The Healer of Harrow Point by Peter Walpole Read Free Book Online Page B

cabin that had a small hand-painted sign above the door: “Sleepy Hollow Motor Lodge.” A wide, moss-covered brick pathway led back to a dozen or so small cabins. Emma's was the last cabin on the end.
    An old dog limped over to us as we came up to her door.
    “Hello, Abigail,” Emma said warmly. “Ready for your treatment?”
    Abigail's tail swished back and forth and up and down, the most lively part about her, it seemed. She looked to be terribly old.
    “Is this your dog?” I asked.
    “No, no. As much time as I spend away, I can't keep a dog,” Emma said. “Abigail lives with the woman who runs this place, a few doors down. But we're old friends.”
    “What's her treatment?”
    “She has an arthritic hip,” Emma said, rubbing Abigail's side, “don't you, old girl?”
    Abigail wagged her tail in agreement.
    I frowned. “Well, can't you just, you know, fix it?”
    Emma smiled. “Let's go inside,” she said.
    We entered her little cabin. There was one large room that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. A short hallway lead back to a bedroom and bathroom. The main room was not cluttered, but it was not sparse, either. There was a small sofa, an easy chair, a bookcase full of books, a little coffee table with pictures on it. There was nothing especially modern in the room; she didn't have a television or a radio that I could see. The room looked plain, homey. It seemed odd to me, almost, how unremarkable the cabin was. I thought of Emma as being magical. I don't know if I expected a palace or a cave or what. I looked over at her and frowned. She was petting Abigail.
    “I mean, can't you just make her hip better?” I said again.
    “I can make it better,” Emma said, “but I can't make it well. It's part of life that a body ages and doesn't hold up as well. Abigail's sixteen. She's entitled to a little arthritis.”
    “Sixteen is pretty old for dog, isn't it?” I asked.
    Emma nodded, but didn't speak. She wasn't so much petting Abigail now, as running her hands slowly, lightly over Abigail's coat.
    “Now listen closely, Thomas,” Emma said quietly, and I stepped a bit closer. “Each particular body is different,and so is each part of each body. Are you listening?”
    “Yes ma'am,” I said. I called her ma'am sometimes now just to annoy her. A smile passed across her face for the briefest moment.
    “It's important for you to understand that Abigail's hip is different from my hip, from yours, from a deer's, from another dog's hip, even one of the same size or breed. Her hip is hers. Do you understand?”
    I nodded.
    “Good,” she said. “Each part of a body, of your body, and mine, and Abigail's, has, oh, a rhythm, or frequency, a pattern ... I don't know how to say it, exactly. It has a right way for it to be, which you can sense, but, Thomas, you have to—Abigail, honey, now—” Abigail had become very still and was leaning, leaning into Emma such that she was about to topple over if Emma didn't hold her up. Emma pushed her upright and gave her a couple of little whacks on the fanny. Abigail's tail started wagging again.
    “You have to be very clear, and empty,” she said, looking at me closely to see if I was understanding her.
    “Empty,” I repeated, uncertain of what she meant.
    “I don't know how to teach you this,” Emma said. “Come here. Put your hand here.”
    I placed my hand on Abigail's back, and, with Emma's hand on top of mine, we gently stroked down the length of her coat.
    “Each individual's body is unique,” Emma said quietly. “Unique, precious, the only one in the universe.You have to understand that; you have to accept it. Do you understand?”
    She looked at me. We were still stroking the dog together.
    “Not really,” I said. I had to be honest.
    “That's all right, Thomas. Dear Thomas. I'm sorry if I was cross with you earlier.”
    “That's okay,” I said. I suddenly became very intent on stroking the dog. Then Emma's free hand rested lightly on