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stench of the river. As he walked down a dark, garbage-strewn hallway, tired eyes gazed at him from half-open doorways, which led into shadowy flats. Some of the faces he saw were curious, others dull, and still others cruel. The aroma of spices from his homeland drifted from one open door, but he ignored this distraction and followed the other smell, the corrupt scent of death. At the end of the hallway there was a final door.
    He found it locked. Without a word, he closed his eyes and lifted his right hand. A spark of green flame flew forward and the door crashed open, nearly tearing from its hinges.
    The old man stepped through the doorway and out into a large courtyard. It was open to the night sky above, but there was no fresh air to be found here, not in the bowels of London town.
    The courtyard had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Under a large tarpaulin were row upon row of cots, each one occupied by a horribly suffering man or woman. In the slums of the East End, death lingered constantly in the night, keeping a constant vigil, waiting to carry away the souls of those whose flesh had surrendered.
    A woman’s cry cut through the moans of the afflicted, so piteous that the old man found himself inexorably drawn to her. His feet made no sound as he walked across the dirt. He found her resting on a small cot in the middle of the filthy courtyard. She had once been pretty, with aquiline features that would have rendered most men speechless. Now her face was taut with pain, her features gaunt, her lips drawn back in a grimace revealing brown, semi-rotten teeth.
    When she saw the old man, she reached out toward him with one thin brown arm that was almost cadaverous. He could detect almost no flesh at all beneath the parchment skin. She moaned something, but her mouth was so dry that no true words passed between her lips.
    He took the woman’s hand in his and squeezed, ever so gently. She tried to speak again, but he shook his head.
    “I understand, my child, there is no need to explain,” he said in Hindi.
    She was so weak that when she began to cry, the tears merely leaked from the corners of her eyes. The old man bent painfully over her and placed his other hand on her distended belly. She didn’t flinch, allowing him to rest his palm there without complaint.
    He bowed his head and began to chant. The words were soft and unintelligible. As his lips moved in time with the words, the woman’s features began to soften.
    She looked up at him, her brown eyes clear for the first time, and smiled. Thank you, she mouthed. Then her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. Finally, it stopped altogether.
    The old man watched the woman’s abdomen deflate, her belly shrinking until it was as it had once been.
    “What are you doing?” demanded a voice from behind him.
    The old man turned slowly, one hand on his back where the muscles were complaining that he had bent so low. A young Indian man stood there glaring at him, demand etched across his face. A doctor, perhaps, or a man of some medical knowledge, administering to the poor and the lost.
    “I come in the glorious name of Vishnu, the creator, to give what help I can,” answered the old man.
    This seemed to calm the young doctor. He nodded and beckoned the old man to come with him, to the far side of the courtyard. There, the doctor turned and sighed.
    “It’s safer here, and there’s a bit of a breeze. The air is cleaner. You can feel it when you breathe,” the doctor said.
    The old man nodded. The air was still filthy, stinking of the city’s viscera, but the smell of fear and death was not as strong here.
    “Was that woman a relative of yours?” the doctor asked.
    The old man shook his head. “I came to help those who are beyond your expertise.” His Hindi words punctuated with emphasis, like a chisel on stone.
    The doctor cleared his throat, and he eyed the old man carefully. “You are a fakir—”
    “No,” the old man said strongly. “I am only a