had grown thin and unsure.
But what a bound of my heart there was, to think that it was this that we had saved for Tourmaline. A diviner in our midst, in our waterless and dying town.
‘A diviner,’ Mary said. And she too was rapt.
‘I’m—ah—tired,’ he murmured. ‘Sick. Could sleep some more.’ But his half-open eyes had turned towards the door, and I looked round and saw Byrne leaning there, intent.
‘A diviner, Byrnie,’ Mary said. ‘Imagine.’
He came to stand beside me at the bed’s foot, and it seemed as if he couldn’t take his black eyes from those blue ones. In time he said: ‘Good day, mate.’
The diviner said nothing.
‘You don’t remember me,’ Byrne said, ‘do you?’
‘Stranger,’ the diviner said. ‘First time—in Tourmaline.’ He looked uneasy, suddenly, his eyes uncertain.
‘You talked to me last night. Don’t worry, you didn’t say anything.’
‘Sick,’ said the diviner. ‘Too much sun. Out of water.’
‘And you a diviner,’ said Byrne.
The man on the bed closed his eyes and sighed, painfully.
Byrne said: ‘I wasn’t getting at you. Honest. Anyone in this town’s your mate. You staying with us?’
The diviner made a sound, a sort of audible shrug.
‘We don’t know your name, even,’ Byrne said. He had taken charge of the proceedings. ‘Well, this is the Law, up here with me. That’s Mary Spring next to you, it’s her house you’re in. Deborah over there’s been nursing you, and I’ve been doing the same. I’m Bill Byrne.’
I recall that the rest of us were mildly surprised by this reminder that he had a Christian name. He had been Byrnie most of his life.
‘But we don’t know your name,’ he persisted.
The diviner shifted and sighed on his pillows.
At length he murmured: ‘Michael,’ wearily.
‘Good enough name,’ Byrne said. And I remember thinking how oddly in command of himself he was that morning, how assured. His ravaged face was almost stern. ‘That all?’
The diviner stirred.
‘It doesn’t matter, son.’
‘Random,’ said the diviner, suddenly, and as if he had surprised himself. And I knew then, we all knew, that he was lying.
Still, it was of no importance. We were only amused to see how little he knew of Tourmaline if he thought that his real name, for good or ill, could ever have reached us.
‘Well,’ said Byrne, ‘I’m glad to know you, Mike.’ And we all made small friendly noises. It was ludicrous. The diviner, in return, tortured himself into producing a smile.
‘I’m glad—to be here,’ he painfully informed us; and as it sounded so perfectly inane he went on to an equally painful but quite spontaneous laugh, in which we were relieved to join. It did serve to clear the air a bit.
‘You’ll soon be well,’ Deborah said, coming closer to the bed.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Soon.’
‘But your poor face,’ Mary said, ‘it’s going to come off in strips.’
‘My face,’ he echoed. ‘Not worth much. Start with—a clean skin.’
He sounded exhausted, and I suppose had not noticed poor Byrnie’s pits and craters, although he was looking directly at him as he spoke. The strain of making new acquaintances and attempting to be affable must have been, at that time, almost intolerable, and I began to feel guilty. We had leapt upon him like eager and loving dogs. He could not possibly know how much he meant to us.
Mary must have felt the same way; for she abruptly stopped studying him, and said: ‘Everyone out of this room,’ in a tone of command. ‘You too, Deborah. Let him sleep in peace.’
So we were herded away; not without reluctance, in spite of our goodwill to the patient. The last to go was Byrne, who appeared to be laying claim to some special interest in our find (I say ‘find’ because no one apparently considered at that stage that the rights of ownership in our disputed property might be vested in the property himself) on the grounds of their earlier conversation. He