by Britt Ringel
Chapter 4
Missy crossed another nameless street and saw, to her left, a second gate guarding the Beggar’s Market. Out of options, she turned toward the marketplace and queued in the security line. Fleeting glances behind her gave no sign of the preacher’s henchmen and helped calm her fears. Her head had cleared somewhat since her escape. Only the dull throbbing from the parson’s backhand remained. It occurred to her that she had sacrificed her only weapon of self-defense and goosebumps broke out on her arms anew.
The wait in the market’s line wasn’t long. The guards appeared to be more of a deterrent for would-be thieves running out of the square and only lightly scrutinized those who entered. She bided her time, stepping forward as each person ahead of her was admitted. When her turn came, she merely smiled at the yellow-shirted sentinel who appraised her silently before thumbing her past the gate.
The open market was a sea of merchants, performers and shopkeepers. Nearest the gate, vendors hawked street food, calling out prices in “smalls.” She walked past the intoxicating aroma of charred meat when a salesgirl in her early teens called out to Missy.
“Freshly cooked murine, Lady.” She thrust out four strips of flesh stacked on a sharpened stick and smiled hopefully. “Only one small per stick.”
The perfume of grilled meat brought pangs of hunger to Missy’s stomach. “What’s a small? I don’t understand.”
The teen stared back in disbelief but thrust her hand into her pocket. She retrieved a crude silver coin the size of a fingernail and waved it at Missy. “A small, Lady. Just one small silver for the whole stick! It’s fresh meat too, I promise. I caught them myself last night. The rain’s good like that. It brings them out of the building basements.”
Missy covetously eyed the meat but shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money.”
The young dealer shrugged and immediately set out for richer quarry. “Freshly cooked murine! Cheapest prices at the gate!”
Missy watched her walk away and approach an old woman with a toddler. The woman dropped two coins into the girl’s tiny hand and the teen retrieved a second stick from a small patchwork duffle bag hanging off her shoulder. She handed both sticks to her customer before claiming a new stick from the bag and bellowing the virtues of fresh rodent meat.
Missy continued deeper into the market, eyeing vendors for every necessity imaginable. She could purchase used clothes or crudely tailored “new” items for one “large.” All manner of footwear, from laced boots to flimsy rubber and cord sandals, were up for sale. Missy needed everything.
She moved with the flow of people, very aware of her bare feet, ripped gown and bedraggled appearance. The grumbling in her stomach was her only companion, reminding her of other necessities.
How long has it been since I ate? she wondered. She looked up at the sun and gauged the time as late morning. At least eighteen hours… probably longer. I don’t remember. She clutched at her bandage through her gown. Even modest pressure sent spikes of pain through her side. Food and clothing can wait. I have to get this cleaned and dressed. She knew she had been neglectful. I haven’t even taken the bandage off. A shiver ran though her. If it’s a gunshot or stab wound, how will I ever recover?
She was reasonably confident that she had not been shot. Wouldn’t there be an exit wound? And wouldn’t the pain be deeper through my side? She lifted her hand away briefly as a test. Without the pressure on the wound, most of the pain lingered near the surface.
She stopped to take a closer look at the vendors around her. The nearest was selling cheap burlap blankets from a one-room shack. She ran her fingers through her hair to cover the right side of her head before wiping her face with the top of her gown. If the thin garment, stained with mud and sweat, offered any cleaning to her appearance, she couldn’t tell. She stepped toward the shack and smiled as the vendor skeptically eyed her approach.
“You can’t afford these wares,” the man informed her coldly while shooing her away with a dismissive wave.
“You’re probably right,” she replied in as friendly a voice as she could muster. “I’m looking for someone who sells medicinal remedies.” She closed her eyes and concentrated on what Rat had said, causing her brow to furrow. “Doctor… Reynolds! I’m looking for Doctor Reynolds.”
“You can’t afford her wares either.”
Missy shrugged. “Do you know where she is?”
