The Wonder Worker Read Online Free Page A

healing energy which can be jacked up by the main source of the power.”
    “But what’s the main source?”
    “God.”
    “Oh.”
    We fell silent. I can see now that he had wanted me to reveal my position on religion and my lack of comment was as eloquent as a five-minute speech.
    “Christians like me are different from magicians,” he said tranquilly at last. “Magicians like to believe they’re the masters of the healing powers—they like to believe that they can bend nature to their will.”
    “And you?”
    “Oh, we’ve no room here for ego-trips and personality cults. Our call’s to serve, not to dictate and control.”
    I said “Oh” again but this time I sounded more respectful. He was talking about integrity. That was something I could understand, and even though the religious view was alien to me I could share his belief that pride and arrogance were destructive while a clear-eyed modesty kept one honest.
    “I’m saying all this,” Nicholas was adding, “because newcomers to St. Benet’s are often overwhelmed by the healing service, even though we try to keep it low-key and unsensational, and often they feel there’s some sort of magic going on. But there isn’t. It’s just that healing can trigger unfamiliar emotional responses, particularly when past wounds are exposed.”
    “You mean—”
    “I’m saying that although it must have been both embarrassing and unpleasant to faint in public, there’s no need to reproach yourself for what happened. If anyone was to blame it was me.”
    “You?”
    “But of course! I was the one who hit the roof and made you the focus of everyone’s attention! No wonder you were so shocked you passed out!”
    “Yes, but … I’m sorry, I still don’t quite understand what happened. Why did you react like that?”
    “I was exhausted. The healing service always depletes me, rubs me raw so that my awareness is magnified. I think what happened when you touched me was that I knew you were in desperate need yet I felt I had no strength left to help you—and that in turn triggered a panic reaction.”
    I said stupefied: “But how could you possibly have known I was in desperate need?”
    “By using my common sense. If your need had been less desperate you’d have collared me and demanded a private audience. As it was, you were so overwhelmed by this problem of yours—whatever it is—that you were beyond words altogether.”
    I said slowly: “I hadn’t realised I was so desperate.”
    “That suggests you’ve been living with the problem for so long that you’ve grown to think of it as a normal part of life. Are you going to tell me now what the problem actually is? After making such a hash of our introduction I feel the least I can do to make amends is to listen if you want to talk!”
    I was still trying to find the words to thank him when the receptionist arrived with my medicine, the strong tea.
    VI
    “
Put
a spoonful of sugar in it,” said Nicholas when we were alone again. “It’ll accelerate your recovery.”
    I would have helped myself to two spoonfuls but I didn’t want to appear greedy. Restricting myself to one I said with care: “I don’t want to bother you when you’re exhausted.”
    “I’m better now. The adrenaline’s flowing again.”
    “But even so, I should probably just go on bearing the burden by myself—”
    “That’s for you to choose, of course, but don’t forget that this is a place where people can set down their burdens and get some rest.”
    Again my memory was jogged. “You’re paraphrasing some quotation or other,” I said. “I must have heard it at school long ago. I went to this small private school in Kensington and I hated it but I had to pretend I liked it because Aunt was making a financial sacrifice to send me there. I had this aunt,” I said rapidly, “this great-aunt who brought me up. She taught history at a GPDST school south of the river, but I couldn’t pass the exam to go there, I