The Peasant

by Scott Michael Decker

  Twenty people crowded a room that would comfortably hold six, some of them standing, most sitting on the dirt floor. The few chairs looked so feeble a person's weight would crush them—but none were empty. Two or three people looked toward her as she entered. The rest looked indifferent, as though poverty had ground their humanity into dust.

  She saw a curtain-covered doorway on the opposite side of the room. The curtain slid aside and an old man doddered out. Behind him, a blond-haired, green-eyed woman looked past him and said, “Next!”

  Trickling Stream strode across the dirt, nimbly avoiding bare and calloused feet. Near the doorway, an old woman in rags struggled to stand. Helping her to her feet, Trickling Stream escorted her into the next room.

  Gentle Hand looked at the old woman's ragged clothing, then at Trickling Stream's silk robes—and frowned. “What do you want?”

  Silent Whisper would take her head for her insolence, she thought, glad she'd left him outside. “I wish to speak with you, Lady Hand.”

  “Sorry, I'm busy. Come back after the Lord Emperor does something about the poverty. I won't have a free moment until then.” Gentle Hand turned and helped the old woman onto the examination table. “Looks like you have an ovarian tumor. I'll have to remove your ovaries and perhaps your uterus.”

  She has the bedside manner of an executioner, Trickling Stream thought, dismayed.

  “Oh, my,” the old woman said, looking afraid. “Does that mean I can't share my pleasures with my mate anymore? I don't have much else, eh?”

  “No, not at all,” Gentle Hand replied, smiling. “You'll still have your vagina. After I remove your ovaries, you'll need regular treatments of estrogen. Once every six months or so should do it.”

  “I don't have no money like that,” she complained.

  “You can't afford not to have your ovaries removed either,” Gentle Hand said calmly. “You'll die in a year if they don't come out. Don't worry about the cost; just come back to see me in six months.”

  “But I don't feel right, not payin' you! I maybe don't have no money for the operation.”

  “How much money do you have?”

  “I got only three taels.”

  “That's fine. Do you want to have the operation now, or would you like to think about it and come back?”

  “Do I got to wait, like I did today? I been here all day, you know.”

  “Probably.” Gentle Hand sighed.

  Trickling Stream guessed the medacor had worked non-stop since morning. What she'd first thought was callous indifference was simply fatigue.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Not much.” Gentle Hand smiled.

  “Well, do it now then, and thank you. Infinite bless you.” The old woman lay back at the medacor's bidding. Suddenly, she slept.

  Trickling Stream's knees almost buckled from the peripheral energy of Gentle Hand's sleep compulsion.

  Moving around the table, the medacor bumped into Trickling Stream and frowned, looking puzzled. “Are you still here?”

  “What can I do to help, Lady Hand?”

  “Why don't you just drop the 'Lady,' all right? I'm a peasant. Thank you for being considerate, but it's not necessary. Stand on the other side of her. Yes, right there. You don't faint at the sight of blood, do you? Good, then you'll do. I'll instruct you as we go along. If you really want to help, tell your Matriarch to give me back my son, eh? I'd be done with all those patients out there if she hadn't taken him. As it is I have a full waiting room, most of whom I'll have to send away.

  “All right, I need you to dab the blood from the incision. I'll pinch off all the arteries, but there'll be a lot of blood in the abdominal cavity. What's your talent? Dehydration? What kind of talent is that? Sorry, I just never heard of it. Might be useful here, though. Sure, try it. Better than those expensive sponges. Of course, I always knew I'd lose him, but I didn't expect he'd be gone at seven years old! He's just a baby!

  “Here we go. Oh, my, look at the tumor. Let's take you out of there, along with the ovary you've eaten. There, get that blood; that's it. The other ovary has growths; out it comes. What I wouldn't do for an assistant right now. Then I'd have to pay that assistant, which I can't afford. Do I really need to remove the uterus? Looks all right, and so does the vagina. Good, good. Here, take these, and I'll close her up. Over there, in that bin. There, that was easy, and not a seam to show where I opened her. With a dose of estrogen, she'll be good for another six months. Wake up!”

