THE GIFT

                           By Melvin Sturgis

                 As a boy, Carl Sloan began to perform
            miracles, healing the sick. But the world hated
           him--for being born a thousand years too soon....

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             November 1951
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The tenseness in the tiny court room was a live thing that you could
feel clear down to your insoles. The thick silence was broken as the
judge said solemnly: "Your objection will be taken under advisement
by the court, Counselor. In what manner will the childhood of the
defendant be relevant to this case, Mr. Prosecutor?"

"It is my purpose to show, your Honor, that the defendant has been of
unsound mind since birth, and therefore has long been a public menace,
not merely a victim of circumstance as the defense would have us
believe." The prosecuting attorney nodded briefly in the direction of
the table for the defense.

"Objection overruled," the judge said. "You may call your witness."

"Thank you, your Honor." The prosecutor helped the flighty woman into
the witness box.

"Will you please give the court your name?"

The woman simpered. "Ida Mae Holk. Mrs. Ida Mae Holk."

The prosecutor cleared his throat and ruffled the papers in his hand.

"How long have you known the defendant, Mrs. Holk?"

"Why, ever since he was about two years old. Him and his Ma came to
Elmwood right after his Pa was killed in that big Oak Ridge explosion.
He was born right there on the government project, you know. Never
could understand why Mrs. Sloan, that was his Ma, never did get married
again, her being so pretty and all, and any number of nice widowers
just--"

"Uh, yes, Mrs. Holk," the prosecutor interrupted. "Was your
acquaintance with the defendant continuous throughout his childhood?"

"Well, it was until he was ten years old. They sent him away to that
crazy house then."

"I object to the term 'crazy house', your Honor," the public defender
addressed the court.

"I am sure that the witness meant to say the Rochelle School for
Retarded Children," the prosecutor said mildly. "Didn't you, Mrs. Holk?"

"Well, I guess that is what they call it," she said grudgingly.
"Anyway, they kept him there until he was eighteen. Then he came back
to Elmwood and I've known him ever since."

"As a child, was the defendant er, ah, strange; that is, different from
the other children?"

"He certainly was." The woman drew herself up primly. "Why, the first
time that I ever laid eyes on that boy I said to my neighbor 'did you
ever see a child with such a big head and such brooding eyes', why--"

The public defender started to rise.

"I don't mean physical characteristics, Mrs. Holk," the prosecutor
hurriedly interjected. "The court is interested only in facts that will
prove relevant to the case at hand."

"Oh." Mrs. Holk seemed disappointed. "Well, he never played much with
the other children because they made so much fun of him. Not that
they didn't have a right to, the way he was always acting. Picking up
stray dogs and cats, and every thing else under the sun, and telling
everybody that would listen how he cured their sores. It was enough to
make a person sick. He even claimed that he could cure himself, and
that was the reason that he was never sick! Hmmfp.

"Of course, he wasn't ever sick. No sir, not a day in his life. Never
had the measles or the mumps like my Sally, and even when that terrible
flu epidemic hit town he was just as chipper as you please. If you want
incidents, I can tell you a dozen. There was one time when he was
about five and I was over visiting with his ma. He came running into
the house telling some big story about a bird with a busted wing that
he had fixed up. Of course, his ma shut him up; she always was too easy
on him. Another time--"

       *       *       *       *       *

_The man with the too big head and the serene features gazed softly at
the witness stand. He remembered about the bird. He had been very young
at the time and hadn't known, yet, that everyone didn't have The Gift._

_He had found the little bird at the base of the old oak tree, scared
and trembling from the dangers that threatened it out of its known
element. He picked it up gently and felt the fluttering of its tiny
heart in the palm of his hand. He saw that its wing was injured,
and, with a feeling of pity and kindness, he located and repaired
the injury. The little bird lay quietly in his hand, as if sensing a
friend. Then it flew away into the blue sky._

_He ran into the house to tell his mother about the bird that he had
found helpless in the yard and how he had made it well so that it could
fly again._

_"Yes darling," his mother smiled tolerantly. "I'm sure you were a good
boy."_

_He could see that she had a headache. He could see the pulse and flow
of the waves of pain and he wondered why she didn't fix it. He was
never sick. It was so easy to be well...._

_With the directness of the very young he asked her, "Mother, why don't
you make your headache go away?"_

_His mother dropped to her knees in front of him._

_"Why you sweet boy," she said. "Always thinking of your mother. Here,
kiss my head and the ache will go away."_

_Gravely he looked at her. Grownups were a funny lot. He didn't have to
kiss her head to make the headache go away; but she was his mother and
he loved her. If she wanted to pretend, why, then he would also. So he
kissed her head and caused the ache and pain to recede and disappear.
Laughing, his mother got to her feet, took two aspirin tablets, and
shooed him out to play. Strange, that he couldn't remember Mrs. Holk
being there...._

"Thank you, Mrs. Holk," the prosecutor said. "That will be all for now
unless the defense wishes to cross examine."