The man regarded her silently and then pointed north. “Down that way, take a left into the little cul-de-sac. Now get out. You’re driving away my business.”
Missy nodded and moved quickly back into the tide of humanity. The first left didn’t appear to dead-end but the second contained a half circle of one-room shacks. All were open for business and sold basic essentials. A larger wooden shack with a sheet metal roof capped the street. It had a sizeable, rectangular panel on the front that lifted upwards by rope to create a service window. A wooden board ran the length of the opening, creating a counter. Painted words below the window declared: “Reynolds Medical Clinic. Margaret Reynolds, DDS, OD, MD, MS, PharmD.” A yellow-shirted guard strolled casually past the clinic, vigilant for trouble.
Missy stepped into the shade of the service window and peered inside the shack. A sturdy table filled nearly half the room. Rows of shelves lined the back wall except where an open doorway covered only by a curtain led to a second room. Sitting comfortably in a run-down, padded chair was a heavyset woman cooling herself with a paper fan.
“You’re a mess.” The woman’s hand stopped abruptly as she assessed Missy’s face. “You get shoved into a fire?”
“I’m a little fuzzy on that,” Missy replied.
Reynolds resumed fanning herself. “Turn your head a bit.” Missy did as she was told and the doctor leaned forward in her seat. “Well, it doesn’t look too bad, young lady. It’s healing and your hair will grow back too.” She waved Missy away with her fan. “Save your money.”
Missy inched closer to the window and stood on her toes to raise her hip above the bottom of the counter. She looked quickly around the cul-de-sac and then lifted her gown to reveal her bandaged side. She lowered the gown after a few moments and checked the surroundings again before looking sheepishly at the doctor. “I’m afraid I have worse problems than my face.”
Reynolds’ eyes widened at the sight. With a grunting effort, she rose from the threadbare chair. A deep impression remained in its dingy cushion. The woman took heavy steps to the thick, wooden table in the room. “Come around the side and let’s have a look at that.”
As Missy walked around the corner of the shack, she heard the doctor call out, “It’s okay, Stew. She’s got my permission.” Missy caught the market guard’s nod from the corner of her eye just as she began to open the door.
Reynolds patted the table’s surface with one hand while pointing to a small stepstool with her other. “Hop up on my examination table.”
Missy began to comply but faltered. She looked between the table and the physician. “I have to be honest, I don’t know if I can pay you.”
“The exam’s free,” Reynolds answered. “I’ll only charge you if I do something.”
Reynolds helped her patient pull her gown over her hips until it was bunched at her midriff. Missy crossed her legs but still felt incredibly vulnerable. She looked out the service window and tried to ignore her exposure. The market guard was paying close attention.
Reynolds inspected the dressing first, spending several minutes pressing the sides of the fabric and running her hands completely around the bandage. “What’s your name?”
“Kat,” Missy replied distractedly while pretending that the guard wasn’t staring at her bare thighs. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. “My name is Kat!” she blurted out enthusiastically.
Reynolds took a curious step back. “Why is that so exciting?”
Kat felt heat rush to her cheeks. “Um,” she answered in a calmer voice, “I’ve been having some trouble with
my memories lately.”
Reynolds clucked and began to examine the lengths of Kat’s arms, giving extra attention to the undersides and also between her fingers. She then knelt with a great effort and performed another examination over her legs, feet and toes. Once complete, she placed her hands on the table but remained kneeling for several more moments. The muscles in her legs and arms strained as she rose slowly back to her feet.
“Okay,” Reynolds announced, “I need to remove that dressing to see exactly what we’re dealing with. I’ll do my best to preserve it so that it can be reapplied but it won’t be as secure as it was before. Take it or leave it.”
“Can I get a new dressing?” Kat asked.
“Not if you can’t pay for it. My supplies aren’t cheap and I can’t give them out for nothing,” Reynolds explained. “Maybe I look and your wound is healing fine and nothing more needs to be done.” The doctor frowned. “But I doubt it. It’s leaking puss and it smells infected.” She folded large arms under a heavy bosom. “So decide now if you want me to loosen that dressing.”
