more work
if I want my sweet reward.'
She sighed. 'Logan, I want to help you. You understand that, don't
you?'
'Sure.'
'Please explain to me why you do not want to be helped. Is it because
you are tired of life?'
Logan grunted. 'If I were tired of life, doc, I'd be right at home
here. You check "life" at the door around here.'
'But surely,' she continued, 'you cannot expect to be as active as you
were twenty years ago. The human body does not allow a person to remain
so hardy into as extreme an age as you have.'
'Girl, I don't expect to be able to do everything I could do at eighty,
or sixty, or twenty. But damn it, ain't you ever heard "do not go
gentle into that good night? Rage, rage against the dying of the
light?"'
'I have.' she said. 'I live by that credo.'
'So do I.'
With that, he wheeled around the porch, leaving the doctor bemused in
the windowseat.
So she sat for a while, and shook her head in amusement. The old coot
seemed to be able to make her question the validity of her most dearly
held beliefs. He would be a valuable person to have as a friend.
The sound of bustle inside the home reminded her that she still had a
duty beyond that to any one old man, no matter how intriguing. She
swung her legs back into her room and went down the hall to attend to
her duties.
* * * * *
Ororo finished her day with a sponge bath, delivered to an old man who
was game enough to pretend arousal at the experience. It was a grand
gesture by an old rogue, and she played along, returning his jibes and
suggestions in like measure.
That done, she contemplated bathing herself. The heat of the day had
carried over into the night, and the house was still at a temperature
that was above the comfort level. It would be heavenly to be able to
bathe in a full tub of water, but although no one would blink at such
grand waste, she still could not bring herself to do it. She poured out
the washwater in the garden out back, and returned to the dispensary to
refill the washtub for her own bath.
She shed her clothing, and pulled up a sponge. She began to wash away
the dirt and stress of the day. It felt very nice indeed.
There was a knock at the archway. Covering up as best she could, Ororo
turned around to face the visitor. It turned out to be Logan.
'Sorry. Guess nobody told you I usually wash up this time o' day.'
She went back to her washing herself. 'It is nothing. I have an
abundance of water. You may share it if you like.'
'Humph. Don't mind if I do, doc.' He stripped to the waist and picked
up a sponge of his own. He took a full stoup of water and squeezed it
out over his head.
She smiled at his evident pleasure, and relaxed some.
The old man grunted. 'You really don't got any nudity taboos, eh doc?'
'Ororo. You may call me Ororo even when I am nude, Logan.'
'Aw, it ain't that.'
She raised an eyebrow.
'OK, maybe it is that. Ororo.'
'There is no need to be embarrassed, Logan. I am certain that you have
seen women without clothing before.'
'True, but I usually know where I stand with 'em before I do. You, I
don't know about.'
She paused to refill her sponge. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean I don't know whether we're gonna be friends or no. We seem to
be tripping up on that Hippocratic oath o' yours.'
'Would you like to be friends?' she asked shyly.
A long pause. 'Yeah. Yeah, I think I would.'
'So would I.'
They sat quietly for a while, attending to their respective cleaning
chores. Perhaps as a mark of their newly declared friendship, neither
of them rushed the task.
Logan grimaced. 'This is the part of the evening that ain't as much
fun.'
Ororo regarded him. 'What do you mean?'
'The circus contortions. Watch and be amazed.' He leaned out from
his wheelchair on forearms twisted with muscle thickly lain, and
eased himself onto the floor from that position.
'You seem to be adept enough at it, for all of your protestation.'
'We ain't got to the fun part.' He unfastened his pants, and made
the first, difficult motion to remove them.
'Here, let me help.' Ororo offered.
'No thanks.'
'It will be easier. Please let me help.'
'What part of "no thanks" did you miss?' he snarled. He twisted
sharply, and his pants slipped down a half-inch more.
She placed her hands on his. 'Logan, I can see that you are a proud
man.'
'Got a lot to be proud of, doc.'
'You must do this every night. It cannot be easy.'
'It ain't.'
She stopped the jerking of his arms with a touch. 'Logan, I have the
feeling that you are a great man. You are certainly a capable one. I
must ask you, though, why you fear my help.'
'It ain't help I'm afraid of, doc. Thanks for coming out, though.'
'What part of you is reduced by accepting the help of someone who holds
you in high regard?'
'My goddamn dignity, that's what. I've been putting on my clothes and
taking them off since before your grandpa was born, damn it, and as long
as I got an arm that works, I'm not going to stop.'