"No questions." The public defender leaned toward his client. "Are you
sure that you won't testify in your own behalf?"

The man smiled and shook his head.

"May I call the next witness, your Honor?"

"Will you tell the court your name and position, please?"

"My name is Sylvia Johnson, and I am floor superintendent at the
Rochelle School."

"Were you superintendent during the eight years that Carl Sloan was in
commitment at that institution?"

"I was."

"Will you tell the court any pertinent facts concerning his behavior up
to the time of his discharge?"

She smoothed the hem of her dress and looked thoughtful for a moment.

"At first Carl seemed to be the oddest of all of the children in the
school. He seemed to think that he had some kind of miraculous healing
powers and couldn't, or wouldn't, understand why the rest of us weren't
similarly blessed."

She waited for the small titter to subside and then continued.

"However our rather necessarily stern measures soon cured him of his
delusions, or, at least, so we thought at the time. After that, he
didn't seem to be very much different from the others. A little more
sullen, perhaps, and not quite as quick to learn the duties expected of
him as some of the less handicapped children; but then, _we_ can't work
miracles at the school."

She paused and those nearest the quiet defendant turned and stared at
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_He didn't even notice for he was once again ten years old and standing
outside his cousin's bedroom window. He wasn't supposed to be there
because Billy was sick with an odd virus and had been quarantined until
the doctors had decided what ailed him._

_"No," Billy said, in answer to his question. "Don't be silly. If I
could get rid of this awful cough I would, wouldn't I?"_

_"I can," Carl replied, his youthful voice confident._

_Of course Billy didn't believe him but Carl saw what was to be done
and did it. Billy's dad, disturbed by the excited conversation, came
and told Carl to go on home where he belonged; but Carl forgot his
scooter and had to go back after it. He could hear Billy's parents
talking in the living room._

_"Carl is a very strange boy," said Billy's mother._

_"If you ask me, he's half crazy. All of this wild talk about doctoring
cats, and that dead frog that he said he brought back to life."_

(_This was not quite true, Carl knew. The frog had not been dead, only
sick. He had proudly told his uncle of the incident only a day or two
before._)

_"I think that we should have a little talk with Jane. Surely, she can
see that he is not normal. He should be in that school for abnormal
children over in the valley," Billy's father said emphatically._

_The next day his aunt and uncle had talked to his mother and Carl
listened at the window. He knew that he wasn't supposed to eavesdrop
but he was puzzled, and scared. At first, his mother answered the
proposal with a flat "no", but his uncle's persuasions won out in the
end. Tearfully, she finally agreed that a year or two in the school
might be of some help in correcting his too obvious imagination. The
news spread rapidly and the tongue-waggers worked overtime._

_"Did you hear about the Sloan boy?" one would ask._

_"Oh, yes," another would answer. "Crazy as a loon, quite."_

_"I always knew that there was something wrong with that boy, him never
getting sick and all that. His head always was too big for the rest of
him. I knew all along that he was crazy, all right."_

_"They're going to ship him off to school, I understand. Well, good
riddance I say. Wouldn't want my Henry associating with a goofy kid."_

_He didn't like to recall the school. It was dim and foreboding and
the beds always seemed to be cold and dank. He learned quickly that
none of the institutional authorities were interested in his Gift and
after the first several rebuffs and their consequential punishments,
he never again talked about it to anyone. He was, by force, a recluse;
but he learned the lessons that they thought that he should learn, and,
if they were much more simple than his intellect warranted, he didn't
blame the teachers._

As if he could feel the stares of the curious people, Carl raised his
head. The prosecutor was still examining the superintendent.

"Then he was released as fit to be assimilated by society when he was
eighteen?"

The witness leaned forward in the box.

"Yes," she said intently. "The exact disposition of his case history
was 'Simple minded, but perfectly harmless'."

       *       *       *       *       *

_Simple minded? Yes, if shyness and averseness to people constitute
simple mindedness. He did odd jobs for the townspeople and they
tolerated him. Gardening, fetching and carrying, sweeping out the
library. He read. Avidly he read everything that he could find. He
learned about Mendel and his peas, and he knew what he was. An ugly
word, a Mutant. It made him different and gave him a Gift that no one
believed that he had, or wanted him to exercise._

_That crazy Sloan, or that half wit Sloan, the townspeople called him,
but he didn't care. He had never had any friends or companions and
therefore felt no need for any. The small animals were his friends, and
the children. He was never too busy to make a kite, or mend a toy or a
skinned knee. He never mentioned his Gift but silently, unnoticed, as
he went his shy way around the town, performed the small services that
he was able to, unknown to the recipients. Some little aid, some little
kindness every day. He was happy._