  The old woman stirred, looking disoriented. “Is it over?”

  Gentle Hand nodded and stepped to a sink to wash the blood off her hands. “Just leave your money on the table there. I left your uterus because I didn't see anything wrong with it, but I did take your ovaries. You'll be sore for a week or so. Come back in six months for another dose of estrogen.”

  “Yes, Hand, and thank you. Oh, Infinite bless you for leaving my sex. I'm so grateful.” The old woman slipped off the table and stood.

  Trickling Stream helped her into the waiting room and said, “Next!”

  Of the twenty or so patients only five remained. Among them was the man from across the street. While she watched, he placed a large hand on a young girl's broken leg and healed it.

  “What is it?” Gentle Hand asked behind Trickling Stream, then stepped up beside her. “Oh, uh, thank you for your help, Lord.”

  Looking toward her, he smiled, his eyes bright blue.

  Trickling Stream wondered how he'd healed fifteen patients in so short a time. She looked at Gentle Hand. The medacor didn't look surprised or concerned. Has the man helped here before? Trickling Stream wondered. “Do you know him?”

  “He comes to help occasionally, but not often enough that I can rely on him. Lord, would you attend to the other patients while I feed my daughter?” Gentle Hand jingled the old woman's three taels in her palm.

  Nodding, the blond man smiled and turned to the next patient.

  “Thank you, Lord. Come this way, Lady.” Gentle Hand stepped through another curtain.

  Following the woman, Trickling Stream wondered why Gentle Hand called the man “Lord” when she disliked honorifics. Unless the man were nobility, but if so, who was he?

  Beyond the doorway were living quarters. On one side of the room was a scullery and refectory, on the other a central room. Opposite her was another doorway, probably the bedroom and excretory—if the abode had an excretory. I can't imagine living in such cramped quarters, she thought, even by myself. With my mate and three sons, I'd find it intolerable. How Gentle Hand endures it, I'll never know.

  In a central room chair was an older woman, a baby in her arms. Gentle Hand stepped toward her. “I'll take her now, Grass. That settles your bill. Thank you for your help.” The medacor took the infant from her.

  Standing, Grass bowed to Trickling Stream and left.

  Gentle Hand loosened her cotton sash, freeing a breast; the child latched on before the mother sat down. “Hungry, eh?”

  Smiling, Trickling Stream pulled up a chair opposite her. Shelves lined the central room walls, hundreds of books on them, the only sign of wealth she'd seen. She read a few titles; anatomy, physiology, pharmacology, all the texts looked medicine-related. At the base of one bookshelf was a rolled up mattress. Probably Healing Hand's bed, she thought. “Who's your Matriarch?”

  “Don't have one—she disowned me after I left my mate and took his son.” Gentle Hand stroked the infant's head.

  Trickling Stream suppressed her shock. “Didn't your mate object also?”

  The medacor looked at her calmly. “I told him I'd leave him if he beat the boy again. Would you leave your son with a man like that?”

  Frowning, Trickling Stream shook her head. “I admire your courage.”

  Gentle Hand smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Forgive me for prying. I needed to ask.”

  “You're welcome to ask. I can refuse to answer.”

  “Indeed. Are you a certified medacor?”

&n
bsp; “Yes and no,” Gentle Hand replied. “The Council of Physicians took away my certificate and that senseless title of 'Lady' when my son began to help me. They said he was too young. As if they know who can or can't heal. They tried to stop me from practicing. After half the people from this quarter camped on the steps of their building, they decided to leave me alone—on the condition I practice quietly.”

  Trickling Stream chuckled, liking the woman. “Will you try to get re-certified, Lady Hand?”

  “I don't need their sheepskin,” Gentle Hand said. “I told you before, I'm a peasant; don't call me 'Lady.' ”

  Trickling Stream smiled. “The Lady Matriarch sent me to find out what you do need.”

  Gentle Hand looked at her and laughed.

  Not the reaction Trickling Stream expected.

  “Oh, Infinite help me, I need so much I can't tell you what I need.” Shaking her head, the medacor sighed. “I want my son back, but that won't happen, will it?”