'I am not asking you to.' she said patiently. 'I am offering to spare
you from a few moments of pain, because it would make me happy if I
could do so. I am not suggesting that I should help you on and off
with your clothing every day. I am offering to remove your clothing
right now.'
He sat in silence for a moment, and then grunted his assent. 'Please.'
he added.
She pulled his pants down over his hips, and then gingerly pulled them
from each leg. She gasped in wonder and sympathy at the terrible scars
that criss-crossed his legs. 'What battle left you these scars, Logan?'
He grunted, seemingly embarrassed. 'Aw, you old smoothie. You know the
easiest way to distract a vet from his problems is to ask him about his
scars.'
She traced a particularly vivid mark up his leg with her finger,
absorbed by the strange curve and length of it. She was startled when
he flinched violently.
'I am sorry!' she said stridently. 'I did not mean to hurt you.' Then,
she saw the real reason for his reaction. Her eyes opened wide, and she
averted her gaze.
Neither of them moved for a moment, but Ororo recoverd her composure
first. 'I thought you said that such reactions were beyond you.'
'Must admit, I ain't sorry to be wrong, but this is a damned sorry time
to find out.'
Ororo turned back, and forced herself to look at him. 'It is nothing to
be ashamed of. An involuntary reaction to a tactile stimulus.'
He snorted. 'Let me tell you, when the nurses around here touch my
leg, nothing like this ever happens.'
'Then I am flattered.'
He replied, shyly, 'Flattery ain't real. You are one hell of a good
looking woman, and a pistol to boot. Back in the day, I might have
tried to press my luck.'
'If I were not your doctor, I might have tried my own luck just as you
are.'
He laughed out loud. 'Goddamn, Ororo, now I just know that we're gonna
get along.'
* * * * *
The cooler season arrived in Algeria, as it will, and Ororo was happy to
see the change of seasons. She regarded the process of nature as it
went through its cycles as wondrous magic. Better still, it was a magic
that could be understood, in some small part.
She was standing on the porch, facing the back yard. A guard stepped
around her carefully, and gave her the same look of interest that he did
every time their eyes met. She smiled, but was not inclined to pursue
the matter. His interest in her was strictly sexual, she thought.
The leaves on the carefully manicured and vigilant trees were as green
as ever, of course, but the little girl in her still half-expected to
see them change colours for her. The grass at this time of year did not
require nearly as much attention, and it was as thick and lush as a
carpet. The smell of loam and vegetation wafted sweetly from the lawn,
which sparkled with dew from the dormant sprinklers, busy scarcely an
hour before.
She heard the squeak of Logan's wheelchair as it came around the corner
of the house. She smiled when he cursed under his breath.
'You cannot sneak up on me if you do not oil your wheelchair, Logan.'
He snorted his disgust. 'It's this frigging unseasonable humidity.
I should have been good for another three months, at least.'
'How are your joints feeling?' Ororo inquired.
'Much as what you'd expect.' he replied.
'You would feel better if you took some painkillers, Logan.'
'The hell I would. You'd feel better, you mean.'
She smiled and batted her long eyelashes at him. 'Is that not reason
enough for you?'
'You perform that trick beautifully, 'Ro, but I ain't budging.'
'I wish that you would take your insulin. I would not bother you to
take painkillers if you would simply regulate your diabetes.'
'I seem to be doing okay without it. Besides which, you ain't got
enough of the stuff for all the boys in this joint. Save it for them
as needs it.'
Ororo sighed her frustration. 'You are an exasperating little man.'
'Been hearing that all my life, darlin'. That ain't news.'
'Behavior modification never occured to you, of course?' she asked
archly.
'Ha! I was given this part to play, 'Ro, and nobody does it half as
well as me. It'd be a shame to ditch a good part to win a congeniality
contest.'
'Yes, I suppose it would.'
Ororo took a seat on one of the lawn chairs, and they sat together in
companionable silence for a while, broken only by the salutes of the new
guards coming on duty.
She turned to the old man. 'They always salute you, regardless of their
rank. What rank did you achieve in the Legion, Logan?'
'Colonel.'
'Small wonder, then. Of course, you could not be here if you did not
have some rank or money.'
'Yeah, it's a real frigging privelege, all right.' he said bitterly.
'Logan! I am surprised at you. What is bothering you today?'
'Aw, it's nothing to worry yourself over, 'Ro. Just woke up grumpy,
that's all.'
'Is it?' she asked directly. 'I wonder.'
'Wonder away.' he replied smugly, and would say no more on the subject.
That night, however, Ororo went to the morning nurse and asked her if
she knew about anything that could be bothering Logan. The girl said
nothing, but walked over to the laundry and pulled out a pillowcase. It
had a substantial bloodstain.