“Do it,” Kat answered. “I think the pain is getting worse, not better.”
Reynolds reached for a pair of shears and ran the tip of the blades around the dressing. She spent several moments searching for the proper place to start. “It’s a good bandage. No medical tape to secure it, it’s a self-fusing dressing. Where’d you get this applied?” She delicately slipped one of the shear’s blades underneath the first layer of fabric.
“I don’t remember,” Kat confessed.
“Waytown Standard?” Reynolds asked. “Hospital with a big fountain in front? That’s the only place around here with these types of bandages.” She clipped through the fabric gingerly. When she got to the final layer, she cautioned, “The edges have dried to your skin, so this is going to pinch a bit.”
Kat nodded and pressed her lips together as the doctor carefully peeled the bandage away from her flesh. It pulled and stung but the wound still wept a reddish puss that permitted the covering to come away without too much trouble.
Reynolds placed the soiled dressing on the table and leaned in close. The wound was an eight-centimeter by five-centimeter rectangular sore. It appeared as if most of the layers of Kat’s skin had been scraped off and the lesion oozed a pungent red and yellow fluid. The edges of the area were swollen and an angry red. After a minute’s inspection, the doctor asked, “Does the pain run through your whole side?”
“No.”
Reynolds pressed against Kat’s opposite side. “This hurt?”
“No.”
The doctor worked her way around Kat’s waist, checking for pain. She stopped when she reached the fiery wound. “Okay. It’s not as bad as I thought. Before I removed the dressing, I figured it was an infected stab wound. To be honest, I was thinking about giving you something to take the edge off the pain but figured you were dead.” She pressed lightly at the edges of the wound.
Kat flinched.
“That’s infection but it’s not rampant yet.” Reynolds clucked once more. “It looks like a piss-poor job of salabrasion to me. Did you try to remove a tattoo there? Or a subdermal wafer?”
Kat shrugged. “I don’t know how I got it.”
Reynolds walked to the end of the table and reached for a red bucket on the floor. She groaned as she lifted it up, sloshing water over its side. “I can treat it and probably stop the infection but that’ll cost you.” She placed the bucket on the table and pulled a wet rag from within it. The woman pursed her lips as she silently calculated. “I figure a large and a small should cover the treatment.”
Worry etched its way through Kat’s face. “I don’t know how much that is and I couldn’t pay it even if I did. I don’t know if I was mugged or what but I have no money.”
Reynolds frowned and placed the bucket and rag back on the floor. She shook her head. “I’ll cover you back up with your dressing. You need to find some water and clean the mess out, and rinse and dry your bandage before reapplying it too. Try to keep water off the edges and it’ll still stick. You have to keep the mud out of the wound, and the flies. It’s the only chance you have of beating that growing infection by yourself.”
Kat reached out to place her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Please,” she begged as her eyes began to fill with tears. “You’re the nicest person I’ve met. Maybe I can work off the payment. I’ll clean for you. I’ll run your errands…”
Reynolds paused and stared at the miserable enigma on her table. Silence stretched between them. Finally, she lifted the bucket back up. “You’ll start with cleaning the back room. If you steal so much as a speck of dust, I’ll have Stew arrest you and you’ll be just another show trial on the streets tonight. We see them every week so don’t think for a second that it won’t happen to you.”
Tears of relief began to roll down Kat’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she effused as her body began to shake in silent sobs.
“Don’t thank me, Kat,” Reynolds cautioned. “After you clean the back, you’ll clean up front and then I want the trash outside my clinic picked up and hauled away. By then, there will be a couple water runs to make and you’ll fetch my lunch for me too. You can then spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning old bandages and grinding up my herbs.” She rubbed the knuckles on each hand. “The mortar and pestle kill my arthritis these days.” She looked Kat in the eyes, seemingly impervious to the waves of emotion crashing over her patient. “Will you do all those things?”