  “Hasn't he applied for apprenticeship under the Imperial Medacor?”

  “So?”

  “The Lady wants to secure him lodging inside the castle where he won't have any distractions from his studies.”

  “The Imperial Medacor hasn't accepted him yet!”

  “That's only a matter of time,” Trickling Stream replied.

  “And if he doesn't accept him?”

  “He will.”

  Gentle Hand shook her head. “How can you be so sure?”

  “The Lady knows. You were there when she had that vision. Your son will become the Imperial Medacor, of that you can be confident. When and in what manner are all that's in question.”

  “The Lady Matriarch puts a lot of confidence in her visions,” Gentle Hand said with contempt.

  “They've never been wrong—and an Empire depends on the accuracy of her sight. Anyway, the Lady also wants Healing Hand to learn other disciplines. He'll work very hard, Hand. The Lady abides by no indolence.”

  Gentle Hand sighed. “All right, so I'll lose the best assistant I'll ever have. I don't want to lose my son as well.” She frowned at the other woman. “So the Lady Matriarch sent you here to find out what I need?”

  Trickling Stream nodded.

  “I want someone who'll help in the clinic, who'll take care of my daughter when I can't, and who won't begrudge the rotten working conditions, long hours, and complete lack of pay.”

  “All right.” Trickling Stream smiled. “Why do you run this clinic?”

  “I ask myself that every day, and haven't found an answer. Since I haven't stopped, I must find it rewarding.”

  Trickling Stream nodded. “Do you own your home and office?”

  Frowning, Gentle Hand shook her head.

  “This place needs a few repairs, eh?”

  The medacor nodded, looking puzzled.

  “Do you need medical supplies?”

  Gentle Hand nodded her head vigorously. She looked down at her daughter, who let go of the breast. Putting the infant to her shoulder, she burped the child, then freed her other breast, where the girl latched on.

  “Make a list, please, and—”

  Poking his head through the doorway, the blond man from across the street interrupted her. “Hand, someone's here with a crate full of everything, says you ordered it.”

  “A few items for your household I thought you might need, Hand,” Trickling Stream said. “I hope I haven't been too presumptuous.”

  Gentle Hand smiled, her eyes glistening.

  “First, the Lady will buy the property and renovate it to suit your needs. For as long as you run the clinic, you may live and work here rent free.”

  A big, bright tear spilled from a green, glowing eye.

  “Second, a medacor will help you each day. When you so need, a nurse will care for your daughter at any time, day or night.”

  A sob shook the woman.

  “Third, last, and more important than anything, Hand, the Lady and I want you to continue to treat the people in this area. We'd feel terrible if you had to stop because you lost your assistant. We believe we'd have very little suffering if more people chose to serve the community as you have.”

  Her gratitude poured down her face. “Thank you,” Gentle Hand whispered. The infant girl let go and began to cry. “Oh, I'm sorry, precious baby. Mother got upset and lost her milk for a moment.”

  “Where's the Lady Stream!” Silent Whisper said gruffly from the other room.

  “In here, Lord Captain.” Trickling Stream wondered why he'd come to get her, only fifteen minutes having passed.

  Pushing aside the curtain, Silent Whisper nodded to the blond man and looked at Trickling Stream. “Lady, forgive me, but you've a summons.”

  “Thank you, Lord Whisper,” she said, standing. “Hand, an architect will come here tomorrow, and you should probably think about the design of your clinic. Any immediate needs you have you can request through him. Infinite be with you.” She bowed, according the woman a respect beyond her station, then stepped past the blond man toward the door. In the empty waiting room, she stopped, frowning. “The Lord and Lady…” she asked in a whisper.

  “They escaped,” Silent Whisper replied.

  “Oh, thank the Infinite they're safe.” Trickling Stream sighed. “That man, Lord Captain, does he … Why are your eyes red? You've been crying, haven't you? Infinite bless you your caring, Lord. Anyway, does that man look familiar to you?”

  Silent Whisper looked back toward the curtained-covered doorway. “He looks a little like Healing Hand.”

