The child's voice was weak and rasping, but it was enough to jar Dylan Garwood from his meditation. He opened his eyes to find the child sitting upon the pallet of rags, her eyes clear and looking straight into his own. Moonlight slanted into the room through a couple of windows paned with shattered stained glass. Dylan shivered, feeling the cold that seemed to have suddenly encroached while he was waiting for Maraksus.
"Who, little one? Who sees what?" He was sitting cross-legged, facing the child's pallet on the other side of the room. Between them, a small crate set on its top held the flickering candle that illuminated part the room but cast the corners in deeper shadow.
The child could not be more than ten years old, he reckoned, maybe not even more than eight. And here she was, dying, Dylan raged inside. All the power of my faith was suddenly useless in the face of this new disease. We better figure this out before this spreads beyond the slums. Before more children die.
She had fallen silent again, but her eyes still held his, as if they were the only part of her frail frame that were now cured of the plague that was killing her slowly.
Dylan crawled towards the bed of rags, pulling the threadbare blanket around the child's shoulders. She was burning up and it was a wonder she could even sit up straight at all. Gently, he pushed her back on the bed.
"Don't strain yourself, child. You need rest." Maybe she was dreaming? It could be the fever. He knew it makes people see things.
She lay back down covered in the blanket. Her eyes were closed, her breath ragged and troubled. Dylan set his palm against the child's forehead and channeled his faith. But even as he felt the warm wave of curing power flow from him and into the child, he knew there would be no effect.
Why?
The child suddenly sat bolt upright, startling the priest, her bony hands gripping his shoulders hard.
"Irka sees them, Father!" she cried, half-shriek, half-wail.
And just as suddenly, she slumped back into the bed, muttering feverishly as she closed her eyes.
Irka? Was that the name she said? Dylan knew it could be her fever but he was getting desperate. Maybe he and Maraksus could check it out?
He noticed the sudden silence. The child was still, and she looked like she was just sleeping, her drawn face finally eased into a comfortable rest. Dylan's tears began to fall but he fought them back. Now wasn't the time to cry. There'll be enough for that later.
He felt so tired, the day's work finally catching up with his body.
Before more children die.
As the candle spluttered through its final inch, he began to recite the prayer of the last rite.