“Oh, yes,” Kat promised. “I don’t remember much but I know I can work hard.” She wiped at her eyes.
Reynolds walked to a shelf and grabbed a small box. On her way back to the examination table, she picked up a small, sturdy piece of paper and a strip of stained, though clean, gauze. After washing the lesion with the rag from the red bucket, she dipped her hand into the box she had retrieved. Coarse, white grains coated her fingers. “This is just salt. The next step in salabrasion is to pack the site with it. Even if this isn’t salabrasion, the salt will help fight infection. It’s going to sting to high heaven.”
Kat was determined to be the perfect patient. “It’s okay, Doctor. I don’t care how much it hurts.” Her hands balled into fists as she continued to hold the gown to just below her breasts. As the doctor applied the granular fire to her wound, Kat ground her teeth but remained silent and still. She felt herself wince several times but Reynolds packed the salt quickly and the procedure was shortly over. The doctor then placed the paper over the salt and began to secure it tightly with gauze.
“There,” Reynolds said as she used a tiny metal clip to secure the bandage. “At the end of today, I’ll remove the salt and give you a dressing with an infection-fighting poultice. You’ll want to keep that dressing on until the end of the week when you come back and I check your progress. I won’t charge you then unless I have to use more supplies.” She checked the bandage a final time before saying, “I’m keeping your old bandage as part of the payment. It’s a good one.”
Reynolds stepped away and Kat eased down from the table. Her side was on fire but she did her best to mask the pain. “Let me get to work.”
Chapter 5
Kat spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon cleaning an already tidy two-room shack. As she had suspected, the back room served as Reynolds’ living quarters. A ripped mattress rested upon a cheaply fabricated bedframe. Two cardboard boxes comprised the entertainment center, housing dozens of old medical journals that bore signs of extreme age. A pressed wood desk served as both the doctor’s office and wardrobe.
The poultice promised at the end of the day spurred Kat to work quickly and thoroughly. As she cleaned the main room of the clinic, she noticed a flat metal sheet on the wall behind the examination table. While scrubbing the surface to a sheen, she couldn’t help but stare at her reflection.
Her hair was virtually black and not only because much of it was covered in a dark mud. It brushed her shoulders as she worked. As she had seen in the b
roken window the night before, a large patch of hair along the right side of her head had been burned to within five centimeters of her skull. That section was matted and hung in clumps. Her eyes were an unfathomably dark brown, nearly black. She inspected her body next, searching for tattoos or other clues to her identity. Although her hands and fingers were grimy, her fingernails were well-trimmed. Even her face, though dirty now, suggested that the woman before Kat had taken good care of herself. Most telling were the nearly perfect, white teeth that hid behind her cracked, dry lips.
When Kat finished cleaning, she took her bucket behind the shack. Before she dumped the filthy water, she strongly considered taking a drink. Her throat was parched and every fiber in her body was crying out for relief. Instead, she gave herself a quick birdbath to remove much of the caked mud from her body. The water washed away the worst of the dirt, blood and muck but left a thin film of grit over her. Still, she felt the cleanest she had been during the last twenty-four hours.
Returning to the clinic’s main room, Kat presented herself to the doctor for her next task. Reynolds handed her a coin. “Tell Jacob this’ll cover most of the week,” the old woman said as she pressed the silver “small” into Kat’s palm. “Take those yellow buckets and fetch some clean water now. There’s still lots to do so don’t dawdle.”
Kat lifted the empty buckets, gauging their weight. They would be very heavy once filled. She flashed a white smile and answered cheerfully, “I’ll be back before you know it, Doctor Reynolds. Um, where’s Jacob?”
Reynolds rolled her eyes but pointed a direction from the chair she seemed confined to unless helping a customer. “That way.”
Kat nodded and turned to leave before stopping herself. “Doctor, not that I’m planning it but aren’t you worried that I’ll run off with your buckets and money?”