  “You're right! He looks a lot like Healing Hand,” Trickling Stream whispered. “The man fathered the boy—I'm sure of it. Why does Gentle Hand claim she left him?”

  Smiling, Silent Whisper leaned close. “The man's a bandit.”

  Oh, Trickling Stream mouthed as he led the way out the door. Stepping through it, past the house shields, she consulted the psychic flow.

  The Lord Emperor Flying Arrow was summoning her.

  “Why?” she asked, tapping the flow for further information. Terror sank its terrible talons into Trickling Stream's heart. Commanding the Imperial troops at the west gate had been her mate Tumbling Pigeon. The Emperor had ordered him to stop the Matriarch Water's palanquins.

  “Are you all right, Lady Stream?” Silent Whisper asked.

  The Emperor will have my mate's head for his failure! she thought, feeling his loss already. Looking at the Captain, not seeing him, Trickling Stream gestured mutely toward the castle.

  “Shall I come with you?”

  She shook her head, the world blurry and distorted.

  “You look faint. I'll take you to the castle gate, Lady.”

  She felt his firm grip on her arm. A moment later, she began to walk under her own power. “Oh, dear Lord Infinite, where are my children?” she wailed, falling to her knees.

  Silent Whisper helped her stand. Trickling Stream began to run, praying her three sons were safe somewhere. Anywhere.

  Chapter 18

  The psychology of Swords themselves ended their nine-thousand year reign. The tendency in people to identify and emulate figures of authority is strong. Hence, when an object becomes the literal and figurative source of authority, the society governed by that authority reflects the values embodied by that object. One value that the Swords embodied was dominion over others—dominion enforced by the threat of death. Investing a weapon like the Swords with such absolute authority condemned civilization to a nine-thousand year history of bloodshed and violence. What continues to puzzle historians today is that the sovereignty of the Swords lasted so long.—The Fall of the Swords, by Keeping Track.

  Carrying official announcements, news of importance, rumor and speculation, the psychic flow is the medium that Emperors often use to disseminate their opinions, sometimes in very subtle ways. The Imperial Swords enable Emperors to infuse the flow with the intensity and duration they need for each particular message. The Emperors Condor, for instance, generated fe
elings of racial superiority and xenophobia with the Western Imperial Sword. Always pervading the flow were subliminal suggestions that pure Western heritage was better than mixed extraction, and that anyone without blue-black hair and epicanthic eyes was barbaric and untrustworthy. The Emperors Condor infused very little energy into this suggestion but never ceased broadcasting it. Hence, despite the suggestion's weakness, its very endurance and pervasiveness indoctrinated everyone within the borders of the Western Empire.—The Great Universal Mind, by the Sorcerer Flowing Mind.

  * * *

  Someone shook her shoulder, waking her. Bubbling Water opened her eyes to a star-filled sky, wondering momentarily where she was. Hot water lapping at her stomach, she remembered.

  When she reached the camp, Snarling Jaguar suggested a hot bath. They walked around the hill, inside the perimeter of tent, to a hastily constructed bath. Sap beaded the new plank of narrow step. They led up to a wooden platform with a low railing, the bath built around a large iron cauldron. A pyrathon had already heated the water nearly to scalding. Before they disrobed for the bath, Bubbling Water scanned the area with trace sectathonics. She found thousands of Jaguar soldiers and one odd, familiar signature. Snarling Jaguar sent a warrior to investigate, concerned that sentries hadn't seen and dealt with the intruder already. The warrior returned sick with several ailments and Healing Hand. After the boy cured the warrior of his afflictions and explained his presence, Snarling Jaguar insisted they all three bathe. In the water Bubbling Water fell asleep.

  “Thank you for waking me, Lord Jaguar,” she said, yawning. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean to fall asleep.” She dunked her head to wash the dregs of sleep from her mind.

  “I couldn't let you sleep in here all night, Lady.” Snarling Jaguar stepped from the bath and over to a bucket. While he eliminated, Healing Hand and Bubbling Water politely looked elsewhere. As in the Eastern Empire, bodily functions in the Southern Empire were just bodily functions. In the Western Empire elimination was a private matter, obscene to discuss or see.