Ororo saw red. She snatched the offending bedclothing from the startled
hands of the nurse and stormed directly to Logan's room, where she threw
open the door without ceremony.
He looked up, startled, from his bed. 'What's your disfunction, 'Ro?
Oh.' he said quietly.
She stalked up to the bed and sat on it, brandishing the pillowcase in
his face. 'When were you going to tell me about this?' she demanded.
'I wasn't', he said straightly.
'You weren't?' she answered in a dangerous tone.
'No.'
'I thought that we were past this! I thought that you trusted me!' she
raged.
'I do, Ororo. It's just that a man's dying is a private thing.'
'This could be tuberculosis!' she screamed. 'You could have infected
the whole home! What were you thinking?'
'It ain't TB. It's a terminal strain o' Roehm-Kratz. Not something
other people can catch.'
Ororo closed her eyes. Roehm-Kratz disorder was invariably and swiftly
fatal. The alveoli began to become deformed, allowing less oxygen into
the bloodstream. In the final stages, they began to tear, allowing
blood to leak into the lungs. Logan could not have had more than a week
to live.
'You could not have diagnosed this on your own.' she said, deeply hurt.
'You must have gone to another doctor.'
'That I did, Ororo. I went to deRoche, and he figured it out.'
'You hate Dr. deRoche. Why did you go to him, and not to me?'
'I didn't want you to know. DeRoche I could give a shit about, but
you're a friend. I didn't want you to worry. Nothing you could have
done for it anyway.'
'How are you suppressing the cough? Are you allowing blood to collect
in your lungs?' she demanded.
'Yeah.'
'That will make you more sick, you fool! Cough!'
He did so, violently, raising a brown-and-black stained handkerchief
to his lips. The fit lasted nearly a minute, and he was clearly
exhausted by the experience.
Ororo went and got him a glass of water, and cupped his head as she
helped him drink.
'Now,' she began slowly, 'we must fly you to Rome tomorrow and get you
into a real hospital.'
'Ororo, you know I ain't going to agree to that. No hospitals, no Rome.
Forget about it.'
'You could live for a few weeks more.' she pleaded. 'They can drain the
blood from your lungs, and operate your blood gas exchange using a
modified dialysis machine. You might live for years...' she trailed off
when she saw the look in his eyes.
'No respirator, no hospitals.' he said gently. 'It's my time, 'Ro. It's
my time. Let me do this my way.'
'No.' she said, miserably.
'You can't force anything on me and keep our friendship, 'Ro. You know
that. It ain't in me to accept something like that.'
'I cannot bear it if there is nothing that I can do to help you.' she
whispered.
'Sorry, sweetheart. All the help that you can give me, you're laying
out right now. It's enough for me.'
Her arms snaked out, tentatively, and his own answered her. They pulled
each other close.
* * * * *
The wind blows on a barren plain, stirring grass that has newly sprouted
from the unforgiving earth. Unsatisfied with the silence of the plain,
the unquiet air travels farther south, to whistle through the northern
edge of a dense thicket of trees that extends as far as imagination
permits. Change is constant on the plain as the seasons tumble slowly
over each other, but the landscape itself alters but slowly.
There is an anomoly on the plain. A small cross stands near the edge of
the trees, carven in stone as brazen and resolute as the man over which
it stands vigil. Before the cross kneels a woman, whose features are
nothing if not remarkable. Her hand traces the name in the cross, and
she bends to kiss the earth before rising. The chill makes her shiver,
and she bundles deeper into the heavy parka she wears. The wind carries
her wishes to the four corners of the world as she treads her way slowly
toward the trees.
* * * * *
'Great souls cannot be bent by a weak body. In our reality, Wolverine
could never be brought low by disease, even in old age. Even if he
could, however, he would bear it stoically and with honour. In such a
way is the essential nature of humanity revealed, even across the skein
of time and space.
'Although she was born without her connection to nature and the weather,
Storm nevertheless maintained the strength and compassion that makes her
a good leader in our reality. Perhaps, the lack of power has made her
stronger, for she was able to accept and love Wolverine without
reservation.
'By contrast, Wolverine was much the same man. Although he was warily
able to love Storm, he proved reluctant to accept her love in turn.
Perhaps Logan is the same man no matter what world he is on.
'Possibility is what separates one world from the next. It is a great
comfort to think, however, that whatever the circumstances, humanity
is not entirely the victim of the tragedies that buffet it. Some
people, at least, can mantain dignity and courage in any circumstance.
'I am the Watcher.'