_Then they brought Henry Jones, bitter and disillusioned, home from
the hospital in the city. He had been kicked in the head by a horse
while he was away at college, and would never see again. The doctors
all agreed on that point. He was permanently blind. Carl was trimming
the Jones' hedge the first day that they pushed Henry out for his daily
airing in the sun. He saw the blood clot that blocked the nerves to the
brain center and his powerful mind worked smoothly, efficiently._

_"Open your eyes," Carl said simply. "You can see."_

_"It was a miracle," everyone said. "A true miracle."_

_The newspapers scented a lucky circumstance and whipped up a human
interest story that was more fantasy than fact; the wire services
carried the story and people flocked to see the person who had
performed a miracle. By twos and threes they came. Then by scores. They
came to see because they were curious, or to be healed of some real or
imagined ill. By the hundreds, by the thousands, they came. The lame,
the halt, and the blind. The doctors, lawyers, ministers, newspaper
men, newsreel cameramen, zealots. Men, women and children; from near
and afar. The religious, and the heretics. He couldn't begin to help
all of those who came to him. Some, with missing organs or diseased in
a manner impossible for him to aid, were turned away and added their
cries to the pack who bitterly denounced him. For the most part his
work was confined to the eyes of a few, but the numbers of those he
helped without their knowledge he knew were legend._

_The crowd expected to see miracles and they demanded to see them. His
failure to perform according to their tastes set off disputes that
swept across the country. Was he a healer or a charlatan? A wise man or
a fool? A public benefactor or a fraud?_

_"He has never healed anyone," learned doctors gave statements to the
papers. "It's all a matter of mass hypnosis. He tells the ignorant that
they are cured and, for a short while they actually force themselves to
believe that they are cured. A very simple matter, indeed."_

_He went on ministering to the crowds that increased daily. He asked
nothing for his work, and they gave nothing; but the popcorn vendors,
the soda pop dispensers, the ice cream wagons, had a field day. It was
a circus and they assigned extra policemen to control the frenzied
crowds._

_He remembered the day, finally, they brought a little girl, suffering
from leukemia, from a distant city. The best doctors had given their
best to save her, and they had failed. The distraught parents were
grasping at the last straw. He knew that it was much, much too late for
him to do anything to aid her, but he tried. She looked at him with her
large, beautiful eyes, set so deep in her pale face, and arose from the
ambulance couch and walked a few steps toward him. Then she collapsed
and died. The eager crowd pushed forward to get a better view and some
were trampled. Some were injured, and some, the weak and unlucky, were
killed. The police, frightened and faced with an ugly situation for
which they had no rules, arrested him and whisked him off to the county
seat. The crowd slowly dispersed and soon the only evidence that they
had ever been there was the mass of empty cartons, the soda bottles,
and the damaged shrubbery in the town square...._

The judge leaned over from his tall bench.

"Mr. Sloan," he said sonorously. "In view of the evidence presented
by the people of this state this court has no recourse but to convict
you for the deaths of seven people. The court finds you charged and
adjudged guilty of five counts, four minor and one major. Perpetrator
of an unlawful assembly, inciting a mob to violence--" the voice droned
on and on until the sentence was pronounced.

The flash bulbs popped and the crowd mumbled and whispered as he was
led back to his cell. He had known from the beginning of the trial
that there could be but one ending. He hadn't asked for the deaths of
anyone but through him they had died and it was best that the sentence
of the court be exacted and the Gift forever stilled. The world was not
ready for a power such as this, he knew. Not now, not yet, perhaps not
ever....

       *       *       *       *       *

The wrought iron gates in the high stone wall clanged shut behind
the official county car with a dismal finality. Later, he was taken
to a small room and his clothes stripped from him, replaced with a
simple two pieced garment. This, then, was to be the end of life,
of awareness. No more to feel the warmth of the summer sun or
the caressing coolness of the light spring wind. Yet, he felt no
bitterness, no regrets, rather only a sense of vast loneliness in the
knowledge that he would not be able to fulfill the promise of his life.

Straps were placed around his ankles and secured so that the sudden
shock wouldn't tear them loose. A strap around each leg, just above the
knee. More, biting into his wrists, his upper arms, and, finally, the
two plates. They were placed carefully, one just behind and above each
ear. A last quiet check to see that the bindings were in their proper
places.

The plates held his head in a vise-like grip and he couldn't turn it in
any direction but he knew the time was at hand....

There was a sharp pain, blinding and searing. Starting in his head,
just behind his eyes, and then permeating throughout his muscles and
body. He jerked spasmodically, but the strong bonds held him fast.
For a long agonizing moment the pain persisted, and then the welcome
blackness, nothing....

The young interne smiled at the officiating doctor.

"That was a very nice operation, sir. A wonderful discovery that
electronically destroying a part of the brain will cure some forms of
insanity. Of course, he won't have much of his ego left, but he will be
able to obey simple orders and do menial tasks, and, at least he will
be sane."

"Yes," the doctor said cheerfully as he disconnected his apparatus, "at
least he will be sane."