Tomas was one of the greatest of the Oslo Monks, for he had the ability to heal, and his abilities were far beyond the others. However, he was a sight for sore eyes in talents only. His body was bent. His skin was worn beyond years: bloated, burned and scarred. He rarely took his hooded cape off, save for to bathe himself. Now he worked only at night, if he could.
He was beautiful when he was younger, and he was younger but moments ago, months maybe, a year, three years last. He did not know that he had the gift to heal, and when he found it at the age of twenty-seven, he made up for lost time.
He was indiscriminate. He would walk through the crowds as though he were Christ, touching people inside and out. At first his gift made him proud. He never lacked for a place to lay his head, bosom as much as bed. In every town he was welcomed and praised, and he walked tall with a wide stride.
This continued, but a change began to occur. The more he listened to the sorrows, and soothed the shattered minds, and rescued the bodies, the heavier his step grew, and the darker his brow. His skin, once bright and clear, grew black in spots, and began to bring him pain. With every new lamentation, his ears would ring till the pain was nearly unbearable. Sometimes, when alone, and at home, he would release himself and let the blood flow out of his ears, down his neck, and onto his shoulders and garment; it was difficult to contain.
In three years he aged a lifetime.
He became the last true resort, instead of the welcomed and admired miracle worker. The women did not run to his side to dance in his eyes. The promises and diversions were no more. You went to him now when all other remedies failed, and when something absolutely had to be done. For as they said, “He is quite hideous to observe, no?” Where before the children flocked at his feet, now they fled, or pelted him with rocks from a distance.
Only the babies remained true. He could hold a sick child in his arms, and the little one would reach out its hand to pull his ear, or try to place its fingers in the two holes that stood where his nose used to be. Laughter. There was always laughter. He would speak in tongues to them, and they would look at him with furrowed brow, and speak back to him, and smile.
Tomas would hold the child and water its soul with his tears, and all sickness would depart. These moments brought him joy and he knew that this was the way it should be, until he could heal no more.
