Fingertips resting on Bohle’s fever-heated arm, he closed his
eyes and let the Force take him under. The Force in Greti quivered in
response. He breathed in. Breathed out. Found his precarious center.
“Greti,” he whispered. “Think of your mother’s hand unharmed.
Can you do that for me? Can you see it in your mind? The way it was
before the accident?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice small. “I can see it.”
“Hold that image, Greti. Relax your body. Release your fears.
Feel yourself floating in a warm, safe place. See your mother’s hand.
See her smiling instead of suffering.”
Restless, breathing harshly, Bohle tossed her head on the pillow,
her pain like a wildfire. Obi-Wan pressed his palm against her cheek
and gently, inexorably, imposed his will upon her.
Hush, Bohle. Be at peace. Don’t fight me. Feel your daughter beside
you. Feel her love. Let go of your terror. Let me in… let me in…
With a familiar, warm rush he felt himself plunge deeper into the
Force, felt its power flood through him. Never knowing exactly how
he did what he did, he made himself a conduit and let its mysterious
strength soak into the sick woman’s body. Dimly he heard Greti gasp
as the Force stirred ever more strongly within her, instinct guiding her
fledgling powers.
A slow, deep shudder racked Bohle head to toe.
Somewhere a woman shouted in protest. “No. Stop. What are
you doing? You’re going to kill her. Stop!”
“Have no fear,” he answered dreamily. “No harm is being done.”
He could feel the Force working through Bohle’s sick body,
grappling with the rampant infection. And then he was gasping as an
echo of her sickness sounded through him, as he became a conduit for
her pain. Heat scorched his blood. A vise closed around his skull. His
hand burst into a bright and blinding anguish. He heard—felt—Greti
whimper.
I’m sorry, Greti, but she needs you. Hold on.
This was a fight as vicious as any battlefield encounter. The infection
was his enemy, Bohle’s recovery his goal. Caught up in the
struggle, he didn’t care what it cost him, didn’t care that it hurt him.
He cared only to win.
Fight with me, Bohle. Don’t give up.
If only he were a true healer. To have that power now, to know
he could undo this awful infection as effortlessly as he could deflect a
volley of blaster bolts…
Come on, Kenobi. Make her better.
And then he felt it—the shift, the change in Bohle’s blood. It
wasn’t a cure, not completely—but it was change enough to give
her a fighting chance. Pulling himself free of the Force, he saw that
Bohle lay still now, her chest rising and falling slowly and steadily.
Then Greti, tears drenching her face, moaned and collapsed across her
mother.
Teeba Sufi, with Brandeh beside her, pushed him aside. “Get out
of the way, Jedi. I want to know you’ve not harmed her.”
He half tumbled, half slid off the stool and backed away. His left
hand still hurt. Bohle’s fever lingered in his blood. Teeba Brandeh
scooped Greti into her strong arms and held the child close, letting the
little one weep against her shoulder.
On her knees beside the cot, Teeba Sufi felt Bohle’s cool forehead.
Then she stared at the partly healed wound in the woman’s hand
and the clean, firm flesh of her arm. No trace of that greenish streaking
poison remained. The village healer looked up, her brown eyes
narrowed.
“She’s mostly mended.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “I know.”